I am done with Spleen et Ideal, but now I need to get these all up before the end of the year. I am off to the south circa 9 pm this evening. Love, love. It's too cold here. I feel better, right. More relieved. I guess that comes from never having to see certain people ever again.
Contemplation Be wise, oh my Grief, and have more peace. You asked for the Evening; it descends; here it is: A dark atmosphere envelops the city, Carrying peace to some, to others concern.
While the foul multitude of mortals, Under the whip of Pleasure, this merciless hangman, Goes gathering remorse in the slavish celebration, My Grief, give me your hand; come here,
Far from them. See the lost Years bend, Over the balconies of heaven, in outdated robes; Smiling Regret springing from the depths of the waters;
The dying sun sleeps under an arch, And, trails to the East like a long shroud, Listen, my beloved, listen to the sweet Night walking.
Recueillement Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille. Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici: Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville, Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile, Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci, Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile, Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,
Loin d'eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années, Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées; Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;
Le soleil moribond s'endormir sous une arche, Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l'Orient, Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.
---
The next three poems are longish and signify the end.
Winter kills but the solstice should bring new life. If the last few months have taught me anything it is that I should not be in the public eye. I told him "tread with a light foot and a quiet look" but somehow I managed to ignore my own advice. The Moon has left me here, taking his nothingness and his translucent eyes back to the North where one would argue that he belongs. And what, and what then? I cried for a long time, a long long time. I told him not to fear aging and to shine like I knew that he could. Someday he will return but I will be no longer. Off to a warm atmosphere where people care about the changes that I want to bring. It's been nearly three weeks since my Hell began and I am praying that it ends before I do. Please, I implore your mercy, you the only one that I love.
The Abyss Pascal had his abyss, it moved with him. —Alas! All is abysmal—action, desire, dream, Speech! And on my hair which stands up straight I feel the wind of Fear pass many times.
On high, down below, everywhere, the depth, the shore, The silence, the awful and captivating space… On the background of my nights God with his skillful finger Draws a nightmare, multiform and without respite.
I have the fear of sleep like one has fear of a great hole, All full of vague horror, leads one where he knows not, I see only infinity through all the windows,
And my spirit, all haunted by vertigo, Is jealous of the insensitivity of nothingness. —Ah! Never to take leave of the Numbers and the Beings!
Le Gouffre Pascal avait son gouffre, avec lui se mouvant. — Hélas! tout est abîme, — action, désir, rêve, Parole! Et sur mon poil qui tout droit se relève Mainte fois de la Peur je sens passer le vent.
En haut, en bas, partout, la profondeur, la grève, Le silence, l'espace affreux et captivant... Sur le fond de mes nuits Dieu de son doigt savant Dessine un cauchemar multiforme et sans trêve.
J'ai peur du sommeil comme on a peur d'un grand trou, Tout plein de vague horreur, menant on ne sait où; Je ne vois qu'infini par toutes les fenêtres,
Et mon esprit, toujours du vertige hanté, Jalouse du néant l'insensibilité. — Ah! ne jamais sortir des Nombres et des Êtres!
The Complaints of an Icarus The lovers of prostitutes Are happy, fresh and satiated, As for me, my arms are broken Having embraced the clouds.
It is thanks to the unequaled stars, Which all blaze in the depths of the sky, That my burned-up eyes see Only the memories of suns.
In vain I have desired in the space To find the end and the middle; I do not know under what fiery eye I feel my wings break;
And burned by the love of the beautiful, I will not have the sublime honor Of giving my name to the abyss That will serve me as a tomb.
Les Plaintes d'un Icare Les amants des prostituées Sont heureux, dispos et repus; Quant à moi, mes bras sont rompus Pour avoir étreint des nuées.
C'est grâce aux astres nonpareils, Qui tout au fond du ciel flamboient, Que mes yeux consumés ne voient Que des souvenirs de soleils.
En vain j'ai voulu de l'espace Trouver la fin et le milieu; Sous je ne sais quel oeil de feu Je sens mon aile qui se casse;
Et brûlé par l'amour du beau, Je n'aurai pas l'honneur sublime De donner mon nom à l'abîme Qui me servira de tombeau. ---
I mourned his loss over cough syrup and humiliation. Now devoid of most of my hearing and more or less all of my hindsight. To M. I said I was sorry and that I felt the crippling feeling of injustice over his departure. Lies, lies. I rejoice in his fall, ha ha. They say that hell hath no fury and by gods, they are right.
Oh moon of my life, sleep in my bed and forget about me. I said I loved you and it may or may not be true depending on how I feel at any given moment. I know that you would love me if you were capable of loving anyone at all. I heard what you said last night and it made sense. It just didn't make me happy. The world has turned. I don't like these feelings. I miss you already and I never wanted to.
Now something almost completely unrelated.
On Tasso in Prison by Eugene Delacroix The poet in the dungeon, disheveled, sickly, Nervously rolling a manuscript under his foot, Measures with a look that terror enflames The staircase of vertigo where his soul is broken.
The heady laughs that fill the prison Invite his reason toward the strange and absurd; Doubt surrounds him, and ludicrous Fear, Hideous and multiform, circles around him.
This genius locked up in a sick hovel, These grimaces, these cries, these specters that swarm him Swirl, assembled behind his ear,
This dreamer who the horror of his dwelling awakens, So that is your emblem, soul in obscure dreams, Which the Actual smothered between its four walls.
Sur Le Tasse en prison d'Eugène Delacroix Le poète au cachot, débraillé, maladif, Roulant un manuscrit sous son pied convulsif, Mesure d'un regard que la terreur enflamme L'escalier de vertige où s'abîme son âme.
Les rires enivrants dont s'emplit la prison Vers l'étrange et l'absurde invitent sa raison; Le Doute l'environne, et la Peur ridicule, Hideuse et multiforme, autour de lui circule.
Ce génie enfermé dans un taudis malsain, Ces grimaces, ces cris, ces spectres dont l'essaim Tourbillonne, ameuté derrière son oreille,
Ce rêveur que l'horreur de son logis réveille, Voilà bien ton emblème, Âme aux songes obscurs, Que le Réel étouffe entre ses quatre murs! ---
Last afternoon we leaned our hips against the railing on the Great Hall and listened to the warbled cries of the youngest ones. They sang with the optimism that can only come with ignorance and glimpses of the beauty in this world. They were both there and so was I. Nothing to do. It brought a chill to the crowd as we all joined metaphorical hands and longed for streams of water and praised the newly-born Savior. It was the way it should have been.
