Arthur Rimbaud: The Golden Dawn

Arthur Rimbaud: The Golden Dawn

The lost manuscript of Rimbaud’s Promontoire. Note that someone – but not the poet – has added the word Illuminations in the lower right corner of the manuscript. Under this is another word, this time written in Rimbaud’s hand.


The golden dawn and the sensational evening find our brigantine anchored out in the roads opposite this villa and its outbuildings, which form a promontory as extensive as Epirus and the Peloponnese, or the vast island of Japan, or Arabia! Temples illuminated by the return of theories, immense views of modern coastal defenses; dunes illustrated with warm flowers and bacchanalia; great canals of Carthage and embankments of a degenerate Venice; mild eruptions of Etnas and crevasses of flowers and glacial waters; wash houses near stands of German poplars; mounds in odd parks where the head of a Japanese tree bows down; and circular facades of Royals or Grands of Scarborough or Brooklyn; and the railways flank, undermine and dominate the outlay of this Hotel, chosen from the history of the most ornate and colossal constructions of Italy, America and Asia, whose windows and terraces now full of lights, drinks and rich breezes, are wide open to the souls of travellers and nobles – who allow, during daylight hours, all the tarantellas of the coast – and even the ritournellas of the illustrious valley of art – to decorate in a miraculous way the facades of the Promontory Palace.

A wonder-of-the-world: St Pancras Railway Hotel as Rimbaud would have known it in 1873. Here we are looking west, but from Great College Street the view of the newly-opened terminus would have been from the north. Rimbaud would have sighted down the great trainshed, which we see here in profile, stretching out to the right. (From Pentonville Road looking west: evening (1884) by John O’Connor.)

The Roofscape

The unthinkable happened in two phases.

I’d seen the main landmark from the roof of the derelict. Gazing south across the housetops towards Bloomsbury I’d looked up – from Rimbaud’s Promontoire – and visually traced the Gothic silhouette of Gilbert Scott’s St Pancras Railway Hotel. This seemed to mirror ‘in a miraculous way’ Promontoire‘s coastal palace of military aspect. I observed – at dawn and at nightfall – this Red Fort somehow transported from India to London, this Castle Gormenghast in the distance with it’s many substructures and ‘dependencies’. I saw the justness of comparing it to a headland ‘as large as Arabia’. I saw the rightness of conceiving it as nothing less than  ‘the vast island of Japan’. But had Arthur Rimbaud ever set foot in Kings Cross?

A line in Wallace Fowlie’s introduction spoke of intermittent trips to Brussels and London. That was all I knew.

I dismissed the Promontoire identification. Surely the whole point was that Rimbaud’s prose-poem was non-specific, all-inclusive, encyclopaedic? Yet, amid all the plurals of ‘Temples’, ‘dunes’, ‘canals’, ‘Etnas’, ‘laundries’, ‘odd parks’, ‘Royals’, ‘Grands’ etc, I noted that Rimbaud introduced his main landmark as ‘this villa’: singular. And another point struck me. Promontoire might be an exercise in spatio-temporal synthesis, an experiment in topological compression, but the ‘villa’ was described as ‘flanked, undermined and dominated by railways’. In other words, though the coastal structure seemed classical, ancient – biblical and pagan – it was clearly situated in the modern world. Or, if Rimbaud’s superstructure was outside time and space, its architectonics referenced antiquity and modernity.

The ‘castle as the universe’ is a constant motif in fairytales and folk-mythology, looming large also in Arthurian literature. A complex of roofscapes, towers and spires captures our experience of a multiple-faceted reality.

The Second Wave

In Promontoire Rimbaud tells us that he ‘finds’ himself observing ‘this villa and its dependencies’ from his brigantine ‘out in the roads, opposite’ the shoreline. (The phrase ‘out in the roads’ is a maritime expression meaning ‘lying offshore’ and I use it – playfully – in my translation feeling that if Rimbaud had found such a double-meaning in French the term might have appeared in his extraordinary poem, a poem which – as I hope to show in a moment – should rightly be considered the mother of all the Illuminations.)

In the days and nights following the rooftop vision of the promontory-palace as St Pancras Railway Hotel, I started reading about the poet’s life from Enid Starkie’s pioneering biography, acquired almost immediately after the revelation. Then, in the second phase of a rite of passage, less than a week after the first epiphany, I located Rimbaud’s brigantine architecturally ‘anchored’ in Royal College Street. His pirate-vessel, his Drunken Boat – ‘notre brick’ – was only a hundred yards from my derelict. (The French poet-laureate studied English assidiously, so the playful crossover from ‘brick’ as in ‘housebrick’ to the French ‘brick’ – for brigantine – would have certainly appealed to someone who constantly resourced maritime images in his work.)

The original identification of 8, Royal College Street as Rimbaud’s brick-and-mortar pirate-ship was triggered by my first (post-midnight) visit to the house when I noticed immediately its strange prow-shaped parapet – west-facing at the front of the house – a feature unique to this Georgian property. Naturally, after a few more fanatical reconnoiterings, I knocked on the door one sunny spring morning. (At this point there was still no plaque on the house.) A gentleman who looked like Rowan Atkinson – vaguely hyperthyroid eyes in a mobile, Machiavellian face – answered the door, looked me up-and-down. To my amazement he seemed to know exactly why I’d come. When I mentioned Rimbaud he said immediately: ‘I smell his pipe at night. It’s extremely pungent!’

