Sonnet of the Asshole
français
As a public service, I am pleased to provide readers with a poem I neglected to include in my book, one truly deserving of recognition.
This is the only poem known to have been jointly composed by Rimbaud and Verlaine. Parnassian poet Albert Mérat, published a book of sonnets called L’Idole, in which each poem extolled a part of the body of his mistress —with one omission. The two young iconoclasts proceeded to rectify its absence with the following ode.
This sonnet appeared in the “Album Zutique,” a book of scabrous parodies by the literary circle who called themselves "Les Zutistes."
We offer thanks to practicalalchemy.com for, not one, but four different versions of their piece, each interesting in a different way. Translations, as you’ll see, vary widely, depending on how you happen to look at it; the blind eye offers up a variety of perspectives.
Sonnet of the Asshole
Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation,
It sighs, humbly nestling in the moss still moist from love
That follows the descent of sweet white cheeks
Down to their edge.
Filaments like tears of milk
Have wept beneath the cruel south wind
That drives them back across the little clots of russet clay,
And disappeared there where the slope has called them.
My Dream has often kissed its opening;
My Soul, that envies mortal intercourse
Has chosen this to be its wild and musky nest of sobs.
It is the swooning olive and the sweet cajoling flute
The tube through which celestial creamy pralines tumble down
Female Promised Land rimmed round with dew!
Hidden and wrinkled like a budding violet
It breathes, gently worn out, in a tangled vine
(Still damp with love), on the soft incline
Of white buttocks to the rim of the pit.
Thin streams like rivers of milk ; innocent
Tears, shed beneath hot breath that drives them down
Across small clots of rich soil, reddish brown,
Where they lose themselves in the dark descent…
My mouth always dribbles with its coupling force;
My soul, jealous of the body’s intercourse,
Makes it tearful, wild necessity.
Ecstatic olive branch, the flute one blows,
The tube where heavenly praline flows,
Promised Land in sticky femininity.
Sonnet in Praise of the Butthole
Dark and puckered like a tiny violet eye
It breathes, obscurely lurking in a mossy froth
Still humid from love that follows the curving soft
Slope of snowy ass just past the crease of thigh.
A few glistening threads running like milky tears
Have wept past the rough hot wind pushing them away,
Getting beyond those little gnarls of ruddy clay
To lose their way where the echoing downslope veers.
In dream I often find my suck-hole on the job;
My soul, so jealous of palpable fuckery,
Says this is its musky tear-duct, its nest of sobs.
It’s the swoon-diving olive and the flute cajoled,
The pipeline where the celestial praline flows,
Feminine Promised Land in the moistening fold.
Obscure and wrinkled like a purple eyelet,
It breathes, humbly tapi among foam
Humide encor of love which follows the soft escape
Of the white Buttocks to the heart of its hem.
Similar filaments with milk tears cried,
Under the cruel southerly wind which pushes back them
A through small russet-red marl clots,
To go itself to lose where the slope called them.
My Dream was often brought together with its suction cup;
My heart, of the material coitus jealous, made of
It its fawn-coloured drip and its nest of sobs.
It is the pâmée olive, and the flute caline
It is the tube where goes down the celestial one dresses:
Female Chanaan in enclosed moistnesses!
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