[identity profile] duathir.livejournal.com
Get Drunk

One should always be drunk.
That's all that matters;
that's our one imperative need.
So as not to feel Time's horrible burden
that breaks your shoulders and bows you down,
you must get drunk without ceasing.

But what with?
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose.
But get drunk.

And if, at some time,
on the steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking up when drunkenness has already abated,

ask the wind, the wave, a star, the clock,
all that which flees, all that which groans,
all that which rolls, all that which sings,
all that which speaks, ask them what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply:

'It is time to get drunk!
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk; get drunk, and never pause for rest!
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose!'

By Charles Baudelaire
[identity profile] switchercat.livejournal.com
trans. Michael Hamburger, I think.

My little mad darling was giving me my dinner, and through the open window of the dining room I was contemplating the moving architectures that God makes of vapours, those marvellous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, in the midst of my meditation: "All those phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beloved, that monstrous little mad woman with the green eyes."

And suddenly I received a violent blow on my back, and I heard a charming, raucous voice, a voice hysterical and, as it were, made hoarse by brandy, the voice of my sweet little darling who was saying: "Well, are you never going to eat your soup, you b . . . blackguard of a cloud-monger?"
[identity profile] http://users.livejournal.com/_honeyspider/
Ill-Starred
Charles Baudelaire

To bear a weight that cannot be borne,
Sisyphus, even you aren't that strong,
Although your heart cannot be torn
Time is short and Art is long.
Far from celebrated sepulchers
Toward a solitary graveyard
My heart, like a drum muffled hard
Beats a funeral march for the ill-starred.

—Many jewels are buried or shrouded
In darkness and oblivion's clouds,
Far from any pick or drill bit,

Many a flower unburdens with regret
Its perfume sweet like a secret;
In profoundly empty solitude to sit.


(I have no idea whose translation this is, so I'm sorry I can't include that. Does anyone have any other translations of this same poem?)

Her Hair

Jul. 31st, 2008 02:58 pm
[identity profile] blue-leaf.livejournal.com
Her Hair by Charles Baudelaire

O fleece, that down the neck waves to the nape!
O curls! O perfume nonchalant and rare!
O ecstasy! To fill this alcove shape
With memories that in these tresses sleep,
I would shake them like penions in the air!

Languorous Asia, burning Africa,
And a far world, defunct almost, absent,
Within your aromatic forest stay!
As other souls on music drift away,
Mine, O my love! still floats upon your scent.

I shall go there where, full of sap, both tree
And man swoon in the heat of the southern climates;
Strong tresses be the swell that carries me!
I dream upon your sea of amber
Of dazzling sails, of oarsmen, masts, and flames:

A sun-drenched and reverberating port,
Where I imbibe colour and sound and scent;
Where vessels, gliding through the gold and moiré,
Open their vast arms as they leave the shore
To clasp the pure and shimmering firmament.

I'll plunge my head, enamored of its pleasure,
In this black ocean where the other hides;
My subtle spirit then will know a measure
Of fertile idleness and fragrant leisure,
Lulled by the infinite rhythm of its tides!

Pavilion, of autumn-shadowed tresses spun,
You give me back the azure from afar;
And where the twisted locks are fringed with down
Lurk mingled odors I grow drunk upon
Of oil of coconut, of musk, and tar.

A long time! always! my hand in your hair
Will sow the stars of sapphire, pearl, ruby,
That you be never deaf to my desire,
My oasis and my gourd whence I aspire
To drink deep of the wine of memory.

Charles Baudelaire from Les Fluers du mal
[identity profile] the-grynne.livejournal.com
MEDITATION

Be tranquil, O my Sorrow, and be wise.
The Evening comes, is here, for which you sought:
The Dusk, wrapping the city in disguise,
Care unto some, to others peace has brought.

Now while the sordid multitude with shame
Obeying Pleasure's whip and merciless sway,
Go gathering remorse in servile game,
Give me your hand, my Sorrow, come this way,

Far from them. See the years in ancient dress
Along the balconies of heaven press,
Smiling Regret from deepest waters rise;

Beneath an arch the old Sun goes to bed,
And like a winding-sheet across the skies,
Hear, my Beloved, hear the sweet Night tread.


CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

Translated from the French by Barbara Gibbs
[identity profile] transemacabre.livejournal.com
Lovers, scholars -- the fervent, the austere --
grow equally fond of cats, their household pride.
As sensitive as either to the cold,
as sedentary, though so strong and sleek,

your cat, a friend to learning and to love,
seeks out both silence and the awesome dark...
Hell would have made the cat its courier
could it have controverted feline pride!

Dozing, all cats assume the svelte design
of desert sphinxes sprawled in solitude,
apparently transfixed by endless dreams;

their teeming loins are rich in magic sparks,
and golden specks like infinitesmal sand
glisten in those enigmatic eyes.
[identity profile] acreofbones.livejournal.com
[My new favourite woman on the face of the Earth]

Lethe.

Come to my heart, cruel, sullen soul,
Adored tiger, indolent monster;
I would bury my trembling fingers
In the thickness of your heavy mane;

In your skirts laden with your perfume
I would wrap up my aching head,
And inhale the sweet, musty odor,
Like a faded flower, of my dead love.

