I is someone else

The young, bright eyed fellow above is one Arthur Rimbaud born this day 1854, in Charleville, France. At about the age of six young Rimbaud's father decided he had had enough of domestic life, and since he was in the army, he got posted overseas, and just never came back. In spite of these domestic woes, Rimbaud was to turn out to be a brilliant student, and a quick learner. In fact, he became that guy that we mere intellectual mortals love to hate. He became a highly successful student, and was head of his class in all subjects except science and maths. As he advanced in classes, his mother hired him a tutor in the hopes of having her very own genius in the family. It is to this tutor, one Georges Izambard, that we owe a huge debt of gratitude. For it was M. Izambard that encouraged young Rimbaud to write original verses in French. The first poem that Rimbaud showed Izambard was entitled Ophelie is usually included in books as one of Rimbaud's three or four best poems. Talk about getting it right the first time. Why can't I get my crap together like that? Guess a lack of talent is to blame. Eventually, M. Izambard moved on to bigger and better things, and the young Rimbaud was distraught, running away to Paris after Izambard. We all know the rest, and if you don't know the rest I recommend a wonderful biography of Rimbaud by some fellow last name of Robb. W know of his affair with the married poet Verlaine, and of him giving up writing at the tender age of 21, for reasons that I can not fathom. Off to travel the world, run some guns, coffee, and slaves in Africa but dead at 34 of cancer. A life well lived in many respects, and a life of tragedy in others. However, for verses like the one I attach below (one of my favourites of his), and for living that live to its fullest, Arthur Rimbaud (October 20th-1854- November 10th 1891, at the age of 37), you are my hero of the day.

Vowels

A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,
I'll tell, one day, your secret origins:
A, black hairy corset of dazzling flies
That buzz around cruel stinks,

Shadow gulfs; E, ingenuousness of steams and tents,
Proud glacier spears, white kings, shivers of umbels;
I, purples, spat blood, laugh of beautiful lips
In anger or penitent exhilarations;

U, cycles, divine vibrations of viridian seas,
Peace of pastures seeded with animals, peace of wrinkles
That alchemy prints on great studious brows;

O, supreme Bugle full of strange shrillnesses,
Silences crossed by Worlds and Angels:
— O the Omega, violet ray of These Eyes!