 POETRY PAGE Hello, and welcome to the chucktrevino.com Poetry Page! If you happen to be a philistine (i.e., a dirty, unenlightened boor who is just not as good as us more learned intellectuals), you've come to the right place to lose that ignominious label, along with your low-self esteem! Charles will be providing a select sampling of moving, thought provoking poems whose dazzling metaphorical imagery (when viewed in context with their syntactical coherency and, taking into consideration the rhythmic parametrical fluidity of their stanzaic modulation while temporarily side-stepping burning questions like what's better, a ballad stanza consisting of four lines, the first and third lines being unrhymed iambic tetrameters of course, and the second and fourth lines rhymed iambic trimeters, or a more heroic stanza rhymed quatrain with a rhyme scheme more like a,b,a,b) should dynamite new frontiers in the constricting parameters of your mental landscape. Ok, enough of that bull-merde, let's get down to the meat and potatoes of the matter here: Most people don't read poetry. Why? Possibly because they encountered some uppity learned snob who said something to bore them away from it, I don't know; people are so weird. All I know is I started reading the darned stuff myself. 
Yes, I guess it's time for Charles to reveal a deep dark secret about himself, something that he has always tried to hide, something
that has kept him running all his life trying to keep one step ahead of it, something that he will elaborate upon
in much finer detail in his fabulous upcoming autobiography, "The Unspeakable Sins of Charles Adrian Trevino" (send check or money
order in the amount of $2,395.29 to chucktrevino.com publications for autographed copy), something so horrible that he actually shudders to type these next few
words: Charles used to be a philistine! That's right, it's true; Charles used to be a card-carrying member of
The Philistine Society, a rank caddish imbecile who only knew what he read in The Wall Street Journal. His mind constantly
reeled with worried thoughts about the Dow Jones and other mundane matters. What elevated him from this lowly unhappy
status? The same thing that drives a lot of people to start reading poetry: sorrow. He was bummed out, dude! Not
to tell you all my problems (I charge for that [see above-noted upcoming autobiography]), but I can still clearly remember that
life-altering day when, under the influence of a strong ennui that descended upon me like a sinister flock of ominously caw-mocking
insane giant ravens from Hades, I happened to pick up a little black book that was inexplicably lying in my bedroom and started to
flip through the pages. It was a very small edition of the works of several talented poets, and I was struck by
just how good these guys were that they could get me to sit there and read poem after poem, something which I just never
felt compelled to do back then. Therefore I was quite amazed when I finally figured out that all these "poets" were
actually several translators who were bringing me the works of a single writer, a Frenchman named Charles Baudelaire. "Well,"
said I, "c'ela ma agreablement surpris!"
Now I know there are people who will read these words, interpret them as hype, go rushing off to read some Baudelaire, find that it doesn't really get them to dancing the Philly or anything like that, in fact they may find it a rather boring experience; then of course they're going to turn around and say Charles is an idiot who likes to read stupid boring crap and delude himself into believing he's better than everybody else for having read it, right? That's o.k.; I used to feel that way about poetry creeps too, until my chance encounter with Baudelaire in the 1980's. But if you really feel that way, you definitely should not read some of the more arcane works of Arthur Rimbaud (another poet who achieved post-humous immortality), especially Illuminations; not even an intellectual giant towering at the level of a Baudelaire or a Charles could make sense of Illuminations (Charles' advice: don't try that one at home)! And I probably should take this opportunity to say that I don't blame anyone for not wanting to read poetry, as I have read some very unpleasant things written by sickies passing themselves off as poets because they came up with some cleverly rhyming quatrains or knew the proper rules of verse or whatever. 
Alright then, having just dismissed one of the most influential poets of his or anybody's time, Arthur Rimbaud, as a writer of
nonsensical boring poetry, I am now offering you the poetry of... Arthur Rimbaud! But don't worry;
not only am I presenting to you what is considered by many to be his finest poem, I am also bestowing upon a perhaps undeserving
world my very own translation of this world-famous piece, agonizingly put together from the heart
for those of you culturally-challenged people who can't read, write and speak French as well as Charles (ooooh, one day I'm
going to take it too far with all this!). But seriously, this is a truly diverting trip to take if you're so inclined.