The faithful were clearly hammering on his front-door quite frequently.

The initial map of subjective interpretation began to make sense in the light of the second revelation. The pirate-ship of all time reminded me of my own derelict. I strode the deck more proudly under the black flag of the squatocracy, scanning around with my poetic telescope.

There was plenty to see.

We saw ourselves as nonviolent levellers of direct action, we saw ourselves as visionary demographic outlaws setting up new paradigms of urban living. In the shadows of the towerblocks of Somers Town we were living in ‘the miraculous valley of art’.

In subsequent psychogeographical explorations of the quarter, trying to block the monoxide fogs and project myself back into late Victorian times, I noted – ghostly revenant – that, approaching 8, Great College Street from the west presented a view of the ship-like frontage from as far away as the High Street itself, a distance of a good few hundred yards. King Street (as it was before it became Plender) ran in a straight line from Camden High Street all the way to the doorstep of the ‘household in Hell’.

A royal road indeed!

The image of the ‘prowed’ house would have imprinted itself early in Rimbaud’s second ‘London pilgrimage’.

The house of Arthur Rimbaud in Royal College Street (or Great College Street as it was in his day) very much as I first found it in the early spring of 1973. (But at that time there was no plaque in evidence.)

Climbing Gormenghast

Still – at this time – there was no bigger vision.

I didn’t – yet – really suspect that Rimbaud might have found something extraordinary in Kings Cross St Pancras. (Shall we call it ‘the place and the formula’?) I was troubled by the transmutation of this shabby zone into something otherworldly: the shimmering cityscapes of Promontoire.

With the poet’s Collected Works in my hand I climbed every morning through the hatch of a dim, dusty attic and explored a little spillway between the chimney-stacks. Topside, swaying on the west-facing front parapet, or reclining on the silver-grey sloping roof-tiles, or walking up and down speaking Promontoire aloud Rimbaud’s words became increasingly supercharged. Soon I knew the poem by heart in both French and English. As invocation deepened the sorcery intensified. It seemed that – cycling Promontoire as a prayer or a mantra or a magic spell – I could slip through some hairline crack in the everyday world and enter the zone of Anima Mundi: the mindspace of the living universe.

For the first time since losing the guitar to tendonitis, dynamism came back, energy took over, enthusiasm flooded the sensorium: everything changed. Now my single reason for living stared me in the face from the Collected Works. I even dreamed of Rimbaud’s miraculous text. No archeologist excavating a Sumerian palace-library and finding lists of kings from before the Flood was ever more deliriously excited than I was – handling the precious ‘clay tablet’ of Promontoire.

I sensed there were more meanings beneath the sand. There was more information under the Promontory Palace.

Curious ideograms on a Sumerian clay tablet (retrieved from the western deserts of Iraq).

The Order of the Golden Dawn

Once again I went back to the very beginning. (Now I began an inch-perfect analysis of Promontoire.)

For a long time I’d been aware of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Yeats’ involvement in ceremonial magic had interested me greatly for quite a few years. Now I had learned that the Golden Dawn’s Inner Temple – the oratory of the esoteric Second Order – had once been located in Kings Cross St Pancras, at 62, Oakley Square to be precise. (Oakley Square is roughly equidistant from Pancras Church and 8, Royal College Street.) Unlike the Isis-Urania Temple, founded in 1888, Oakley Square was the headquarters of the order’s operative adepts and active magicians. The Golden Dawn’s magical workings happened here. (The outer-order Isis-Urania Temple in Hammersmith was only for theoretical and novitiate studies.) Three streets away from Pancras Church certain rites were performed – some lasting many days and nights – rites specifically designed to immanentize – to bring about – the new age called the Aeon of the Child.

Who named the Order of the Golden Dawn? (This question occured to me late one night.) Was there a way to link Rimbaud to the naming?

A bridge was created by a close friend of WB Yeats. This obscure individual was an outer-order Golden Dawn satellite: the minor poet – but fairly important critic – Arthur Symons. It emerged that in the autumn of 1893, on the night of November 19th, Paul Verlaine – at the invitation of Arthur Symons –  caught the night-boat to London in order to deliver – on the 21st – what turned out to be the most laidback disquisition ever heard by earnest late-Victorian literateurs. By this time – only three years before his death – Paul Verlaine was a bibulous ruin, moving about deliberately on a stout stick. His lecture amounted to a series of detours through personal reminiscence and belletristic anecdote during which he also mumbled quite a number of his poems. But in spite – or perhaps because – of being three-quarters drunk, he hypnotised his audience that night in ancient oak-panelled 14th century Barnard’s Hall (situated – interestingly – directly above the Fleet River, immediately south of Kings Cross in Fetter Lane).

The important point here is that just before this period Verlaine’s reputation had sunk very low indeed, thanks mostly to his alcoholism. (He hadn’t produced any new work for many, many years.) And yet he had quite recently cleverly resurrected himself by publishing – for the first time – Arthur Rimbaud’s Illuminations. In Barnard’s Hall he must have spoken about this achievement, an event which set literary Paris ablaze. Necessarily that night he regaled his listeners with some account of the Promethean boy who had turned French literature upside-down, the Mighty Youth who destroyed the Parnassians. (A mythological subject!) With all the lyrical murmuring and mumbling that went on it is just possible that, in the course of his ‘lecture’, Verlaine recited something by the legendary Rimbaud. Something from the London-inspired Illuminations possibly?

