Summer's End by D. Bowden

All the leaves are falling round Drifting, piling on the ground. Red and gold and purple hues, Hiding any summer clues That are left from yesterday When all the children were at play, Cheering with voices merry Amongst the strong green willow trees. Days grow shorter, evenings cool, The children are all back in school. With their noses in their books, Out the windows stealing looks, Longing for those summer days And for endless, carefree ways. They have a long time to await Till winter winds and snows abate And springtime flowers bloom anew A new season starts for me, and you.

The Con Job by Charles Bukowski

the ground war began today at dawn in a desert land far from here. the U.S. ground troops were largely made up of Blacks, Mexicans and poor whites most of whom had joined the military because it was the only job they could find. the ground war began today at dawn in a desert land far from here and the Blacks, Mexicans and poor whites were sent there to fight and win as on tv and on the radio the fat white rich newscasters first told us all about it and then the fat rich white analysts told us why again and again and again on almost every tv and radio station almost every minute day and night because the Blacks, and Mexicans and poor whites were sent there to fight and win at dawn in a desert land far enough away from here. (I found this poem on http://stardust1954.blogspot.com/)Great Blog!

On blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths, Pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass : In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet. I shall let the wind bathe my bare head. I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing : But endless love will sorge in my soul ; And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy, Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman. March, 1870 Translated by Oliver Bernard : Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)

RIMBAUD Sensation

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths, Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass : In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet. I shall let the wind bathe my bare head. I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing : But endless love will mount in my soul ; And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy, Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman. March, 1870 Translated by Oliver Bernard : Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)

Ophélie RIMBAUD

Ophelia HUGHES

I

Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoiles

La blanche Ophélia flotte comme un grand lys,

Flotte très lentement, couchée en ses longs voiles ...

- On entend dans les bois lointains des hallalis. Voici plus de mille ans que la triste Ophélie

Passe, fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noir;

Voici plus de mille ans que sa douce folie

Murmure sa romance à la brise du soir. Le vent baise ses seins et déploie en corolle

Ses grands voiles bercés mollement par les eaux;

Les saules frissonnants pleurent sur son épaule,

Sur son grand front rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux. Les nénuphars froissés soupirent autour d'elle;

Elle éveille parfois, dans un aune qui dort,

Quelque nid, d'où s'échappe un petit frisson d'aile:

- Un chant mystérieux tombe des astres d'or.

II

O pâle Ophélia! belle comme la neige!

Oui, tu mourus, enfant, par un fleuve emporté

- C'est que les vents tombant des grands monts de Norwège

T'avaient parlé tout bas de l'âpre liberté; C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,

A ton esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits;

Que ton coeur écoutait le chant de la Nature

Dans les plaintes de l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits; C'est que la voix des mers folles, immense râle,

Brisait ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux;

C'est qu'un matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,

Un pauvre fou, s'assit muet à tes genoux! Ciel! Amour! Liberté! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle!

Tu te fondais à lui comme une neige au feu:

Tes grandes visions étranglaient ta parole-

Et l'Infini terrible effara ton oeil bleu!

III

- Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles

Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis

,Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles

,La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys.

Arthur Rimbaud (1854 - 1891), Poésies (1895), Ophélie (1870).

Sensazione by Rimbaud

Farmhouse and Evening Cornfields

by Mervyn Goode

Sensations by Rimbaud

Nelle azzurre sere d'estate, io andrò

per i sentieri,

Punzecchiato dal grano, a pestare l'erba minuta:

Sognatore, io ne sentirò la frescura ai piedi.

Io lascerò che il vento bagni il mio capo nudo. Io non parlerò, io non penserò a nulla:

Ma l'amore infinito mi salirà nell'anima,

E io andrò lontano, molto lontano, come uno zingaro,

Nella Natura, - felice come se fossi con una donna.

(Marzo 1870)

Forgetfulness by Yannis Ritsos

The house with wooden staircase

And orange trees,

Looks out towards the azure mountains.

The countryside wanders nonchalantly around the rooms.

Two mirrors reflect the singing of the birds.

And in the the bedroom

Lie abandoned two slippers made of cloth

The type used by the elderly.

So, when night falls,

The departed visit the house once more,

In order to collect something they left behind,

A scarf, a vest, a shirt, two socks

And then, possibly due to forgetfulness

Or carelessness,

Take along something of ours.

Next day, the postman passes our door

Without stopping.

Les Oranges by Fabrice de Villeneuve