For once it is love and longing that chokes my throat and not rage.
Where is your happiness, your joy and your light? Around this time of year everyone breaks and my co-dependent ways spring into action. Suicide, sex and stupidity...we all become one and we then we fall. I don't know what to do or say or think. I want to break down too but I cannot. I wanted to build myself as a symbol of hope and stability. For once I can shake the taste of the past.
I loved you for your emptiness and your fear of aging but now I think that I cannot. Not when you told me to leave you be. Instead I drink and laugh and fall onto the hard dirt of my own bad decisions. I love you, I love you, but this cannot be. You cannot love. That's okay. The sun sets, I rise and you fall down.
The Setting of the Romantic Sun How the sun is beautiful when it is newly risen, He throws his greetings to us like an explosion! —Blessed is that one who can with love Salute his setting more glorious than a dream!
I remember!…I have seen all, flower, spring, furrow, Swooning under his eye like a palpitating heart… —Let us run toward the horizon, it is late, let us run quickly, To catch at least a slanting ray!
But I vainly pursue the retreating God; Irresistible Night establishes his empire, Dark, damp, grievous and full of shivers;
An odor of the tomb swims in the dark, At my fearful foot crumples, on the edge of the marsh, Unpredicted toads and chilly snails.
Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique Que le soleil est beau quand tout frais il se lève, Comme une explosion nous lançant son bonjour! — Bienheureux celui-là qui peut avec amour Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un rêve!
Je me souviens!... J'ai vu tout, fleur, source, sillon, Se pâmer sous son oeil comme un coeur qui palpite... — Courons vers l'horizon, il est tard, courons vite, Pour attraper au moins un oblique rayon!
Mais je poursuis en vain le Dieu qui se retire; L'irrésistible Nuit établit son empire, Noire, humide, funeste et pleine de frissons;
Une odeur de tombeau dans les ténèbres nage, Et mon pied peureux froisse, au bord du marécage, Des crapauds imprévus et de froids limaçons. ---
Chase the gods, you fools. Their friends are marrying and giving birth. Mine kill themselves and rape one another. What.
Yesterday we talked like humans...all three of us. Together for the first time since we congregated in the sweltering sympathy of August. Fortune has not smiled upon them, less so on one than the other. For one the anger has passed and is replaced by affectionate apathy. Toward the other the rage rears its head every now and again. We spoke of trials and victories, drunken stupors and a Refusal to Mourn. He understood. Where before he had treated my imposition as agenda, now it just came across as an unfortunate result of circumstance. I wish I had not wasted so much time being angry. One week to go before he disappears probably forever.
I am finding there is a difference between the oppression the world throws at you and the ennui that happens inside. I don't really like either.
The Ransom Man has, in order to pay his ransom, Two fields of tuff, deep and rich, That he must turn over and cultivate With the iron of reason;
In order to obtain the lesser rose, In order to extort a few ears of corn, With the salted tears of his dreary brow He must water them ceaselessly.
One is Art, and the other is Love. —To produce a favorable judge, When of strict justice The terrible day will appear,
He must show them barns Full of crops, and flowers Whose shapes and colors Win the suffrage of the Angels.
La Rançon L'homme a, pour payer sa rançon, Deux champs au tuf profond et riche, Qu'il faut qu'il remue et défriche Avec le fer de la raison;
Pour obtenir la moindre rose, Pour extorquer quelques épis, Des pleurs salés de son front gris Sans cesse il faut qu'il les arrose.
L'un est l'Art, et l'autre l'Amour. — Pour rendre le juge propice, Lorsque de la stricte justice Paraîtra le terrible jour,
Il faudra lui montrer des granges Pleines de moissons, et des fleurs Dont les formes et les couleurs Gagnent le suffrage des Anges.
Very Far From Here This here is the sacred cabin Where that much arrayed maiden, Tranquil and ever prepared,
Fanning her breasts with her hand, Her elbow in the cushions, Listens to the fountains crying:
This is Dorothy’s bedroom. —The breeze and the water sing in the distance, Their song colliding with sobs In order to cradle that spoiled child.
From top to bottom, with great care Her delicate skin is scrubbed With fragrant oil and benzoin. —From the flowers that swoon in a corner.
Bien loin d'ici C'est ici la case sacrée Où cette fille très parée, Tranquille et toujours préparée,
D'une main éventant ses seins, Et son coude dans les coussins, Écoute pleurer les bassins:
C'est la chambre de Dorothée. — La brise et l'eau chantent au loin Leur chanson de sanglots heurtée Pour bercer cette enfant gâtée.
Du haut en bas, avec grand soin. Sa peau délicate est frottée D'huile odorante et de benjoin. — Des fleurs se pâment dans un coin. ---
The Water Fountain Your beautiful eyes are weary, poor love! Rest a long time, without reopening them, In that nonchalant pose Where pleasure has surprised you. In the courtyard the fountain of water which babbles, And keeps quiet neither night nor day, Sweetly supports the ecstasy Wherein love has plunged me this evening.
The bouquet blooms Into a thousand flowers, Where cheerful Phoebe Puts her colors, Falls like a shower Of large tears.
Thus your soul that burns In the blazing flash of passion, That dashes forward, fast and bold, Toward the great enchanted heavens. But then it pours forth, dying, In a wave of sad languor, That by an invisible slope Descends down to the bottom of my heart.
The bouquet blooms Into a thousand flowers, Where cheerful Phoebe Puts her colors, Falls like a shower Of large tears.
Oh you, who the night renders so beautiful, It is sweet to me, leaning on your breasts, To hear the eternal lament Which sobs in the fountains! Moon, echoing water, blessed night, Trees that shiver around us, Your pure melancholy Is the mirror of my love.
The bouquet blooms Into a thousand flowers, Where cheerful Phoebe Puts her colors, Falls like a shower Of large tears.
Le Jet d'eau Tes beaux yeux sont las, pauvre amante! Reste longtemps, sans les rouvrir, Dans cette pose nonchalante Où t'a surprise le plaisir. Dans la cour le jet d'eau qui jase, Et ne se tait ni nuit ni jour, Entretient doucement l'extase Où ce soir m'a plongé l'amour.