Was W.B  Yeats in the audience that night?

It is hard to imagine his absence. If he wasn’t in attendance, he certainly heard all the news from Symons. So the term ‘the golden dawn’ could very possibly have filtered across to the magical order from Rimbaud’s Promontoire.

The Lord of Two Horizons

I have mentioned that according to the Western Magical Tradition (to which Rimbaud and Yeats – as most-important English-language poet of the last hundred years – both belong) there is an association between Kings Cross St Pancras and the formula of a golden sunrise, a sacred aurora, a daybreak of spiritual light. I have also referenced (in Arthur Rimbaud: The Brigantine) the fact that the iconography and symbolism of the child-martyr Pancras allow us to compare him/her with other child-pantocrators such as the Chinese Pan Ku, the Celtic Mabyn and the Egyptian Horus.

In his iconography Horus is represented with one finger sealing his lips. (I find it interesting to reflect that apart from his poetry Rimbaud is most famed for his silence.) And Horus – who in Golden Dawn symbolism presides over the Aeon of the Child – is also called the Lord of Two Horizons. (In fact the very word ‘horizon’ has come to us – via the Greek ‘horos’ for landmark or boundary-stone – from the ancient Egyptian god-name.)

The two ‘horizons’ of Horus are dawn and dusk. When the adolescent god is titled ‘Lord of Two Horizons’, Egyptian cosmologers are believed to be referring to the rising and setting sun in one divine ‘person’. And the hermetic implications of Promontoire’s opening phrase accord even more profoundly with the symbolisms of Egypt because the solar child-deity Horus rides the two horizons in a sunship. Clearly there is a direct equivalence between Rimbaud’s brigantine and the solar barque of Horus, the child-deity who becomes Pancras in Christian cosmology, the patron saint of teenagers and truth. And the sacred watercraft of Horus could be described as a pirate-ship because Horus is outcast, an adolescent warrior for truth, the avenger of his absent father, Osiris. (Set – or Satan – is the uncle of Horus and murderer of Osiris, so Hamlet too can be seen as a sort of Horus-figure, isolated from the establishment, driven to extreme actions.) In one pungent myth the young god Horus is homosexually raped by his power-mad uncle.

An ‘outcast warrior for truth’ sums up Rimbaud. He asks our entire civilization to turn back, to think again and live from the heart. He proposes that consciousness is a transmission from the Other (‘I is another’) and he promises that if we can transcend self-image we will reinvent love and experience ‘Christmas on Earth’. Yet his dream of transforming the world begins with transforming himself into the alchemical ‘sunchild’. This means achieving an inner balance which is beyond male/female duality, an individual androgyny which builds on the strengths of both sexes, which overcomes the war between matriarchy and patriarchy.

‘What was I saying about a friendly hand! One fine advantage is that I can laugh at old lying loves, and strike with shame those lying couples – I saw the hell of women down there – and I shall be free to possess truth in one body and one soul.’

The philosophical cross of the Order of the Golden Dawn

The Mother of all Illuminations

I imagine Rimbaud, that most cosmological of poets – who hides scholasticism and learning under incredible lyricism and casual vernacular – walking back to Great College Street from the British Museum where he has just spent a blissful afternoon in the reading-room immersed in Ethiopian genealogies and Egyptian creation-myths.

He is interested in the unbroken line from King Solomon down to the Emperor Theodore, the bloodlines of the Solomonic dynasty. Studying African Christianity he’s tracing mythological connections between ancient Ethiopia and pharaonic Egypt. Fascinating obsession, fixation. (The figure in the modern world who most resembles Rimbaud is Bob Marley. In a later article I’ll discuss the light of Rastafari; and probe why Arthur Rimbaud is a significant inflence in hiphop.)

As he walks, in his mind is the first line of a new poem. It remembers a recent crossing on the Ostend ferry yet it reaches up into skies of cosmology. It glides on a sea-crossing to the white cliffs yet it’s down-to-earth and grounded in the strange zone of Pancras. (Where he finds himself at present, lucky circumstance.)

It goes something like this:

The golden dawn and the magical dusk find our sunship out at sea…

I want very much to continue as soon as possible with the process of putting Promontoire under a critical microscope, looking at this key text with high-magnification. There is much more material to consider. But for now I will close this present essay with the details of a discovery – not mine – which need to be disseminated among true Rimbaudians everywhere. In the 1961 Faber edition of her seminal biography, Enid Starkie includes a new passage which does not appear in the book as it is issued in 1938 (by Hamish Hamilton). Here is the quote in its entirety:

‘It is not known if the title Illuminations, which seems to bear the hallmark of Rimbaud’s genius, was certainly his – though this is highly probable. The word is written on one of the poems, Promontoire, but not in his handwriting, and it is not known who put it there. However, underneath that word, which is in the plural, can be faintly seen, in certain photographs, but not in all, the word Illumination in the singular, in another hand, and I agree with De Graaf in thinking that it is very similar to Rimbaud’s. The manuscript of the poem has disappeared.’


