Denis Lavant introduces us to a youthful poem by Arthur Rimbaud, dating from 1871, less known than “Le Bateau ivre” written the same year: “The Parisian Orgy or Paris is repopulating”, extract fromA season in hell (1st edition 1873). This poem is read by Vladislav Galard.
“A poetic declaration in the face of the bloody repression of the Commune”
Denis Lavant chose this poem among all the poems by Arthur Rimbaud that he read, said and learned a lot, because this youthful poem is for him a true “poetic declaration” in light of the tragic events of the Commune.
It was in November 1871, following one of his numerous escapes from the family home in Charleville, that Rimbaud settled in the Montparnasse district, to be free to write and live poetry. And even if he did not participate in the Commune, he defended through his poems the values and the spirit of rupture that it carried and expressed his fear in the face of the repression of the Communards during the Bloody Week. So it was just after these events that Rimbaud composed this poem, a poem that Denis Lavant found generous, even in its invectives.
“The Parisian Orgy or Paris is repopulating” by Arthur Rimbaud
O cowards, there it is! disgorge into the stations!
The sun atoned with its fiery lungs
The boulevards that one evening filled with the Barbarians.
Here is the beautiful City sitting in the West!
Come on ! we will prevent fire reflux,
Here are the docks! here are the boulevards! There
On the houses, the light azure that radiates
And that one evening the redness of the bombs lit up stars.
Hide dead palaces in plank niches!
The old frightened day refreshes your looks.
Here is the red herd of hip twisters,
Be crazy, you will be funny, being haggard!
Pile of horny bitches eating poultices,
The cry of the houses of gold calls for you. Fly!
Eat! Here is the night of joy with deep spasms
Who takes to the streets, oh desolate drinkers,
Drink! When the light comes intense and crazy,
Treading at your side the streaming luxuries,
You are not going to drool, without gesture, without words,
In your glasses, eyes lost in the white distances,
Swallow, for the queen of the cascading butt!
Listen to the action of the stupid hiccups
Heartbreaking! Listen, jump to the burning nights
The complaining idiots, old men, puppets, lackeys!
[…]
Open your nostril to the superb nausea!
Soak the cords of your necks with strong poisons!
On your necks of children lowering his crossed hands
The Poet says to you: O cowards, be mad!
[…]
Syphilitics, madmen, kings, puppets, ventriloquists,
What does it matter to whore Paris?
Your souls and your bodies, your poisons and your rags?
She will shake off you, you rotten snarler!
[…]
Although it’s awful to see you covered again
So ; although we have never made a city
More stinking ulcer in green Nature,
The Poet says to you: “Splendid is your Beauty! »
The storm has sacred your supreme poetry;
The immense movement of forces helps you;
Your work boils, your death rumbles, Chosen city!
Gather the striders in the heart of the heavy bugle.
The Poet will take the sob of the Infamous,
The hatred of the Convicts, the clamor of the cursed:
And his rays of love will scourge Women.
His stanzas will leap, that’s it! There ! bandits!
— Society, everything is restored: orgies
Cry their old death rattle to the old brothels:
And the delirious gases on the reddened walls
Blaze sinisterly towards the pale azure!
The Nights of France Culture Listen later
Lecture listen 01h 25
Excerpt fromA season in hell (1st edition 1873)