La gerbe épanouie En mille fleurs, Où Phoebé réjouie Met ses couleurs, Tombe comme une pluie De larges pleurs.
Ainsi ton âme qu'incendie L'éclair brûlant des voluptés S'élance, rapide et hardie, Vers les vastes cieux enchantés. Puis elle s'épanche, mourante, En un flot de triste langueur, Qui par une invisible pente Descend jusqu'au fond de mon coeur.
La gerbe épanouie En mille fleurs, Où Phoebé réjouie Met ses couleurs, Tombe comme une pluie De larges pleurs.
Ô toi, que la nuit rend si belle, Qu'il m'est doux, penché vers tes seins, D'écouter la plainte éternelle Qui sanglote dans les bassins! Lune, eau sonore, nuit bénie, Arbres qui frissonnez autour, Votre pure mélancolie Est le miroir de mon amour.
La gerbe épanouie En mille fleurs, Où Phoebé réjouie Met ses couleurs, Tombe comme une pluie De larges pleurs. ---
I am never alone. And for once this is making me unhappy.
We are tired and in terrible moods. Last night we mourned with a bottle of wine and a few vague memories. Now she is afraid to keep on living. I don't know what to think, what to say. Everything that comes out of my mouth is stupid.
"I love you and will always love you and I could not put into words how to describe what you do to me when you think about death."
Too late now, on so many levels.
Sleep and smoke to your will. I have no reason to do otherwise.
The Eyes of Berthe You can scorn the most celebrated eyes, Beautiful eyes of my child, where filters and flies A certain good something, sweet like Night! Beautiful eyes, pour over me your delightful darkness!
Beautiful eyes of my child, mysteries adored, You greatly resemble these magic grottos Where, behind the heap of sluggish shadows, Neglected treasures sparkle faintly!
My child has unlit eyes, deep and extensive, Like you, great Night, clear like you! Their fires are these thoughts of Love, mixed with Faith, That sparkle in the depths, sultry or celibate.
Les Yeux de Berthe Vous pouvez mépriser les yeux les plus célèbres, Beaux yeux de mon enfant, par où filtre et s'enfuit Je ne sais quoi de bon, de doux comme la Nuit! Beaux yeux, versez sur moi vos charmantes ténèbres!
Grands yeux de mon enfant, arcanes adorés, Vous ressemblez beaucoup à ces grottes magiques Où, derrière l'amas des ombres léthargiques, Scintillent vaguement des trésors ignorés!
Mon enfant a des yeux obscurs, profonds et vastes, Comme toi, Nuit immense, éclairés comme toi! Leurs feux sont ces pensers d'Amour, mêlés de Foi, Qui pétillent au fond, voluptueux ou chastes. ---
Happy birthday, venal muse. May you eternally frolic in the solitude of someone else's heart.
And here it is. I would have thought this moment would have been about counting the painful-yet-oddly-triumphant episodes of Saturday past. Little questions, no answers, just guesses. Rehashing, relapsing, and love bites underneath the sullen sheets that protect us from the elements and the consequences of our actions. But no.
Young life is lost, love. Gone, gone, gone. I hate the universe and my own selfishness. Pray for the family of the departed. No names here, not ever. But pray.
The Rebel A furious Angel pounces from the sky like an eagle,
Grabs a fistful of the miscreant’s hair,
And said, shaking him: “You will know the rule!
(Because I am your good Angel, do you hear?) I wish it!
Know that he must love, without grimacing,
The poor, the malicious, the deformed, the stupid,
So that you can make for Jesus, when he passes,
A triumphant carpet with your charity.
Such is Love! Before your heart becomes indifferent,
Rekindle your ecstasy in the glory of God;
It is the true Pleasure with the enduring charms!”
And the Angel, chastising as much, my faith! That he loves,
Torments the anathema with his giant fists;
But the damned one still responds: “I will not!”
Le Rebelle Un Ange furieux fond du ciel comme un aigle,
Du mécréant saisit à plein poing les cheveux,
Et dit, le secouant: «Tu connaîtras la règle!
(Car je suis ton bon Ange, entends-tu?) Je le veux!
Sache qu'il faut aimer, sans faire la grimace,
Le pauvre, le méchant, le tortu, l'hébété,
Pour que tu puisses faire à Jesus, quand il passe,
Un tapis triomphal avec ta charité.
Tel est l'Amour! Avant que ton coeur ne se blase,
À la gloire de Dieu rallume ton extase;
C'est la Volupté vraie aux durables appas!»
Et l'Ange, châtiant autant, ma foi! qu'il aime,
De ses poings de géant torture 1'anathème;
Mais le damné répond toujours: «Je ne veux pas!»
---
And then let me sing of you in a new way. Go into the universe. I hope you find it safe and warm.
For the first time in about 7 years, no real prospects and no real anxiety. The LSAT yes, but that's healthy and encouraged. I am something better, and they could care less. I don't need the most important test of my life to be overshadowed by someone with no brains and too much attitude. Panic Attack Part Deux last night but my friends are lovely and they will always see me through. Cigarettes, chocolate cake, and sympathy. Love, love, love. This morning is brighter, for once I am not wearing black or grey.
Been working out more, burning the calories and the midnight oil. I have forgotten how skinny I am under the layers of clothes I wear everywhere and all the time. But I still want my warm atmosphere.
And a little bit of positivity from our good friend Baudelaire!
Hymn To the much beloved, to the very beautiful Who fills my heart with light, To the angel, to immortal idol, Salutation in immortality!
She pours into my life Like air imbued with salt, And into my insatiable soul Pours the taste of the eternal.
Ever-fresh sachet that perfumes The atmosphere of a beloved nook, Forgotten censer that smokes In secret through the night,
How, incorruptible love, Can I express you truthfully? Speck of musk that lies, invisible, In the depth of my eternity!
To the very good, to the very beautiful Who causes my joy and my health, To the angel, to the immortal idol, Salutation in immortality!
Hymne À la très chère, à la très belle Qui remplit mon coeur de clarté, À l'ange, À l'idole immortelle, Salut en l'immortalité!
Elle se répand dans ma vie Comme un air imprégné de sel, Et dans mon âme inassouvie Verse le goût de l'éternel.
Sachet toujours frais qui parfume L'atmosphère d'un cher réduit, Encensoir oublié qui fume En secret à travers la nuit,
Comment, amour incorruptible, T'exprimer avec vérité? Grain de musc qui gis, invisible, Au fond de mon éternité!
À la très bonne, à la très belle Qui fait ma joie et ma santé, À l'ange, à l'idole immortelle, Salut en l'immortalité!
Tired, worried. I miss being beautiful. My skin was made for sunlight and my hair for warm climates. Not this bullshit.
The Voice My cradle leaned against the library, Sullen Babel, novels, science, fabliau, Everything, Latin cinder and Greek dust, Mingled. I was as tall as a folio. Two voices spoke to me. The one, firm and insidious, Said: “The Earth is a pastry full of sweetness; I can (and your pleasure would be so without end!) Make you an appetite of equal size.” And the other: “Come! Oh! Come travel in dreams, Beyond the possible, beyond the known!” And that one sang like the wind of the strands, Crying phantom, one knows not where it came from, Who caresses the ear and yet frightens it. I answered you: “Yes! Sweet voice!” It is from That time that one can, alas! Name my wound And my fatality. Behind the façade Of immense existence, in the blackest part of the abyss, I distinctly see unusual worlds, And ecstatic victim of my clairvoyance, I drag along the serpents that bite my shoes. And it is since this time, similar to the prophets, I love so tenderly the desert and the sea; I laugh in the mourning and cry in the festivities, And search for a sweet taste in the bitterest of wine; That I take very often the facts for the lies, And that, eyes in the heavens, I fall into holes. But the voice consoles me and says: “Guard your dreams: Sages do not have so beautiful ones as fools!”
La Voix Mon berceau s'adossait à la bibliothèque, Babel sombre, où roman, science, fabliau, Tout, la cendre latine et la poussière grecque, Se mêlaient. J'était haut comme un in-folio. Deux voix me parlaient. L'une, insidieuse et ferme, Disait: «La Terre est un gâteau plein de douceur; Je puis (et ton plaisir serait alors sans terme!) Te faire un appétit d'une égale grosseur.» Et l'autre: «Viens! oh! viens voyager dans les rêves, Au delà du possible, au delà du connu!» Et celle-là chantait comme le vent des grèves, Fantôme vagissant, on ne sait d'où venu, Qui caresse l'oreille et cependant l'effraie. Je te répondis: «Oui! douce voix!» C'est d'alors Que date ce qu'on peut, hélas! nommer ma plaie Et ma fatalité. Derrière les décors De l'existence immense, au plus noir de l'abîme, Je vois distinctement des mondes singuliers, Et, de ma clairvoyance extatique victime, Je traîne des serpents qui mordent mes souliers. Et c'est depuis ce temps que, pareil aux prophètes, J'aime si tendrement le désert et la mer; Que je ris dans les deuils et pleure dans les fêtes, Et trouve un goût suave au vin le plus amer; Que je prends très souvent les faits pour des mensonges, Et que, les yeux au ciel, je tombe dans des trous. Mais la voix me console et dit: «Garde tes songes: Les sages n'en ont pas d'aussi beaux que les fous!» ---
Lack of sleep has prevented me from participating in life as it is meant to be experienced. I am tired all the time. The LSATs are on Saturday and all I want to do is watch movies with cute boys and nap all day. I don't care. Seasonal affective disorder is getting to me. I have decided that while I am angsty pretty much all the time this is a new sort. This is not self-imposed. Mostly I am just cold all the fucking time and that puts me in a permanent bad mood. I also do not like being a punching bag for every stupid little drama that waltzes into a certain special someone's life.
I need a warm atmosphere. And here's one in theory...
To a Woman of Malabar Your feet are as slender as your hands, and your hips
Are broad and make the prettiest white woman envious;
To the thoughtful artist your body is soft and dear;
Your great velvet eyes are darker than your flesh.
In the country warm and blue where God has given rise to you,
Your task is to light the pipe of your master,
To fill the flasks with cold water and perfumes,
To chase the prowling mosquitoes far from his bed,
And, as soon as morning makes the plane trees sing,
To buy at the bazaar pineapples and bananas,
All day, wherever you want, you lead your naked feet,
And lowly you hum old unknown tunes;
And when evening descends in a mantel of scarlet,
You lay your body sweetly on a mat,
Where your flowing dreams are full of hummingbirds,
And always, like you, gracious and flourishing.
Why, happy child, do you wish to see our France?
This overpopulated country that suffering knocks down,
And, entrusting your life to the strong arms of the sea,
Make great farewells to your dear tamarinds?
You, half-dressed in fragile muslins,
Shivering there under the snow and the hail,
Like you would mourn your sweet and total pleasures
If, with the brutal corset imprisoning your sides
You had to gather your supper in our sludge
And sell the perfume of your strange charms,
Thoughtful eye, following, in our dirty fog,
The scattered phantoms of the coconut trees!
À une Malabaraise Tes pieds sont aussi fins que tes mains, et ta hanche
Est large à faire envie à la plus belle blanche;
À l'artiste pensif ton corps est doux et cher;
Tes grands yeux de velours sont plus noirs que ta chair.
Aux pays chauds et bleus où ton Dieu t'a fait naître,
Ta tâche est d'allumer la pipe de ton maître,
De pourvoir les flacons d'eaux fraîches et d'odeurs,
De chasser loin du lit les moustiques rôdeurs,
Et, dès que le matin fait chanter les platanes,
D'acheter au bazar ananas et bananes.
Tout le jour, où tu veux, tu mènes tes pieds nus,
Et fredonnes tout bas de vieux airs inconnus;
Et quand descend le soir au manteau d'écarlate,
Tu poses doucement ton corps sur une natte,
Où tes rêves flottants sont pleins de colibris,
Et toujours, comme toi, gracieux et fleuris.
Pourquoi, l'heureuse enfant, veux-tu voir notre France,
Ce pays trop peuplé que fauche la souffrance,
Et, confiant ta vie aux bras forts des marins,
Faire de grands adieux à tes chers tamarins?