An astute reader has written within a few hours of my posting ‘AR: The Golden Dawn’ pointing out a minor inconsistency in my argument. I am not a historian of the Order of the Golden Dawn; but still I feel I should have noticed this simple error; and I thank my correspondent for drawing my attention to the flaw in my line of reasoning. Verlaine’s London talk on the 21st November 1893 happened five years after the founding of the Golden Dawn, so he could not have been the carrier of the name. It seems that the Ordo Hermeticus Aurorae Aureae styled itself the Golden Dawn from day one in 1888. (As I say, I’m not a historian of the order and this is where my confusion lay, I could find no exact details about the very beginnings of the operation. A long time ago I studied the  Golden Dawn and its precepts quite closely but these days my mental filing-cabinets on the subject are all cleared out and emptied away.) Having said all this and de-bugged the essay – I trust – I would still draw attention to the fact that Verlaine’s edition of Illuminations appeared in 1886, two years before the birth of the GD. So Rimbaud might still be the source of the name, though admittedly it could also have come through various neo-Platonic philosophers and their schools.

The house of Arthur Rimbaud today, showing the ‘prow’ of the ‘brick‘, the brigantine. (I am not aware of any other Georgian house in London having a similar pyramidical feature.) A brigantine was a small two-masted vessel often associated with piracy. It is believed that Rimbaud and Verlaine occupied the top floor at number eight.

The room in Barnard’s Inn, Fetter Lane, where Paul Verlaine delivered his poetic lecture in 1893. Fetter Lane in Holborn lies directly above the underground River Fleet, London’s most important lost river. The Fleet also runs beneath Royal College Street.

Follow Me:

Arthur Rimbaud: The Brigantine

Arthur Rimbaud: The Brigantine

Rimbaud (in Paris) by Forain

Gold in the Soul

Perhaps in spite of the efforts of all poets literature is powerless in the modern world. Maybe that’s why Arthur Rimbaud gave up.

But did he give up?

I don’t believe that Rimbaud ever ceased to be a seer. For me his deathbed ’Aphinar’ letter proves that he never abandoned inner vision. How so? Because this last heartbreaking letter, dictated to Isabelle and addressed to ‘Monsieur le Directeur’, is really written to someone other than the corporate kingpin of the ‘Aphinar’ steamship company. (Biographers have speculated that ‘Al Fanar’ was intended – the Arabic word for lighthouse – and this seems very likely. Certainly an ‘Aphinar Line’ never existed.) With one leg amputated and his groin on fire, Rimbaud is addressing the source of all light the night before he dies in the Hospital of the Immaculate Conception. Rimbaud is talking to God on his deathbed in Marseille, asking if he has any cosmic credit left, asking if he can hope for anything after death. Naturally he frames the question in terms of business-dealings because he’s so out-of-his-mind on morphine that buying and selling become metaphors for living and dying, in the same way that ‘sailing home to Ithaca’ becomes an allegorical journey for Odysseus. In fact Rimbaud is asking in the most poignant way imaginable whether he is spiritually worth anything, whether there is still any gold in his soul. He is already in the judgment-halls of the afterlife watching the feather of his extraordinary purity being weighed against the heaviness of his experience.

If poetry has become ’an idiot’s game’ (to paraphrase Eliot) and even the ‘unacknowledged legislators’ of Shelley have been shut down, still a new world is coming.

And Rimbaud knew it.

A distressed (and Rimbaudian) waysign in Pancras churchyard

Shamanic synchronicities

I would like to enlarge on my first encounter with Rimbaud. This is a narrative I have never told though I have wanted to tell it for a very long time. Yet because of its strangeness I have hesitated, thinking always that some day or other I would write a long poem about my experience of ‘standing on the rooftop of the universe’, if I may put it that way. Now, just recently – after the Place Vendome – I feel the decision has been taken for me and I have to attempt to capture a once-in-a-lifetime moment when metaphysical windows of coincidence opened, when connective synchronicities suddenly came into play.

To begin this exploration of what happened to me many years ago I need to discuss that enigmatic area of London where Rimbaud and Verlaine lived once upon a time. This is often called Camden Town but in fact Royal College Street is halfway between Camden Town and Kings Cross (where the trains leave for Paris from St Pancras International). As a matter of fact the house of Arthur Rimbaud is only a ten minute walk from the continental terminus.

When I first engaged with the zone of St Pancras back in the winter of 1972 it was a post-industrial wasteland, an urban limbo of tinned-up derelicts where meths-drinkers burned banisters and floorboards by night, where marginals and misfits, artists and musicians congregated against the backdrop of the three-day week. I was one of several hundred maladjusted artists washed-up on an island of non-conformity. I was another Robinson Crusoe shipwrecked in the vast ocean of London. We were insular and defiant, we thought of ourselves as a Commune. We had a basement community restaurant where plates of brown rice were served for pennies every evening. We had a street-festival and a street-magazine (which I edited). An old air-raid siren mounted on a rooftop warned of squad-cars approaching down Royal College Street.

Pancras Old Church in Kings Cross. The foundation is described in Vatican archives as ‘the head and mother of all Christian Churches, under Highgate, near London’. The north-wall is made of Roman tiles, the altar-stone of St Augustine is here. The house of Arthur Rimbaud is only a few steps away.

The Arthurian Mysteries

Within eight weeks of arriving in this place I went through a lifechanging psychogeographical initiation. Later on I came to understand that many hidden forces operate in this part of London. For instance a lost river – the Old River of Wells, also known as the River Fleet – lies buried beneath Kings Cross St Pancras. Once upon a time its waters ran down from Hampstead Heath, where Rimbaud and Verlaine – like John Keats before them – loved to walk. Nowadays the lost river still flows under Royal College Street. Running south it continues beneath St Pancras Old Church and joins the Thames beside St Paul’s Cathedral (where the watercourse gives its name to Fleet Street). In antiquity the Fleet river was regarded as sacred. The Pancras Waters were bottled-up in wooden bottles and sold all over Elizabethan London in Shakespeare’s times. The chalybeate waters of the Old River of Wells were reputed to be healing and restorative. Spas were distributed all along the river’s length. But with industrialization the holy river was buried alive and forgotten. By the end of the 18th century it had more or less disappeared. (In certain places – like Argyle Square where Rimbaud stayed in 1874 – you can still hear the lost river running under the streets.)

Kings Cross St Pancras has another magical aspect. The zone is surrounded by a ring of fire-hills. These ‘high places’ were ritually sanctified long before Christianity arrived in Britain. Primrose Hill and Parliament Hill, St Michael’s Mount and the Penton of Pentonville circle Kings Cross St Pancras as places of power. (Underneath the Penton is the mysterious earth-chamber known as Merlin’s Cave, linked to the Arthurian cycle playing out in London.) What vitalities are we attributing to these high places? Today we talk of terrestrial magnetism and atmospheric electricity, telluric forces and geomantic phenomena. But ancient pagan poets would have had described such cyclic and cosmic energies differently. In dynastic China they would have sung of dragon-forces and dragon-roads. Walking the ‘lung-mei’ with drummers and dancers they would have written poems about ‘escorting the dragon through the land’.

Antiquaries have detected significant remains of megalithic structures in Kings Cross. (When Stephane Mallarme visited this area some time after Rimbaud’s stay, he was shown what he was told was ‘the oldest wall in Britain’.) Legends of London mysteriously refer to two ancient cities underneath Kings Cross. These are Troynovant and Cockaigne. From the older of these two cities, Cockaigne, the Cockneys of London derive their name. Later, as described in the old chronicles of Britain Troynovant was founded by the Trojan exile, Prince Brutus (who also founded Paris, named after Helen’s lover). According to the chronicles Prince Brutus gives his name to Britain and builds his city in the area now known as Kings Cross. (In The Faerie Queene Edmund Spenser says that Troynovant – New Troy – is built ‘in the hollow of the hills under Highgate.’)

Laser tracks for future trains? St Pancras Railway Hotel (built 1872). Image from ‘Crossing Kings Cross’ by Magdalena Jetelova.

The Pirate-Ship

These are some of the hidden aspects of the zone of London where I found myself cast away. All of these forces – as I am now aware – played some part in my initiation. But it took a shaman to come and clear my vision, to open my path in one vertical moment.

In the winter of 1972 I was passing through an abyss of depression after a self-inflicted catastrophe had suddenly ripped my young life to shreds. I had seriously damaged the tendons in both arms by overpracticing the classsical guitar. (Chromatic octave scales, difficult on the fretboard, actually triggered my self-created disaster.) Unable to play any more – hardly able to speak – I found myself on Desolation Row, living in the derelict houses behind Kings Cross.

One morning in February 1973 I stood on a rooftop overlooking Kings Cross reading Arthur Rimbaud’s Illuminations. (I still have the edition I held in my hands the day everything in my life changed forever.) I was reading Promontoire. Suddenly I looked up from the page and saw the parallels! The landscape of Kings Cross echoed the text. The skyline of London was encoded into Promontoire.

‘The golden dawn and the tremendous evening find our brigantine anchored out in the roads, opposite this villa and its dependancies, which form a promontory as extensive as Epirus and the Peloponnesus, or as the large island of Japan, or Arabia! Temples lighted up by the return of theories, tremendous views of modern coastal defences… and … railways flank, hollow out, and dominate the outlay of this hotel…’ 

I knew nothing of Rimbaud’s life at this point. A week or so earlier I had discovered his poetry (through Antony Scaduto’s biography of Bob Dylan). Knowing not one thing about this poet whose poem had just capsized reality I ran that winter’s day to Compendium (a wonderful bookshop in Camden Town that seeded the development of Camden Lock). There I found the famous Enid Starkie biography (still perhaps the deepest study of this poet). I took it ‘home’ to my derelict and suddenly forgot all my terrible devastation. My insanity and my self-pity vanished as I turned the pages of that magical book. Some time after midnight – in a thunderstorm – I came to the chapter called The Brussels Drama. With an astonishment even greater than I had experienced on the rooftop I now saw Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine appear out of sulphurous Victorian fogs and take up residence at 8 Royal College Street.

Their address was printed on the page right in front of me.

Now I was given to understand that a hundred years previously the poet who wrote Promontoire had actually lived here in Kings Cross St Pancras! I knew Royal College Street, a hundred yards from my derelict. Running out in the midnight rain I found the house. It was a decrepit Georgian affair with an utterly unique parapet which unmistakeably suggested the bow of a ship.

The brick of Promontoire!

The brigantine!

The pirate-ship.

The bespoke plaque commemorating Rimbaud and Verlaine’s stay in Somer’s Town in 1873. This appeared on the house in the early 80’s, the gift of two mysterious – and forever anonymous – brothers. (Official plaques are usually circular and blue.)

 The Promontory Palace

All followed from the revelation on the rooftop of my derelict. Rimbaud pointed the way and I had to follow.

