Sonnet to an Asshole
Dark and wrinkled like a purple pink
It breathes, nestling humbly among the still-damp
Froth of love that follows the gentle slope
Of the white buttocks to its crater's edge.
Filaments like tears of milk
Have wept in the cruel wind which pushes them back,
Across little clots of reddish marl
To lose themselves where the slope called them.
My dream has often kissed its opening;
My soul, jealous of physical coitus,
Has made this its fawn-coloured tear-bottle and its nest of sobs.
It is the rapturous olive and the wheedling flute,
The tube from which the heavenly burnt almond falls:
Feminine Canaan enclosed among moistures.
- Parody of Albert Mérat's work, called The Idol, where are detailed all the
beauties of a lady: Sonnet of the forehead, Sonnet of the eyes...
- As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)