Peter Lik Store Frames

THE BOY WITH THE WIND IN THE SOLES

"I want to be a poet, and visionary work to make me: she does not understand anything,

and I hardly know how to explain.
It is unknown to get through the deregulation of all senses.
The sufferings are enormous, but we must be strong, be born poets,

and I are recognized poet.
It's not my fault.
is false to say: I think you should say, I think.
Excuse the pun. IO is another "
( letter to Professor Arthur Rimbaud. Izambard Georges, May 13, 1871)

Just four years, from 16 to 20, to change forever modern poetry, short and intense life wandering and restless, innovative poetry, and sublime whit. Arthur Rimbaud , (1854-1891) French poet, a curse, a myth, a decadent symbolist, a surrealist, magician, alchemist, Kabbalist, visionary, adventurer pervert. There are many definitions of Rimbaud over the years by those who loved him and hated him. The theme of wandering and travel are the most fascinating and painful and all others, the poem "THE BOAT EBBRO " expresses the pure desire to leave and wander aimlessly, to places without form, changeable, no name, the opera ends with the invocation of the sinking of the vessel, which is the poet, the only possible outcome of this wandering unrestrained ego. That intoxication not be affected by alcohol, but by the absolute freedom and the ability to contemplate with the most incredible natural spectacles virgins and rare, without the usual notion of time and space.
born from experimentation and lack of adaptation and the road has only one direction: the extreme adventure in search of the unknown. Extemal But precisely because this adventure at the same time poses and reveals his self-destruction, with absolute honesty the poet declares bankruptcy and over, spilling the very terms of its logic. First is the fatigue and pain and anxiety of ambiguous noisy birds, then the perception of being lost and even furious irony, when the race becomes increasingly anxious and obsessive: to nostalgia for Europe, declared the old rails, which recognizes the need for a root. The agony explodes full and open, with the hope shouted, "What my eyelashes bangs! Which goes under the sea! '. And finally the reversal: with very serious emotional awareness Rimbaud, untying the image of the unknown hero and oceans, baby blue is found nestled next to a puddle. But this is not an end: the child research, but by giving himself the humility of a boat fragile butterfly.
Maybe the journey is to be begun again but in new and different way.

they came down impassive Rivers,

I no longer feel driven hinnies:

Redskins had targeted them screaming

nailing them naked to colored stakes.

I was indifferent to all the crew,

wore Flemish wheat or English cotton.

When the clamor ended up with my hinny,

left me free to come down the rivers.

In the lapping tides of furious,

I last winter, most of the brain of a deaf child,

Run! And Peninsulas go

sconquassi not suffered ever more triumphant.

The storm has blessed my sea awakenings.

Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves

who say they are the eternal victims of winders,

ten nights, without regretting the eye dull headlights!

Sweeter than the baby for the pulp of unripe apples

Green water filter in my hull of fir

and stains blue wine and vomiting

I washed again and dispersing the helm.

And since I immersed myself in the Poem of the Sea,

soaked with the stars, and cloudy,

Devouring the blue green, where, pale wreck

is kidnapped, a pensive drowned sometimes descends

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delusions

And slow rhythms under the day glowing,

Stronger alcohol, the largest of our lire,

ferment the bitter love blushes!

know that explode in the skies lightning, and the trumpets

And the undertow and currents: I know the evening,

Dawn that is exalted like a flock of doves!

And sometimes I saw what he believed the man to see!

I saw the low sun, stained with mystic horrors,

illumination along clots purple

Similar to actors of ancient dramas,

The waves that rolled out in shivers shutter!