From him I learned that Baudelaire’s mother was born in Kings Cross (nee au Somer’s Town). Through him I learned that William Blake made Pancras Old Church the centre of his London cosmology, the midpoint of his revolutionary Jerusalem, city of imagination and political freedom. From him I learned that Pancras Old Church is the seed-foundation of the Celtic church. Through Rimbaud I learned that Thomas Chatterton had fallen into an open grave in Pancras churchyard only three days before his death (at the age of seventeen!). From Rimbaud I learned that Shelley had passed through some kind of supernatural gateway here, an experience which utterly changed this poet’s life. Through Rimbaud I learned that WB Yeats had lived in Kings Cross for twenty-three years, the mystical years of his most esoteric work, A Vision. And from Rimbaud I learned that the Order of the Golden Dawn (Promontoire again) had its inner temple next to Pancras Old Church.

As William Blake says, drawing a rectangle round Kings Cross:

The fields from Islington to Marybone
to Primrose Hill and St John’s Wood
were builded over with pillars of gold
and there Jerusalem’s pillars stood.

Even the ‘Japanese tree‘ of Promontoire I found in Pancras Churchyard (where Thomas Hardy’s initiation took place). Even the laundry ‘surrounded by German poplars‘ I found, though it’s gone now (gone, but not forgotten). And of course, as I saw initially from the rooftop, the Palais Promontoire (the Promontory Palace) is Scott’s Pancras Railway Hotel, completed in 1872, the year of Rimbaud’s first visit to London. (Naturally the Palais is the whole universe too, but that doesn’t preclude its foundation in this world. In fact it’s more alchemical to think of this double-aspect.) From the top floor – or the roof – of 8 Royal College Street this magnificent neo-Gothic monstrosity would have completely dominated Rimbaud’s skyline.

From Pentonville Road looking west: evening (1884) by the Irish painter John O’Connor. This painting shows St Pancras Railway Hotel much as Rimbaud would have seen it 11 years earlier, except that his view would have been looking south.

Pancras: Transcultural Sunchild

In my rite-of-passage Rimbaud wasn’t pointing at himself. Via Promontoire he directed my attention to St Pancras. And as I pursued many lines of enquiry into the subject of earth-mysteries and ancient cosmologies I always came back to one primal question: Who was Pancras?

(This question always leads me back to Rimbaud.)

Pancras is the androgynous mystery-saint of Christianity, the patron-saint of teenagers and truth. And if one traces the beginnings of Christian symbolism in Egyptian cosmology – an extremely fascinating thing to do – Pancras becomes identical with Horus, the child-deity of the Egyptian trinity. Similarly, in the oldest creation-myth of China, Pancras becomes the child-demiurge, Pan Ku, who dies an early death – self-martyred – exhausted by prodigious acts of creation. (Sound familiar?) He is the transcultural Sunchild of all cosmologies, spontaneous, exuberant and androgynous. He/she is the divine child: the inner child at the collective level.

Based entirely on the revelation on the rooftop I worked obsessively for twenty-three years on the theory of my epic poem Vale Royal. Much of that time I lived like an urban gypsy, a scholar of the derelicts. (Once, just for fun, I calculated that over a period of sixteen years I had lived in nearly a hundred different addresses. In those days books were my only ballast. When an eviction-order came one loaded one’s library into a taxi and moved on.)


Vale Royal (Goldmark, 1995) about which the Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott said: Vale Royal moves with the ease and the clarity of a fresh spring over ancient stones, making its myths casual, even colloquial – an impressive achievement.

The Patron Saint of Teenagers and Truth

As surely as if he dictated it himself my epic poem Vale Royal came to me through Arthur Rimbaud. At long last – and after a terrible battle – the poem was published by the only man in England who would publish it – Mike Goldmark – printed by Martino Mardersteig at the Stamperia Valdonega in Verona – the finest printing press in the world – and launched at the Royal Albert Hall in 1995. Allen Ginsberg did me the honour of coming over from New York specially for the launch, and he and Paul McCartney performed Skeletons in the White House that night, McCartney riffing on guitar as Allen rapped his rebel lines to the beat.

Fifteen years after the launch of Vale Royal I chained myself – with fellow-poet and Rimbaudian Niall McDevitt – to the railings of 8 Royal College Street to stop the house of Arthur Rimbaud being gutted for flats. And, thanks to our timely intervention (and some help from Graham Henderson of the Rimbaud and Verlaine Foundation) the house has been perpetually willed to the British nation – and more importantly saved for the planet – as most significant shrine of modern poetry.

The house of Arthur Rimbaud today, showing the ‘prow’ of the ‘brick‘, the brigantine. (I am not aware of any other Georgian house in London having a similar pyramidical feature.) A brigantine was a small two-masted vessel often associated with piracy. It is believed that Rimbaud and Verlaine occupied the top floor at number eight.

Octagonal Stone of Free Speech on Parliament Hill overlooking Kings Cross St Pancras, an atavistic marker referencing the open-air parliaments of the pre-Christian Druid religion.

Ravello Records ‘HONEYLAND’ interview

Ravello Records ‘HONEYLAND’ interview


How was “Honeyland” conceived, and what were some of the main influences behind the works?


