For Renée Good
— Society, and everything, is restored: – the orgies Are weeping with dry sobs in the old brothels: And on the reddened walls, the gaslights in frenzy, Flare balefully upwards to the wan blue skies!
– Société, tout est rétabli : – les orgies Pleurent leur ancien râle aux anciens lupanars : Et les gaz en délire, aux murailles rougies, Flambent sinistrement vers les azurs blafards !**
“L’orgie Parisienne” Jean Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
In the year 1871 Paris was in turmoil following the defeat of Napoleon III in the Franco-Prussian War (1870). The emperor had been captured, and the Second Napoleonic Empire had collapsed. The City of Lights, now under martial law, quickly transformed into organized “communes” of unarmed citizens. These were joined by the National Guard, who opposed Thiers’ repressive government in Versailles, and other soldiers who, after refusing to fire on their own people, joined the social uprising. Amid barricades, assemblies, widespread famine, crossfire, and ruthless violence, a young poet of bourgeois origin emerged and wrote “L’orgie Parisienne.” This lyrical portrait of the decline of a society like France’s serves as a prelude to the recent events—which we have all witnessed—in Minnesota.
In her award-winning poem, Renée Nicole Macklin (Good), the American poet murdered by ICE agents on January 7, 2026, revives that spark, that spirit that makes a poet an indefatigable rebel against all forms of injustice. That unease in the face of all forms of tyranny and authoritarianism knows no borders, gender, or species. The poem in question is titled “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs,” a cascade of images that, like those written by Rimbaud, will resonate in the ears of many generations to come. However, it is not the event that distinguishes a good poem, nor the type of experience, whether familiar or distant, that makes a poet superior; it is truly that sacred combination of time and space, far removed from personal vanity and the gluttony of ego. Renée reincarnates that French poet Rimbaud who also died at 37, not from disruptive human biology, but from the projectiles of the power of an empire that is falling once again. I conclude this brief note by sharing this verse tribute from Chilean poet, Jesús Sepúlveda:
It wasn’t a joke:/ You should have stayed in your rocking chair/ with your solipsistic sunsets/ But no, first they came for the wandering-J, the LatinX/the Commies, the Homos, and finally/ you/ who reached the age of Rimbaud (Love Song for Renée Nicole Good).
