L'Apres Midi d'un Faun

I have very eclectic tastes in poetry. I love Shakespeare's sonnets, Milton's Paradise Lost, the poetry of Matthew Arnold and Dylan Thomas, to name a few. One poet, however, I discovered more for his interesting life, and only came to appreciate his poetry later. That was the French poet, Arthur Rimbaud. He had his first poem published when he was sixteen. He was a wild child, a sexual and alcoholic libertine, and a devout Catholic, who loved many and various woman, yet was the teenage lover of the French poet, Paul Verlaine. But he was a magnificent poet, as well, writing verse that was raw and, at the same time, beautiful. His poetry, however, is more beautiful in its original French. Before he reached 21, he had given up writing altogether, and traveled all over Europe, Asia and Africa before returning to France with cancer which killed him at the age of 37.

He wrote a poem, called "The Faun's Head," in which the reader discovers a young faun munching on flowers. In tribute to his genius, and as a thank you for the enriching hours spent reading his poetry, I am posting that poem tonight. I am also posting a poem I wrote. It has a similar topic and form, but is very different in approach and intent.

The Faun’s Head
Arthur Rimbaud

Among the foliage, green casket flecked with gold,
In the uncertain foliage that blossoms
With gorgeous flowers where sleeps the kiss,
Vivid and bursting through the sumptuous tapestry,

A startled faun shows his two eyes
And bites the crimson flowers with his white teeth.
Stained and ensanguined like mellow wine
His mouth bursts out in laughter beneath the branches.

And when he has fled - like a squirrel -
His laughter still vibrates on every leaf
And you can see, startled by a bullfinch
The Golden Kiss of the Wood, gathering itself together again.


L’Apres Midi d’un Faun
Christopher Bogart

Brittle branches crackle crisply.
Thump upon darkened thump
echoes softly through the thicket,
as cloven hooves hit forest floor.

Its tangled fur of brown
with threads of red, its slender form,
dappled in shadows, rustling limbs,
reclines upon the bed of dead leaves.

And from its reedy pipes,
nasal notes float high
above the leafy canopy, to
permeate the wood with haunting song.