What becomes a legend most? Great talent, suffering, and mystery. . . three ingredients that French poet Arthur Rimbaud possessed in spades. For those unfamiliar with the broad lines of his life, he was a child prodigy and enfant terrible who, between the ages of fifteen and twenty, revolutionized modern poetry, only to abruptly stop writing at twenty-one, disappear in Africa, and die at thirty-seven.
Below, is a poem of mine, where I contrast Rimbaud's mysterious legend and, paradoxically, the hard work required in making a name for oneself:
Names
Could it be that, from the start
the thing he sought, this demon-angel,
was always just outside the page
That, after swimming the length of the alphabet,
with fine gills and deranging senses, he created
an opening for others, but a trap for himself?
If so, then slipping through those watery bars
was imperative, a chastened mysticism –
and freedom to write in the air, to be human.
To have a name and make a name is not the same
True, both are spun of love and will and dreams
But one is blindly granted as we blink in the light,
The other we must forge from our innermost
Nameless, once more, we are reborn into the world
From the soul’s furnace, we strive to stake our claim
Hotly hammering desires, giving shape to longing
And setting it to cool, approximating an ideal
Then again, we must teach this babe to crawl ahead
Mothering it with care, fathering it with courage
So that, one day, it can freely live apart from us
And find its place in our clamoring times and after.
[Words & Art: ©Yahia Lababidi]
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