Rimba poet biography

Text: Anastasia Shadrina Literary Institute named after Gorky, the French poet Artyur Rimba devoted poetry to only four years of his life: he wrote poetry at the age of sixteen to twenty years, after which he decided to leave literature forever. It is amazing how for such a short period of time the poet managed to perpetuate his name in French and world literature.

This resembles a flash of a supernova - a short but incredibly bright explosion, leaving behind an indelible impression. Rimba became one of the founders of symbolism, developed the “theory of clairvoyance”, the first in France he created such a form of versification as Verlibr. The poet was not afraid to use household vocabulary and vulgarisms in poems. There were no rules for Rimba, he skillfully combined the sublime and low -end.

Jean Nicolas Artyur Rimbo was born on October 20 in Charles. He also ran away from home several times by a teenager, participated in the uprising of the Paris Commune in the year. At sixteen, the poet went on a trip to the north of France and the south of Belgium. At seventeen, Rimbae met Verlain, and this acquaintance became fateful for both. Remso sent Verlen his poem “Drunk Ship”, Paul admired so much that he invited the young man to Paris, paying his way.

A friendly, and further closer connection arose between the poets. Verlaine even threw his wife with the child for a while, together with Rimba, they traveled around Europe, but this did not end in any good - in a state of intoxication, he shot the remembos of the wrist, and later received two years of prison. After that, Rimbo stopped writing, wandering around the world up to a year.

In Africa, he traded coffee and spices, sold weapons in Ethiopia, he also managed to work as a translator in the circus and visit the Dutch colonial troops. In the year, Rimbo felt severe pain in the right knee. The doctors made him an incorrect diagnosis, amputated his leg, but after the operation it turned out that Rambo had bone cancer. My innocence forces me to cry. Life is a farce that everyone plays.

Life is cruel, dullly simple - to throw off the lid from the coffin with a thin hand, lie down in it, suffocate? Ah, return to life! At least look at her ugliness with an eye. I was lucky: I almost never suffer. My life was only a sweet madness, and this is sad. About poetry, the poet turns himself into clairvoyants with a long, immense and deliberate leading into a disorder of all his feelings.

He goes to any form of love, suffering, madness. He is looking for himself. He exhausts himself with all the poisons, but sucks their quintessence. Inexplicable flour in which he needs his whole faith, in all superhuman power; He becomes the most sick of all, the most criminal, the most damned - and scientists from scientists! For he reached the unknown. So, the poet is really a kidnapper of fire.

He carries the burden entrusted to him by mankind and even animals ... Portrait of Arthur Rimbo. An unknown author of suffering is immense, but you need to be strong, to be a poet from birth, and I recognize myself as a poet, I am the one who creates God. I came up with the color of vowels! A - black, e - white, and - red, y - green, o - blue. I set the movement and shape of each consonant and flattered myself with the hope that with the help of instinctive rhythms, I invented such a poetry that would someday become accessible to all five feelings.

I left a solution after myself. I should have my own hell for anger about hell, my hell - for pride and hell - for affection; A whole set of underworld. I should have earned hell for anger, hell for pride, hell for voluptuousness - a whole symphony of hellish torment! I am dying of fatigue. I am in the coffin, I am given to eating worms, here is the horror so horror!

I see myself endlessly in the past centuries. But always lonely, always without a family. I am outside this world. My eyes are closed for your light. I am a beast, I am a black man. Oh, I suffer, I'm crying. My suffering is genuine. However, everything is allowed to me, because I bear the burden, the burden of contempt for the most despicable hearts. I will tear off the covers from any secret, whether it is religion or nature, death, birth, future, past, cosmogony, non -existence.

I am a maestro in terms of phantasmagoria. There are no more gods about love, a man became God, but without love this god is a cripple from cripples. We were promised in the darkness to bury the tree of good and evil, to exile forever to send the benefits of us, so that we are customary to introduce our purest love. There is no more need for divine love or devotion. I do not regret the eyelids of sensitive souls.

Everything makes sense: contempt and mercy, so I leave behind me at the top of the angelic staircase of common sense. About pride, reality was too thorny for my pride. The seriousness is not to face about youth, when it is time to contemplate for seventeen years and linden for you. I had to travel about traveling to dispel the spells hanging over my brains.

Above the sea that I loved so, as if he was supposed to wash off my dirt. About feelings and emotions of longing will no longer be my love.Fury, profligacy, madness, I know all their impulses and know their defeats - I threw off the burden from my shoulders. We will calmly evaluate how far my innocence extends. The spiritual battle of spirituality and justice is as fierce as the battles of the army; But the contemplation of justice is a pleasure accessible to God alone.

About the craft, any craft inspires me to turn off. Peasants, owners and workers are an abomination. A hand with a pen is no better than a hand on a plow.