I long to sleep! Sleep sooner than live!
In sleep sweet as death I will lay out
My kisses without remorse upon
Your lovely body, smooth as copper.

Naught so well as the abyss of your couch
Can swallow up my abating sobs;
Oblivion inhabits your mouth
And Lethe oozes from your kisses.

My destiny, henceforth my delight,
I will obey like one predestined;
Docile martyr, condemned innocent,
Whose fervor excites the tormentor,

I will suck, to deaden my rancor,
Nepenthe and complaisant hemlock
At the tips of that pointed bosom,
Which has never imprisoned a heart.

Charles Baudelaire
Translated by: Barbara Gibbs.


[identity profile] zagzagael.livejournal.com
GET DRUNK!

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;
that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible
burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down,
you must get drunk without ceasing.

But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as
you choose. But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on the steps of a palace, in the green
grass of a ditch, in the bleak solitude of your room, you are
waking up when drunkenness has already abated, ask the
 wind, the wave, a star, the clock, all that which flees, all that
which groans, all that which rolls, all that which sings, all that
which speaks, ask them what time it is; and the wind, the
wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply:  'It is time to get
drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk; get drunk, and never pause for rest! With wine,
with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose!'

~ Baudelaire
trans. Michael Hamburger
[identity profile] angabel.livejournal.com
This is a call for spooky Halloween poems (beyond, y'know, Poe), as well as silly poems that could be read in a spooky fashion for kicks.
[identity profile] the-grynne.livejournal.com
HEAUTONTIMOROUMENOS

To J. G. F.


I'll strike you, but without the least
Anger--as butchers poll an ox,
Or Moses, when he struck the rocks--
That from your eyelid thus released,

The lymph of suffering may brim
To slake my desert of its drought.
So my desire, by hope made stout,
Upon your salty tears may swim,

Like a proud ship, far out from shore.
Within my heart, which they'll confound
With drunken joy, your sobs will sound
Like drums that beat a charge in war.

Am I not a faulty chord
In all this symphony divine,
Thanks to the irony malign
That shakes and cuts me like a sword?

It's in my voice, the raucous jade!
It's in my blood's black venom too!
I'm the looking-glass, wherethrough
Megaera seeks herself portrayed!

I am the wound, and yet the blade!
The slap, and yet the cheek that takes it!
The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it,
The torturer, and he who's flayed!

One of the sort whom all revile,
A Vampire, my own blood I quaff,
Condemned to an eternal laugh
Because I know not how to smile.


CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

Translated by Roy Campbell


original French )
[identity profile] pleasekillmel.livejournal.com
I'm looking for a poem, the (last?) lines of which read: To speak out is more desperate to stay silent/ To open one's heart is to bleed to death surely.

Ring any bells?


And now for the good part:


A Strange Man's Dream
to Nadar

by Charles Baudelaire
trans Richard Howard

Have you felt - I have - a pain that you enjoyed?
Do they say about you, too: 'How strange he is!'
- I was dying, and a special agony
filled my eager soul: dread and desire,

anguish and expectation - no sense of revolt.
The closer I came to what would be the end,
the sharper the torment and the more welcome;
my heart was wrenching free from the usual world.

I was like a child in front of a stage,
hating the curtain as if it were in the way...
Finally the cold truth was revealed:

I had simply died, and the terrible dawn
enveloped me. Could this be all there is?
The curtain was up, and I was waiting still.
[identity profile] flightviolation.livejournal.com
The Giantess

In the time when Nature, in her power & zest,
Used to conceive each day some sort of monster-child,
I would have liked to live with a young giantess,
Like a voluptuous cat at the feet of a queen.

I would have liked to see her bloom, body & soul,
And grow up free, enjoying her prodigious games;
To guess if some dark flame was smouldering in her heart
By watching the damp mists that floated in her eyes;

To roam at will upon her parts magnificient,
To clamber up & down in her enormous lap,
And sometimes in summer when, tired by the baneful sun,

She lay down at full length across the countryside,
To sleep insouciant in her great bosom's shade,
Like a peaceful hamlet at a mountain's foot.

The Poet

Sep. 10th, 2006 05:22 pm
[identity profile] maman-diedtoday.livejournal.com

When, after a decree of the supreme powers,
The Poet is brought forth in this wearisome world,
His mother, terrified and full of blasphemies,
Raises her clenched fist to God, who pities her:
“Ah! would that I had spawned a whole knot of vipers
Rather than to have fed this derisive object!
Accursed be the night of ephemeral joy
When my belly conceived this, my expiation!”


 
- Baudelaire, Fleurs Du Mal

[identity profile] darlingmalivi.livejournal.com
trans. F.P. Sturm

Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, today?
Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,
Upon thy brow in alternation play,
Madness and Horror, cold and taciturn.

Have the green lemur and goblin red,
Poured on thee love and terror from their urn?
Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread
Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne?

Would that thy breast, where so deep thoughts arise,
Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs;
Would that thy Christian blood ran by wave by wave

In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave,
When Phoebus shared his alternating reign
With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.

trans. William A. Sigler

My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection,
I see insanity and horror forming.
The green succubus and the red urchin,
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?

