Ma Bohème

– after a poem Rimbaud wrote at 16 years of age in a "fit of youthful hyperbole"

Off I went – fists thrust into my threadbare
pockets; my peacoat turned royal
under musing skies, Muse! I, your loyal
friend – Oh! la la! – conjured up a love so rare!

A large hole gaped in my (only) breeches.
– Dreamy Hop–o’–thumb, entre-act
I unstrung rhymes, bivouacked
at the Great Bear – tuned in to the silky reaches

of my stars, I planted myself down by the way–
sides, September nights, a light spray
of dew on my brow: such a heady start

rhyming among fantastical shadowlands
I twanged like a lyre the elastic bands
of my stricken boots, playing footsie with my heart!

—translation by Gabriel Levin