![]() Personally, he was at the end of his stormy relationship with Paul Verlaine. ![]() Stylistically, he had finished with his earlier, lyric verse style, and had begun to experiment with prose poems. To understanding this work you must put it into the context of Rimbaud’s life. But the overall meaning remains elusive on the first few tries. The descriptions and phrases are memorable. I read it a couple of times, in both languages. I dug out my old college version, which was in both French and English, with the English translation by Wallace Fowlie. The presentation at the Maison de la Poesie made me want to re-read the poem. Beyond the brilliant, often hallucinatory images, what is the meaning of this work? I had studied Rimbaud in college, and read A Season in Hell in French, but at the time I think I was more interested in “the total derangement of all the senses” than in finding a meaning to the text. In all, it was a tour-de-force of stagecraft and spoken word.Īs the performance ended, I had one thought: this was truly how a man damned to hell would behave. In addition to his extremely expressive voice and face, the actor used theatrical techniques to excellent effect in presenting the work: he used the cross to simulate crucifixion, he donned blackface during the “Bad Blood” section to echo the “savage” sentiments of the poem, and at one point changed into a women’s black shawl to portray “The Foolish Virgin” of “Delirium I”. For the next almost two hours, the actor alternated between joy, despair and rage as he delivered the lines of poem. Suddenly the lights dimmed, enhancing the redness of the set, and Boudjenah sprang into action, delivering the prologue to Rimbaud’s piece. The director/actor, Nazim Boudjenah, sat to the side, eyes closed, dressed in white. The set was simple: a large metal cross, a table laid as if for Communion, with a loaf of bread, a glass of wine, and two candles. It was like a catacomb, with bare stone walls and a stone floor: a fitting place to stage this work. The performance room was in the basement, down a steep flight of stairs. I made a trip to the Maison de la Poesie in Paris on a recent evening to see a staging of Arthur Rimbaud’s prose poem Une Saison en Enfer (A Season in Hell).
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