This poem is taken from PN Review 274, Volume 50 Number 2, November - December 2023.
The Drunken Boat
(after Rimbaud)
Descending the swift, imperturbable flood,
I could no longer feel the pilot’s reins;
Exultant redskins had shed his blood,
Nailed his naked limbs to a brilliant stake.
I cared nothing for the fate of my crew,
Minds filled with English lace and Flemish wheat.
When all that din had been tomahawked too
The rivers let me travel as I pleased.
Into the frenzy of the tides, last winter,
As gravely intent as a playing boy,
I sped! The unmoored, errant peninsulas
Had never seen such tumultuous joy!
Tempests anointed my wakening head.
I danced on the waves, as light as a cork
(The waves, singers say, that cradle the dead)
With no tears for the witless gleam of port.
...
I could no longer feel the pilot’s reins;
Exultant redskins had shed his blood,
Nailed his naked limbs to a brilliant stake.
I cared nothing for the fate of my crew,
Minds filled with English lace and Flemish wheat.
When all that din had been tomahawked too
The rivers let me travel as I pleased.
Into the frenzy of the tides, last winter,
As gravely intent as a playing boy,
I sped! The unmoored, errant peninsulas
Had never seen such tumultuous joy!
Tempests anointed my wakening head.
I danced on the waves, as light as a cork
(The waves, singers say, that cradle the dead)
With no tears for the witless gleam of port.
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue':
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 288 issues containing over 11,600 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews,
why not subscribe to the website today?