Around 2006 I sketched twelve or fourteen piano pieces in the studio with the idea of using them as settings for poems and I experimentally uploaded a few of these ‘wordscapes’ to my website. Then, rendezvousing with Lucie Rejchrtova in Amsterdam (where I was reading) in a crowded room she mysteriously beckoned me over to an old out-of-tune upright piano and out-of-the-blue played a few of my piano compositions. I almost fell to my knees with surprise; it appeared she had learned these pieces from my website. I was astonished because I’d long resigned myself to the fact that I could not possibly deliver the poem’s settings while reciting since my piano technique is far from perfect. So Lucie and I began working together towards preparing the Honeyland material for performance (and the studio) the magical sensitivity of her playing making it possible to launch this work properly at last.

I’ve always instinctively rejected the notion that poems belong in books, flattened onto two-dimensional pages. (It must be the reincarnated troubadour in me that feels an intense bereavement around the disconnect between poetry and music.) But if poems don’t belong in books where are they ‘at home’? To put the question another way: through which medium can a poem best be transmitted? Eliot points out somewhere in an essay that only a fraction of meaning from the recitation or reading of a modern text normally sinks in on first encounter; and many indeed at initial contact become bewildered quickly and give up on poetry and its incomprehensibility, alienated. With Homer (whose poets deftly handle the lyre before their stanzas are declaimed) I maintain that music sympathetic to the atmosphere and spirit of a poem – preferably composed by the poet – can induce a hypnogogic state in the listener which opens the way to its intentional language.

I partly view music as an abstract ‘page’ on which poetry can be written. No typographical or visual medium enjoys music’s special relationship with the spoken word. It surely cannot be argued that a similar natural symbiotic partnership between poetry and the visual arts exists. For instance, the whimsical experiments of concrete poetry have never to my mind produced a convincing frisson. Games played with the arrangement of words on the page in my view fail utterly to lift poetry into another dimension and, on the contrary, seem to contribute to the literal disintegration of language. Concrete poetry strikes me as a fruitless attempt to reinvent textuality, producing an effect far from the powerful combination of a poem well-mounted on a sympathetic harmonic platform.

Through, I suppose, a kind of synesthesia I have always sensed words as traces of melody. I have always imagined my poems afloat on sound; and Honeyland is the realization of that old, almost atavistic, dream. In composing the pieces on this album I’ve striven to express poetic lines as melodic statements, to render both rhymes and alliterations as the extensions of chords. I want listeners to be convinced that the crafted inflections of a poem have much in common with the contours of musical cadence.

For a long time, through my twenties and thirties, my struggle to write poetry precluded serious composition. In my forties, with a body of published work, I began exploring the piano with specific poems in mind (as I mentioned before). By that point in my life I had to some extent come to terms with the loss of the classical guitar, having been forced to say farewell to that instrument due to practice-induced tendonitis.

Influences have been many and various. My grandmother, Marie Rambert, dancer and founder of the Ballet Rambert, joined the Ballet Russes just at that point when the Ballet Russes was rehearsing with terrible difficulty The Rite of Spring. Rambert was able, through her special training with Jaques Dalcroze in Switzerland, to form an interdisciplinary bridge between Stravinsky and Nijinsky: she became the essential nexus which saved the work from imploding. (The rhythms of the score were incomprehensible to the dancers.) Engaged by Diaghilev to act as an intermediary between Stravinsky and Nijinsky Rambert went on to dance in the famously apocalyptic premiere of Sacre in Paris before fleeing to London just before World War One.

Mim (as everyone called her) introduced me to Stravinsky’s ouevre and in my late teens I devoured everything he had written. His Symphonies for Wind Instruments hypnotised me like Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor; while Bartok’s largescale work, Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, actually precipitated an out-of-body experience which haunts me to this day. These composers mingled their influence with that of Debussy, Ravel and Prokofiev whose canon was familiar to me from earliest recollection because my father was a skilled and emotive pianist. His interpretations of Gaspard de la Nuit, Passepied and L’Isle Joyeuse had lulled me to sleep on many a hot tropical evening in the West Indies where I was raised (though I was born in London).

Jazz became very important to me in my twenties, Coltrane and Andrew Hill and in particular. The West-African (Malian) singer-guitarist Ali Farka Toure has also been an inspiration.

You’ve said something about your musical background, could you now say something about the work itself, this fusion of poetry and piano music.


Honeyland is dedicated to Cedella Booker (1926-2008) the mother of Bob Marley, regarded during her life as Jamaica’s First Lady. Describing (in her wonderful biography of her son) her struggle to raise Bob all on her own in the hills of Nine Mile ‘Ma’ Booker mentions a green mountain-retreat where she found solace and comfort when times were harsh: the place she called ‘Honeyland’.

There are fifteen ‘wordscapes’ here, my own compositions performed by Lucie Rejchrtova combining a relaxed modern delivery with a classical impressionistic feel.

Is this a new approach entirely? I am not aware that my contemporaries have used a similar modality. Greek poets of the Homeric era incanted lyre-in-hand (the recitative of opera was supposed to be a reinvention of the Greek art of incantation, in which the harpsichord replaced the lyre) so perhaps Honeyland is an attempt to revisit the performance-poetry of antiquity. Yet I cannot help feeling that the future of poetry lies in this art-form forging an ever-closer symbiotic relationship with music. I often ponder the post-literary Rimbaud returning to his mother’s farm in the Ardennes from one of his wanderlust adventures and carving a piano-keyboard on the dining-room table while Shadowmouth – Madame Rimbaud’s nickname with her son – was downtown on a shopping expedition. (A few days before she had pointblank refused to buy him a piano when he announced to her that he had invented a new kind of music.) Madame Rimbaud, a workaday Ardennaise peasant with profoundest religious convictions, returned to find the prophet silently practicing his new music at the defaced table.