This poem had a very strong effect on me when I read a translation by one Paul Schmidt on a warm night in the early 1990's, while chasing some pretty fair tequila with ice-cold Heinekin lights and blasting both classical and exquisitely classic rock-music through a great little pair of newly-acquired JBL monitors. Soon happily finding myself in a near-blind state of inebriation, I was forced to read more slowly in order to "absorb" the verses, which were starting to dance before my eyes like hedonistic pagan heathens on amphetamines. Thusly, I accidentally discovered the secret of reading poetry: proceed slowly! As I continued along at a more "appreciative" rate, I found that Rimbaud was taking me on a cerebrally stimulating cruise through psychedelic seascapes of his own creation; a procession of fantastic images flashed before my mind's eye at the speed of thought, like some kind of frenetically sped-up slide-show. All I remember is that I was loving my vicarious voyage until I came to the last stanza, whereupon something made me start to cry... something about no longer being able to face up to a beautiful, cruelly proud world. Rimbaud had post-humously managed to sink his hooks into me, making me see and feel his joy and his pain and relate to them. I rejoiced, in my drunken state of bliss; I wasn't alone! Oh, I truly apologize for spilling my guts like that. I shouldn't do that on the internet. Anyway here it is, the Charles version of Arthur Rimbaud's most famous poem, "The Drunken Boat." Try to enjoy it; feel free to go get yourself some tequila and ice-cold Heineken lights to enhance your poetic experience! |
by Arthur Rimbaud (Translation by Charles Adrian Trevino) I suddenly felt myself free of my haulers: Howling copper-skinned natives had taken them for targets Nailing them naked to coloured stakes I had not a thought for all my crews, Bearing their Flemish wheat or English cottons When, along with my haulers the screams were done, The rivers let me sail downstream as I pleased Into the furious riptides of winter Dreaming with a child's mind, I fled! And the grateful peninsulas, freed from their bindings, Never heard a more victorious cry The benevolent storm blessed my sea-borne awakenings. For ten nights I danced, lighter than a cork upon waves That roll the dead in shrouds, setting them free, Never missing the mean stupid eye of the harbor lamps! Sweeter than the taste of hard apples to children, The green water seeped through my pinewood hull Rinsing me clean of the bluish wine-stains and vomit And sweeping away my anchor and keel Since then, I've bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, Infused with galaxies of milky white stars Devouring the green azures entranced in turquoise Where drowned men, pale and thoughtful, sometimes float by; I have come to know the skies split by lightning, the waterspouts And the breakers and currents; I know the evening, Have seen virgin dawns rising up, glorious as a flock of doves, And there were times I saw things that men only dreamed of seeing! I've seen the setting sun, scarred with mystic nightmares Beaming it's far-flung violet spotlight, exposing – Like actors in very ancient dramas – The far-rolling waves and their quivering shutters! I have gone where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, delerium And slow rhythms under the gleaming daylight, Stronger than alcohol, more limitless than music, the bitter rednesses of love ferment! I have dreamt in emerald of snow-dazzled nights, Of a kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the sea, The circulation of nameless, unheard saps, And the yellow-blue stirrings of singing phosphorus! I have followed months long the swells That assault the reefs like terrified bovine herds, Never thinking to question how the radiant feet of Virgin Marys Could muzzle the force of the windblown oceans! Be it known, I have struck incredible Floridas Where the eyes of panthers adorned with human skins Mingle with crimson flowers, while rainbows stretch like bridles Reining in gloomy herds under the seas' horizon! I have seen enormous swamps seething, fish traps Where leviathan sea monsters rot in the reeds! Downfalls of blue water in the midst of the calm And expanses tumbling into abysmal depths! Glaciers, silver suns, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals! Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs Where the giant snakes devoured by insects Fall from gnarled trees scented with black perfumes! If I could only show to children those dolphins Of the blue wave, those golden fishies, those singing fishies -- The florid foam that lulled my drifting And elysian breezes that lent me new wings Sometimes the sea, a martyr weary of poles and zones, whose sobs sweetened my rocking and rollings Would bring up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers And I would remain, like a woman on her knees... Practically an island, tossing on my sides the brawls And droppings of screaming pale-eyed birds And while I sailed along watching, through my frayed ropes Drowned men, still dreaming, sank down into sleep And now I, a boat lost in a cove's tangled hair, Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether, I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been saved Even by iron-clad Monitors and Hanseatic sailboats; Free, smoking, riding violet twilight haze, I Who bored through the wall of the reddening sky Bearing exquisite jam for noble poets Sunlit lichens and mucus of the purest azure, Who ran, with herds of black sea-horse escorts, A crazy plank speckled with electric moons, When Julys beat down with bludgeon blows The ultramarine skies with their burning funnels; I who trembled, hearing from fifty leagues' distance The groans of Behemoths in heat, and of the thick whirlpools, Eternal spinners of unmovable blues; I long for Europe, with her ancient protective ramparts! I have seen astral archipelagos and islands! Delirious heavens that open wide for voyagers: - is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in self-imposed exile, O Million golden birds, the future's vigorous promise? But in truth, I have wept too much! The beauty of the Dawn leaves me heartbroken. Every moon is atrocious, every sun bitter Unreciprocated love has reduced me to drunken indolence. O let my keel split! Let me sink to the bottom! If I do desire any one European water It's the cold black pond, where at scented twilight a lonely child crouches with eyes full of sorrow, And sets sail a boat frail as a butterfly in May I can no longer bathe in your languorous beauty, O waves, Nor sail behind the wakes of cotton-trader's boats, Nor endure the arrogant contempt of burning patriotic fervor, Nor swim past the horror-filled eyes of the floating prison ships. Click Here To Go Back To index All text and some photos Copyright 2006-2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino. All poetry samples from public domain sources. If any person should find him or herself becoming more appreciative of small, beautiful little things in life after reading this, that's just great! You're coming along nicely. After perusing this poetry page, please feel free to contact Charles at flakthecat@gmail.com to comment. This is chucktrevino.com. |