He greeted me as usual, contorting his eyebrows to make me smile.
But I couldn’t; not until I knew where to rejoin the others later.
He walked me down the aisle.
At our pew, I sighed, glad to get from under the weight of his hand, and
scrambled over legs to get to Pearl’s side.
“That man’s a fool,” Pearl whispered, and as the congregation stood for
the hymn, in her loudest quiet voice she filled me in on details.
“There you can see a very small patch of dark blue,
framed by a little branch, pinned up by a naughty star.”
I opened my eyes wide and smiled—I knew exactly which patch of dark blue.
Perfect for my first disobedience.
The ladies will have to pull back the tough heather roots that hurt my
hands, themselves. How much peat is enough anyway?
Copyright © selma
144 words.
Written for Prosery: Rimbaud’s Naughty Star at dVerse, hosted by kim881 in Prosery.
Kim writes: I found his poem, ‘Novel’, by chance, and it took me back to when I was
seventeen and living in Germany, in Cologne, a city which was much influenced by the
French, who took charge of it from 1794 until 1815.
Novel
by Arthur Rimbaud
I
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park
The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer . . .
II
—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white . . .
Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head . . .
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect . . .
III
Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar . . .
And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way . . .
—Then cavatinas die on your lips . . .
IV
You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you . . . !
—That evening, . . . —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade . . .
—We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
Copyright © 2005 by Arthur Rimbaud.
Copyright Credit: Arthur Rimbaud, "Novel" from Complete Works, Selected
Letters. Copyright © 2005 by Arthur Rimbaud.
Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press.
Source: Complete Works, Selected Letters (University of Chicago Press, 2005)
MY SOURCE: Poetry Foundation
ASIDE:
I read about peat in a novel a long time ago; about pulling back the tough heather
roots for peat, and marveled at the discovery. Today, I have this article to wow me.
“When I was growing up, our family cut peat every year to fuel our old Rayburn, and
like generations before us, this was carried out in the voar (spring) of the year.
Peat is condensed vegetation that, once broken down and, over thousands of years,
forms a thick moorland topped with rough heather that flowers a vibrant purple in autumn.” ~ in article
Thanks so much for hosting, Kim, and for the lovely prompt that “extracted”
just such a short piece from me this morning. Blessings to you and all.
Thanks for reading.
- First There Was Nothing: Quadrille #210 — Let There Be Light - October 16, 2024
- #TankaTuesday Poetry Challenge Synonyms Only & A Specific Form, 10/15/24 - October 15, 2024
- Good Books Reviewed on Amazon and Goodreads - October 14, 2024
This is so amazing Selma. A whole story in your poem
Sadje, thanks for reading and commenting. So pleased you enjoyed. Bless you.
Saw your post, and scheduled my response. 🤗
Thanks my friend. I’ve yet to write for it
Nicely done, Selma! I’d like to know about the male character, and why your protagonist is glad to ‘get from under the weight of his hand’ and is planning to be disobedient. So many questions about them! By the way, when I lived in the wilds of Ireland, we used to heat the house and cook on a range fuelled by peat.
😉 144 word restriction doesn’t allow for explanations. 🤔
But it’s ok, I leave it to the discretion of the smart readers.
But that you know peat blows me away. Wow. You’re well traveled and those experiences are gifts. Bless you Kim. Thanks for the prompt and for appreciating what resulted. 🤗
So much mystery in this! Who, what, when, where, and how? Well done, Selma!
Yeah, a tad bit too vague I reckon. The 144 Word count leaves lots of space for audience to interpret subtleties. Maybe.
I’m grateful to you for reading, Susan. Thanks. Bless you.
That space lets our imaginations run wild! Most welcome.
Amazing writing Selma.
So enjoyed 🤗
Thank you !🙏
Aww, you’re sweet. Bless you.
Many blessings to you my friend.
I will wait patiently for more, much more of the story …. well penned.
Ah, sweet Helen. Your words are jewels. Bless you.
There are so many gaps to fill which I really like… so well done.
Happy you liked Björn. I appreciate your readership. Have a glorious week.
Great read, Selma! I fear there is a buried secret in this one, Selma. A mystery of rebellion waiting to be solved one day, if ever, beneath the roots and peat. And a man who is has no idea what’s coming (if I read it right!) 😅🙂
He doesn’t know what’s coming.
😐 neither do I 😂
You are sweet, Dora. Thanks for the beautiful gift of your words.
You’re most welcome, my friend. 🤗
I like how you tell a story, while not telling the whole of it – the economy leaves me with questions, leaves me hooked for the sequel.