In performance I deliver these poems from memory. I feel that for a poet a book in the hand is a screen which can form a barrier with (and for) an audience. Memorization is not that difficult for me because by the time I’ve ‘finished’ writing a poem it is three-quarters memorized.

Poetry-on-the-page I regard almost as an anachronism. Sometimes – on bad days – I consider books to be prisons in which poets are incarcerated, held like dead flowers between stifling colourless pages. The age of typography may be passing; and, if so, this is interesting because written language implies slavery, since where the written code exists elites with exclusive keys to codified knowledge will guard against education and emancipation. A return to the shamanic incantation of the spoken word may imply a liberation not only aesthetic but demographic and societal.

What I’ve striven for with the Honeyland collection is a streamlined minimal delivery superimposed on simple piano studies. (The most complex pianistic passage in the sequence – the electrifying introduction to Free Will – is in fact an improvisation by Lucie Rejchrtova on my very straightforward chord-cycle.) And I hope the more abstract engine of music will power listeners to my humble poems to a world where the word is still unfallen, where language and sonority are one.


I perceive Honeyland as a multidimensional painting or a map where each song is a different borough; or a sea-realm of sound and melody where words are ships that can transport the listener to different latitudes of imagination.

When we perform Honeyland live, a visually-rich world opens in my mind. I hear lines of the poems in colour, a synesthesic experience. I often quietly hum simple melodies over the patterns I play, and these hummings seem to me almost mantric, part of the ritual of the presentation of the work.

What will this release mean to you?


People have different ways of perceiving the poems during our live set, focusing either on the lyrics or the melodies. Having the actual album will mean they can listen to a piece of their choice as many times they want, and concentrate on any of the aspects that interest or move them in particular.

I love performing Honeyland live and the chemistry is always different with changing audiences and situations. At the same time I love listening to Honeyland on top of a double-decker, appreciating the noble shabbiness of London even more. So it feels good to know that others will be able to take the poems with them anywhere they like, and hopefully Honeyland will help them to transform the ‘coming back from work’ experience into a unique journey of the soul, when imagination awakes and paints whole new universes in front of the mind’s eye.


What goals do you have for “Honeyland” and the rest of your works?


One alluring idea is to find a studio (here in London perhaps, or elsewhere) in which to simultaneously record and film a recital of Honeyland. I also like Lucie’s idea of a ballet: the anchoring of dancers in the physical body could act as an interesting counterpoint to more abstracted channelings. I imagine the dancers listening to the words, then dancing-out their drift while the speaker watches them.

Another attractive prospect is the idea of performing the collection Stateside. The Beat movement in American poetry with its confidence, outspokenness and sacred irreverence, has influenced poets in all cultures worldwide but can the island of the mother-tongue claim such a literary impact in the last fifty years? In spite of the best efforts of Dylan Thomas and Ted Hughes it is doubtful.

I sometimes feel that British poets are hypersensitive to the paradoxical situation of the English language in the context of Europe. On this tiny island we speak the world auxiliary-language but find ourselves adrift in a local sea of languages that appear to be gradually dying, though of course this is not true of Spanish. Sadly, French, the most musical of the Romance languages, is in decline and for French poets this is of course a devastating issue. The British poet does not have quite the same problem. He feels the proximity of threatened – and sometimes understandably paranoid – guardians of dying tongues and his response is to become even more muted and conservative, cultivating an almost apologetic Anglophone caution and politeness which undoubtedly represent a kind of curse.

We’d love to perform in America where, I feel, poets are more out-of-tune with the modern world, more in touch with Anima Mundi and zeitgeist. Yeats is the last poet of the British Isles (as they used to be called). The ‘deep songs’ of the twentieth century are all American, as they were French in the nineteenth. Talking about performance, I’m not really a hundred-percent behind the term ‘performance-poet’: poets are not actors ‘performing’ their poems. In the act of delivering their work they are supposed to remove masks rather than assume the personae of stagecraft. When the poet is publicly possessed by his or her muse, only then will enchantment take place. I become nervous before a recital but on a good night I will consciously pass the juncture at which ego says to overself: “Take over, I’m out.’

I can easily pinpoint the apogee of my career so far: an unforgettable autumn evening in 1995 when Allen Ginsberg flew in from New York to participate in the launch at the Royal Albert Hall of my epic poem Vale Royal, a work which had taken twenty-three years to write, a study of the psychogeography of King’s Cross Central at the heart of London. As a completely unknown poet I recited that night to an audience of more than four-thousand.

Allen later duetted his ‘Ballad of the Skeletons’ with Paul McCartney on guitar:

Said the Buddha Skeleton

Compassion is wealth

Said the Corporate skeleton

It’s bad for your health …

Said the Ecologic skeleton

Keep Skies blue

Said the Multinational skeleton

What’s it worth to you?

I anticipate – dreamily – the auditoriums of America.



I’d feel Honeyland could be performed on different stages with many settings. It’d be great to see a balletic interpretation. I can also imagine it as a film soundtrack, or hear it interpreted in a really different ways, e.g. as a hip-hop version. In fact we do sometimes perform a funky version of Towerblocks, an atmospheric, minimal, laid-bare hip-hop treatment.

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