I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity,
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,

Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables,
Where reigns in turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.

[identity profile] vorgefuhl.livejournal.com
translated by norman r. shapiro


THE DANCE OF DEATH

To Ernest Christophe


Proud as a living person of her noble stature,
With her big bouquet, her handkerchief and gloves,
She has the nonchalance and easy manner
Of a slender coquette with bizarre ways.

Did one ever see a slimmer waist at a ball?
Her ostentatious dress in its queenly fullness
Falls in ample folds over thin feet, tightly pressed
Into slippers with pompons pretty as flowers.

The swarm of bees that plays along her collar-bones
Like a lecherous brook that rubs against the rocks
Modestly protects from cat-calls and jeers
The funereal charms that she's anxious to hide.


read on.. )
[identity profile] desolateangel83.livejournal.com
Thou who abruptly as a knife
Didst come into my heart; thou who,
A demon horde into my life,
Didst enter, wildly dancing, through

The doorways of my sense unlatched
To make my spirit thy domain--
Harlot to whom I am attached
As convicts to the ball and chain,

As gamblers to the wheel's bright spell,
As drunkards to their raging thirst,
As corpses to their worms--accurst
Be thou! Oh, be thou damned to hell!

I have entreated the swift sword
To strike, that I at once be freed;
The poisoned phial I have implored
To plot with me a ruthless deed.

Alas, the phial and the blade
Do cry aloud and laugh at me:
"Thou art not worthy of our aide;
Thou art not worthy to be free.

Though one of use should be the tool
To save thee from thy wretched fate,
Thy kisses would resuscitate
The body of thy vampire, fool!"

-Charles Baudelaire
Translated by George Dillon
[identity profile] childecleon.livejournal.com
To Ernest Christophe

Proud, as a living person, of her height,
Her scarf and gloves and huge bouquet of roses,
She shows such nonchalance and ease as might
A thin coquette excessive in her poses.

Who, at a ball, has seen a form so slim?
Her sumptuous skirts extravagantly shower
To a dry foot that, exquisitely trim,
Her footwear pinches, dainty as a flower.

More Baudelaire Love Below )
[identity profile] desolateangel83.livejournal.com
At my side the Demon writhes forever,
Swimming around me like impalpable air;
As I breathe, he burns my lungs like fever
And fills my with an eternal guilty desire.

Knowing my love of Art, he snares my senses,
Appearing in woman's most seductive forms,
And, under the sneak's plausible pretenses,
Lips grow accustomed to his lewd love-charms.

He leads me thus, far from the sight of God,
Panting and broken with fatigue into
The wilderness of Ennui, deserted and broad,

And into my bewildered eyes he throws
Visions of festering wounds and filthy clothes,
And all Destruction's bloody retinue.
[identity profile] redheartleaf.livejournal.com
Beauty

Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets' love,
mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:

The timeless light of my wide eyes.

Baudelaire, Charles.

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) is considered to be among the greatest French poets of the 19th Century. Upon passing his baccalaureat exams in 1839, Baudelaire announced his plans to make a living through his writing. He enrolled in the Ecole de Droit as a law student until 1840, when it is believed his addiction to opium and hashish began. Scholars believe Baudelaire contracted syphilis at this time, which ultimately would lead to his death in 1867. He spent his money foolishly on fine clothes and furnishings, eventually exhausting more than half his inheritance within two years. The remainder was kept in a trust from which Baudelaire received a modest monthly allowance. Baudelaire formed a relationship in 1844 with Jeanne Duval, a woman of mixed races, who would serve as the inspiration of his first cycle of love poems, "Black Venus." These poems are considered to be among the finest French erotic poems.

During Baudelaire's wanderings and youth of leisure, he was able to compose many of the poems that would serve as the basis for his sole collection, Les Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil). Baudelaire would spend the remainder of his life dodging debts, finally succumbing to the proverbial poet's life of extreme poverty. He was greatly influenced by the writings of Edgar Allen Poe, spending 1852 to 1865 translating Poe's work into French.

Baudelaire began a relationship in 1852 with Apollonie-Aglae Sabatier, who would serve as the inspiration for the cycle of poems called "White Venus." Two years later, he renewed a relationship with the actress Marie Daubrun, who inspired the cycle of poems dubbed "Green-Eyed Venus." Many critics regard the period in which Baudelaire wrote "White Venus" and "Green-Eyed Venus" as the poet's prime. The publication of Les Fleurs de Mal resulted in the prosecution of
Baudelaire, his publisher, and his printer for obscenity and blasphemy, of which all three were found guilty and ordered to pay fines. His remaining years were spent in extreme hardship, disillusionment, and depression. He died in his mother's arms in August 1867, leaving behind many unpublished poems and nearly all of his published works out of print.
[identity profile] mizraim.livejournal.com
The Albatross
By Charles Baudelaire
tr. Richard Howard

Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalently chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.

Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.

How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveller but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!

The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.

French )

March 2025

S M T W T F S
      1
2345678
9101112131415
16171819202122
23242526272829
3031     

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jun. 19th, 2025 11:53 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios