Arthur Rimbaud in my Room (Poetry)

Two years ago, in English Lesson, I had to write a poem by following the example of Allen Ginsberg in A Supermarket In California where the narrator tells he met Whitman and Garcìa Lorca in a supermarket. So, we had to write a poem where a famous people was interacting with us (or the narrator) in our daily life. I just found what I wrote in my old lessons, and I wanted to share it with you.

My Room

I’m here, in my room, prisoner between these four walls.
Here I am on the bed, bored and tired, tired and bored.
Suddenly, I get up and I wander.
I wander, I wander and I wonder
Where’s my place in that world.
I wander and I ask myself
Where’s my place here, and if this place is safe.
I’m feeling bad, oppressed and depressed
I take my pen and bleed out my pain
On these four walls of sadness,
Red and black, hate and loneliness!

But in that cursed aura of fear,
I have a sane feeling
Running through my soul and my veins,
Time has stopped likewise my pain.

And I see behind me,
Looking at my lazy body,
Arthur Rimbaud.
Am I hallucinating ?
Am I getting crazy ?
I really don’t know
But everything I know
Is he told me
My place wasn’t here
Dying in my room.
“you’re getting fool”,
He added before vanishing
In a cloud of absinth and ashes.
And I heard a last time his voice:
“Be empty and free as the wind, enter the void
And welcome to wonderland!”

Time restarts, my pains too,
I follow his instructions
And destroy my door
Without any valediction.
I break the habit, the gear
Of oppression, stress and fear.
I throw my key far away
And I hope never find it again.

Amy Lizzy


A part of my old room’s wall.

Translation: Everyday I survive, everyday I hope to be here tomorrow to remember yesterday. Everyday I hope to see again, the night and my four walls which accompany me in my loneliness. I contracted the phobia of tomorrows algorYthm ! The life is a great game, there are winners, there are losers, and me… I’m one of the losers… and one of the bad players.

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