Toi, vêtue à moitié de mousselines frêles,
Frissonnante là-bas sous la neige et les grêles,
Comme tu pleurerais tes loisirs doux et francs
Si, le corset brutal emprisonnant tes flancs
Il te fallait glaner ton souper dans nos fanges
Et vendre le parfum de tes charmes étranges,
Oeil pensif, et suivant, dans nos sales brouillards,
Des cocotiers absents les fantômes épars!
---
Almost done with the Spleen et Ideal section. We've come a long way, baby.
Everything has come to pass exactly how I wished it to. The mighty have fallen and I grow paler and my clothes get blacker by the day. But it's alright. I no longer feel the same about them or about my own self. It is better to be detached, right? I no longer see myself as participating in the world. Just kind of watching it fall down. He is coming back, though certainly not for me. This time I think I can deal.
This next poem initially hit me like a punch to the gut. I read it aloud for one of my friends and then realized what a sick person I really am. It's one of my favorites.
Sad Madrigal I. What importance is it to me that you are wise? Be beautiful! And be sad! The tears Add a charm to your face, Like the river in the landscape; The storm rejuvenates the flowers.
I love you most when joy Escapes from your stricken brow; When your heart drowns in the horror; When on your present is spread The dreadful cloud of the past.
I love you when your great eyes pour Water hot like blood; When, in spite of my hand that cradles you, Your anguish, too heavy, pierces Like a dying man’s groan.
I inhale, divine pleasure! Deep, delicious hymn! All the sobs of your breast, And I believe that your heart is illuminated In the pearls that pour from your eyes.
II. I know that your heart, which overflows With old, eradicated loves, Still flares up like a forge, And that you smolder in your breast A bit of the pride of the damned;
But, my dear, as long as the dreams Will not have reflected Hell, And that in a nightmare without respite, Dreaming of poisons and knives, In love with powder and iron,
Opening to everyone with fear, Deciphering misfortune everywhere, Convulsing when the hour chimes, You have not felt the embrace Of the irresistible Disgust,
You cannot, slave, queen, Who loves me only with terror In the horror of the unhealthy night Say to me, soul full of screams: “I am your equal, oh my King!”
Madrigal triste I. Que m'importe que tu sois sage? Sois belle! Et sois triste! Les pleurs Ajoutent un charme au visage, Comme le fleuve au paysage; L'orage rajeunit les fleurs.
Je t'aime surtout quand la joie S'enfuit de ton front terrassé; Quand ton coeur dans l'horreur se noie; Quand sur ton présent se déploie Le nuage affreux du passé.
Je t'aime quand ton grand oeil verse Une eau chaude comme le sang; Quand, malgré ma main qui te berce, Ton angoisse, trop lourde, perce Comme un râle d'agonisant.
J'aspire, volupté divine! Hymne profond, délicieux! Tous les sanglots de ta poitrine, Et crois que ton coeur s'illumine Des perles que versent tes yeux.
II. Je sais que ton coeur, qui regorge De vieux amours déracinés, Flamboie encor comme une forge, Et que tu couves sous ta gorge Un peu de l'orgueil des damnés;
Mais tant, ma chère, que tes rêves N'auront pas reflété l'Enfer, Et qu'en un cauchemar sans trêves, Songeant de poisons et de glaives, Éprise de poudre et de fer,
N'ouvrant à chacun qu'avec crainte, Déchiffrant le malheur partout, Te convulsant quand l'heure tinte, Tu n'auras pas senti l'étreinte De l'irrésistible Dégoût,
Tu ne pourras, esclave reine Qui ne m'aimes qu'avec effroi, Dans l'horreur de la nuit malsaine Me dire, l'âme de cris pleine: «Je suis ton égale, ô mon Roi!»
---
She cannot save you. I can but I won't. The anger is crippling me and it is getting me high. Take your poisons elsewhere. You infidels don't deserve this place.
Midnight Examination The pendulum, striking midnight, Ironically commits us To remind ourselves what use We made of the day that escaped: —Today, fateful day, Friday, thirteen, we have, Despite all that we know, Lead the life of a heretic.
We have blasphemed Jesus, The most incontestable of Gods! Like a parasite at the table Of some monstrous Croesus We have, in order to please the brute, Worthy vassal of the Demons, Abused that which we love, And flattered that which repulses us;
We saddened, slavish hangman, The frail that one wrongfully scorns; Saluted the enormous Stupidity, Stupidity with the brow of the bull, Kissed the stupid Matter With great devotion, And of the decomposition Blessed the pale light;
Finally, we have, in order to drown The vertigo in the delirium, We, proud priest of the Lyre, Whose glory is in displaying The exhilaration of ghastly things, Drank without thirst and ate without hunger!… —Quickly blow the lamp out, so that We may hide in the darkness!
L'Examen de minuit La pendule, sonnant minuit, Ironiquement nous engage À nous rappeler quel usage Nous fîmes du jour qui s'enfuit: — Aujourd'hui, date fatidique, Vendredi, treize, nous avons, Malgré tout ce que nous savons, Mené le train d'un hérétique.
Nous avons blasphémé Jésus, Des Dieux le plus incontestable! Comme un parasite à la table De quelque monstrueux Crésus, Nous avons, pour plaire à la brute, Digne vassale des Démons, Insulté ce que nous aimons Et flatté ce qui nous rebute;
Contristé, servile bourreau, Le faible qu'à tort on méprise; Salué l'énorme Bêtise, La Bêtise au front de taureau; Baisé la stupide Matière Avec grande dévotion, Et de la putréfaction Béni la blafarde lumière.
Enfin, nous avons, pour noyer Le vertige clans le délire, Nous, prêtre orgueilleux de la Lyre, Dont la gloire est de déployer L'ivresse des choses funèbres, Bu sans soif et mangé sans faim!... — Vite soufflons la lampe, afin De nous cacher dans les ténèbres! ---
Oh stupid boy, why bemoan the fact that no one cares when you pushed away the one who did? Ah, mixed signals, my nocturnal vault. The travel trails off, time to pretend. Time to go to sleep.
The Unexpected Harpagon, who kept watch over his dying father, Said to himself, dreamily, having lips already white: “We have in the attic a sufficient number, It seems to me, of old planks?”
Celimene coos and says: “My heart is good, And naturally, God has made me very beautiful.” —Her heart! Shriveled heart, smoked like a ham, Cooked in the eternal flame!
A smoky journalist, who believes himself a torch, Says to the poor, that he has drowned in the darkness: “Where then do you glimpse him, this creature of Beauty, This Redresser who you praise?”
Better than all, I know certain voluptuaries Who yawn night and day, and lament, and cry, Repeating, the helpless and the smug: “Yes, I wish To be virtuous, in an hour!”
The clock, in his turn, says in a low voice: “He is ripe, The damned! I warn in vain the poisoned flesh. Man is blind, deaf, fragile like a wall That an insect eats and inhabits!”
And then, Someone appears, who all had denied, And who said to them, taunting and proud: “In my ciborium, You have, I believe, communicated quite often With the black Joyous Mass?
Each of you has built me a temple in his heart; You have, in secret, kissed my filthy haunches! You recognize Satan in his victorious laughter, Enormous and disgusting like the world!
Have you then been able to believe, startled hypocrites, That one teases the master, that one cheats him, And that he naturally receives two awards, To go to Heaven and to be rich?
The game must pay the old hunter Who stands a long time waiting for the prey. I go to take you through the thickness, Companions of my sad delight,
Through the thickness of the earth and the rock, Through the sorry pile of your cinder, Into a palace as great as I, of a single block, And which is not of tender stone;
Because it is made with universal Sin, And contains my pride, my grief and my glory!” —However, perched on top of the whole universe, An angel sounds the victory
Of those whose hearts said: “Hallowed by your whip, Lord! Blessed be the grief, oh Father! My heart is not an empty plaything in your hands, And your carefulness is infinite.”
The sound of the trumpet is so delicious, On the solemn evenings of celestial harvests, That it seeps like ecstasy into all those To whom she sings praises.
L'Imprévu Harpagon, qui veillait son père agonisant, Se dit, rêveur, devant ces lèvres déjà blanches: «Nous avons au grenier un nombre suffisant, Ce me semble, de vieilles planches?»
Célimène roucoule et dit: «Mon coeur est bon, Et naturellement, Dieu m'a faite très belle.» — Son coeur! coeur racorni, fumé comme un jambon, Recuit à la flamme éternelle!
Un gazetier fumeux, qui se croit un flambeau, Dit au pauvre, qu'il a noyé dans les ténèbres: «Où donc l'aperçois-tu, ce créateur du Beau, Ce Redresseur que tu célèbres?»
Mieux que tous, je connais certain voluptueux Qui bâille nuit et jour, et se lamente, et pleure, Répétant, l'impuissant et le fat: «Oui, je veux Etre vertueux, dans une heure!»
L'horloge, à son tour, dit à voix basse: «Il est mûr, Le damné! J'avertis en vain la chair infecte. L'homme est aveugle, sourd, fragile, comme un mur Qu'habite et que ronge un insecte!»
Et puis, Quelqu'un paraît, que tous avaient nié, Et qui leur dit, railleur et fier: «Dans mon ciboire, Vous avez, que je crois, assez communié À la Joyeuse Messe noire?
Chacun de vous m'a fait un temple dans son coeur; Vous avez, en secret, baisé ma fesse immonde! Reconnaissez Satan à son rire vainqueur, Enorme et laid comme le monde!
Avez-vous donc pu croire, hypocrites surpris, Qu'on se moque du maître, et qu'avec lui l'on triche, Et qu'il soit naturel de recevoir deux prix, D'aller au Ciel et d'être riche?
Il faut que le gibier paye le vieux chasseur Qui se morfond longtemps à l'affût de la proie. Je vais vous emporter à travers l'épaisseur, Compagnons de ma triste joie,
À travers l'épaisseur de la terre et du roc, À travers les amas confus de votre cendre, Dans un palais aussi grand que moi, d'un seul bloc, Et qui n'est pas de pierre tendre;
Car il est fait avec l'universel Péché, Et contient mon orgueil, ma douleur et ma gloire!» — Cependant, tout en haut de l'univers juché, Un ange sonne la victoire
De ceux dont le coeur dit: «Que béni soit ton fouet, Seigneur! que la douleur, ô Père, soit bénie! Mon âme dans tes mains n'est pas un vain jouet, Et ta prudence est infinie.»
Le son de la trompette est si délicieux, Dans ces soirs solennels de célestes vendanges, Qu'il s'infiltre comme une extase dans tous ceux Dont elle chante les louanges.
It has to stop, my friends. I mean it this time. No more downers or strange conversations. Loves.
The Prayer of a Pagan Ah! Slacken not your passions; Heat up my drowsy heart, Pleasure, torture of the souls! Diva! Supplicem exaudî!
Goddess scattered in the air, Flame in our underground! Fulfill a pining soul, Who consecrates to you a song of bronze.
Pleasure, always be my queen! Put on the mask of a siren Made from flesh and velvet,
Or pour your heavy sleep on me In wine shapeless and mystical, Pleasure, flexible phantom!
La Prière d'un païen Ah! ne ralentis pas tes flammes; Réchauffe mon coeur engourdi, Volupté, torture des âmes! Diva! Supplicem exaudî!
Déesse dans l'air répandue, Flamme dans notre souterrain! Exauce une âme morfondue, Qui te consacre un chant d'airain.
Volupté, sois toujours ma reine! Prends le masque d'une sirène Faite de chair et de velours,
Ou verse-moi tes sommeils lourds Dans le vin informe et mystique, Volupté, fantôme élastique!
The Cover In whatever place he will go, on sea or on earth, Beneath a sky of flame, or beneath a white sun, Servant of Jesus, courtier of Cythera, Dark beggar or sparkling Croesus,
City-dweller, country person, vagabond, sedentary, That his little brain is active or is slow, Everywhere the man suffers the terror of mystery, And looks up only with a trembling eye.
Up, the Sky! This vaulted wall that suppresses him, Ceiling illuminated by a comic opera Where every wandering minstrel treads on blood-drenched soil;
Terror of the libertine, hope of the crazy recluse; The Sky! Black cover of the great cooking-pot Where boils the vast and elusive Humanity.
Le Couvercle En quelque lieu qu'il aille, ou sur mer ou sur terre, Sous un climat de flamme ou sous un soleil blanc, Serviteur de Jésus, courtisan de Cythère, Mendiant ténébreux ou Crésus rutilant,
Citadin, campagnard, vagabond, sédentaire, Que son petit cerveau soit actif ou soit lent, Partout l'homme subit la terreur du mystère, Et ne regarde en haut qu'avec un oeil tremblant.
En haut, le Ciel! Ce mur de caveau qui l'étouffe, Plafond illuminé par un opéra bouffe Où chaque histrion foule un sol ensanglanté;
Terreur du libertin, espoir du fol ermite; Le Ciel! Couvercle noir de la grande marmite Où bout l'imperceptible et vaste Humanité.
I am venturing into uncharted territory since my print edition of Les Fleurs du Mal doesn't have the next ten or so poems. This next one is an imitation of Longfellow and quite a bit of a shift for Baudelaire since there is no sex or ennui, it seems. It is a wretched translation, probably.
The Peace Pipe (Imitation of Longfellow) Now Gitche Manitou, the Master of Life,
The Powerful, descended into the green prairie,
Into the immense prairie in the mountainous hillside,
And there, on the rocks of the Red Quarry,
Dominating all the space and bathed with light,
He held himself upright, vast and majestic.
Then he summoned the innumerable peoples,
More numerous than the grass and the sands.
With his terrible hand he broke off a piece
Of rock, from which he made a magnificent pipe,
Next, at the edge of a stream, from an enormous sheaf,
In order to make a tip, chose a long reed,
In order to fill it he took from the willow its bark,
And he, the All-Powerful, Creator of Strength,
Upright, he lit, like a divine beacon,
The Pipe of Peace. Standing in the Quarry
He smoked, upright, superb and bathed in light.
Now for the nations this was the great signal.
And slowly the divine smoke went up
In the sweet morning air, undulating, fragrant.
And first it was only a dark furrow;
Next the vapor made itself thicker and bluer,
Then it whitened; and went up, and grew without cease,
It went to break on the hard ceiling of the heavens,
From the furthest peaks of the Rocky Mountains,
To the lakes of the North with the noisy waves,
From Tawasentha, the unparalleled valley,
Up to Tuscaloosa, the perfumed forest,
All experienced the signal and immense smoke
Rising peacefully in the ruddy morning.
The Prophets said: “Do you see that band
Of vapor, that, similar to the commanding hand,
Oscillates and stands out in black on the sun?
It is Gitche Manitou, the Master of Life,
Who says to the four corners of the immense prairie:
“I call you all, warriors, to my counsel!”
On the path of the waters, on the route of the plains,
From the four quarters where blow the breaths
Of the wind, all the warriors of every tribe, all
Understood the signal of the moving cloud,
They came obediently to the Red Quarry
Where Gitche Manitou gave them appointment.
The warriors stood on the green prairie,
All equipped for war, with hardened face,
As colorful as autumn foliage;
And the hatred that makes all beings fight,
The hatred that burned the eyes of their ancestors
Still burned their eyes with a fatal flame.
And their eyes were full of hereditary hatred.
Now Gitche Manitou, Master of the Earth,
Considered them all with compassion,
Like a very good father, enemy of disorder,
Who sees his little ones battle and bite.
Such was Gitche Manitou for every nation.
He stretched his strong right hand over them
In order to captivate their heart and their narrow nature,
To chill their fever in the shadow of his hand;
Then he told them with his majestic voice,
Comparable to the voice of tumultuous waters
That falls and returns a monstrous, superhuman sound:
II.
“Oh my posterity, darling and deplorable!
Oh my children! Listen to divine reason.
It is Gitche Manitou, the Master of Life,
Who speaks to you! The one who in your land
Has put the bears, the beaver, the reindeer, and the bison.
I have made hunting and fishing easy for you;
By why does the hunter become an assassin?
The swamp populated with birds, made by me;
Why are you not content, indocile sons?
Why does man hunt his neighbor?
I am well and truly tired of your horrible wars.
Your prayers, even your wishes are infamies!
The danger is for you in your contrary tempers,
It is the union that is your strength. In brotherhood
Live then, and learn to keep yourselves in peace.
Soon you will received a Prophet from my hand
Who will come to instruct you and suffer with you.
His word will make a party from life;
But if you scorn his perfect wisdom,
Poor accursed children, all of you will disappear!
Release your bloody colors into the waves.
The reeds are numerous and the rock is heavy;
Each one can make his pipe. No more wars,
No more blood! From now on live like brothers,
And all, united, smoke the Pipe of Peace!”
III.
And suddenly all, throwing down their arms to the earth,
Washed the colors of war off in the stream
Which had shown on their cruel and triumphant brows.
Each one hollowed a pipe and gather from the shore
A long reed with which to skillfully embellish it.
And the Spirit smiled at his poor children!
Each one went home with a calm and delighted soul,
And Gitche Manitou, the Master of Life,
Rose up into the open door of the heavens.
—Through the splendid vapor of the clouds
The All-Powerful went up, content with his work,
Immense, perfumed, sublime, radiant!
Le Calumet de Paix (Imité de Longfellow)
I.
Or Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Le Puissant, descendit dans la verte prairie,
Dans l'immense prairie aux coteaux montueux;
Et là, sur les rochers de la Rouge Carrière,
Dominant tout l'espace et baigné de lumière,
Il se tenait debout, vaste et majestueux.
Alors il convoqua les peuples innombrables,
Plus nombreux que ne sont les herbes et les sables.
Avec sa main terrible il rompit un morceau
Du rocher, dont il fit une pipe superbe,
Puis, au bord du ruisseau, dans une énorme gerbe,
Pour s'en faire un tuyau, choisit un long roseau.
Pour la bourrer il prit au saule son écorce;
Et lui, le Tout-Puissant, Créateur de la Force,
Debout, il alluma, comme un divin fanal,
La Pipe de la Paix. Debout sur la Carrière
Il fumait, droit, superbe et baigné de lumière.
Or pour les nations c'était le grand signal.
Et lentement montait la divine fumée
Dans l'air doux du matin, onduleuse, embaumée.
Et d'abord ce ne fut qu'un sillon ténébreux;
Puis la vapeur se fit plus bleue et plus épaisse,
Puis blanchit; et montant, et grossissant sans cesse,
Elle alla se briser au dur plafond des cieux.
Des plus lointains sommets des Montagnes Rocheuses,
Depuis les lacs du Nord aux ondes tapageuses,
Depuis Tawasentha, le vallon sans pareil,
Jusqu'à Tuscaloosa, la forêt parfumée,
Tous virent le signal et l'immense fumée
Montant paisiblement dans le matin vermeil.
Les Prophètes disaient: «Voyez-vous cette bande
De vapeur, qui, semblable à la main qui commande,
Oscille et se détache en noir sur le soleil?
C'est Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Qui dit aux quatre coins de l'immense prairie:
'Je vous convoque tous, guerriers, à mon conseil!'.»
Par le chemin des eaux, par la route des plaines,
Par les quatre côtés d'où soufflent les haleines
Du vent, tous les guerriers de chaque tribu, tous,
Comprenant le signal du nuage qui bouge,
Vinrent docilement à la Carrière Rouge
Où Gitche Manito leur donnait rendez-vous.
Les guerriers se tenaient sur la verte prairie,
Tous èquipés en guerre, et la mine aguerrie,
Bariolés ainsi qu'un feuillage automnal;
Et la haine qui fait combattre tous les êtres,
La haine qui brûlait les yeux de leurs ancêtres
Incendiait encor leurs yeux d'un feu fatal.
Et leurs yeux étaient pleins de haine héréditaire.
Or Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Terre,
Les considérait tous avec compassion,
Comme un père très-bon, ennemi du désordre,
Qui voit ses chers petits batailler et se mordre.
Tel Gitche Manito pour toute nation.
Il étendit sur eux sa puissante main droite
Pour subjuguer leur coeur et leur nature étroite,
Pour rafraîchir leur fièvre à l'ombre de sa main;
Puis il leur dit avec sa voix majestueuse,
Comparable à la voix d'une eau tumultueuse
Qui tombe et rend un son monstrueux, surhumain:
II.
«O ma postérité, déplorable et chérie!
O mes fils! écoutez la divine raison.
C'est Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Qui vous parle! Celui qui dans votre patrie
A mis l'ours, le castor, le renne et le bison.
Je vous ai fait la chasse et la pêche faciles;
Pourquoi donc le chasseur devient-il assassin?
Le marais fut par moi peuple de volatiles;
Pourquoi n'êtes-vous pas contents, fils indociles?
Pourquoi l'homme fait-il la chasse à son voisin?
Je suis vraiment bien las de vos horribles guerres.
Vos prières, vos voeux mêmes sont des forfaits!
Le péril est pour vous dans vos humeurs contraires,
Et c'est dans l'union qu'est votre force. En frères
Vivez donc, et sachez vous maintenir en paix.
Bientôt vous recevrez de ma main un Prophète
Qui viendra vous instruire et souffrir avec vous.
Sa parole fera de la vie une fête;
Mais si vous méprisez sa sagesse parfaite,
Pauvres enfants maudits, vous disparaîtrez tous!
Effacez dans les flots vos couleurs meurtrières.
Les roseaux sont nombreux et le roc est épais;
Chacun en peut tirer sa pipe. Plus de guerres,
Plus de sang! Désormais vivez comme des frères,
Et tous, unis, fumez le Calumet de Paix!»
III.
Et soudain tous, jetant leurs armes sur la terre,
Lavent dans le ruisseau les couleurs de la guerre
Qui luisaient sur leurs fronts cruels et triomphants.
Chacun creuse une pipe et cueille sur la rive
Un long roseau qu'avec adresse il enjolive.
Et l'Esprit souriait à ses pauvres enfants!
Chacun s'en retourna l'âme calme et ravie,
Et Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Remonta par la porte entr'ouverte des cieux.
— À travers la vapeur splendide du nuage
Le Tout-Puissant montait, content de son ouvrage,
Immense, parfumé, sublime, radieux!
My kingdom for a warm atmosphere. I don't think man was meant for a life that requires him to wear more clothes to bed than he does when he walks around outside. My life may or may not be more worth living if I had the good fortune to dwell in a house where the heat worked. That said, it only seems to be a problem when I have to drag myself out of my warm bed and into the cruel morning air. Groargh. Maybe I will start sitting in the bathroom with the shower on. It would open up my pores.
I am rediscovering books.
The Alchemy of Grief The one lights you with his fervor, The other puts his grief into you, Nature! That which says to the one: Sepulcher! Says to the other: Life and splendor!
Unknown Hermes who assists me And who always restrains me, You render me the equal of Midas, The saddest of alchemists;
For you I change gold into iron And Heaven into Hell; In the shroud of the clouds
I discover a beloved cadaver, And on the celestial shores I build great sarcophagi.
Alchimie de la douleur L'un t'éclaire avec son ardeur, L'autre en toi met son deuil, Nature! Ce qui dit à l'un: Sépulture! Dit à l'autre: Vie et splendeur!
Hermès inconnu qui m'assistes Et qui toujours m'intimidas, Tu me rends l'égal de Midas, Le plus triste des alchimistes;
Par toi je change l'or en fer Et le paradis en enfer; Dans le suaire des nuages
Je découvre un cadavre cher, Et sur les célestes rivages Je bâtis de grands sarcophages.
Sympathetic Horror From the bizarre and livid sky, Tormented as your destiny, What thoughts into your empty soul Descend? Respond, libertine.
—Insatiably greedy For the obscure and the uncertain, I will not moan like Ovid Chased from Latin paradise.
Skies torn up like the shores In you my pride is reflected; Your great clouds in mourning
Are the hearses of my dreams, And your glimmers are the reflection Of the Hell where my heart is pleased.
Horreur sympathique De ce ciel bizarre et livide, Tourmenté comme ton destin, Quels pensers dans ton âme vide Descendent? réponds, libertin.
— Insatiablement avide De l'obscur et de l'incertain, Je ne geindrai pas comme Ovide Chassé du paradis latin.
Cieux déchirés comme des grèves En vous se mire mon orgueil; Vos vastes nuages en deuil
Sont les corbillards de mes rêves, Et vos lueurs sont le reflet De l'Enfer où mon coeur se plaît.
Baby, wishes she felt nothing. Just optimism and a turning of the stomach.
The Taste for Nothingness Doleful spirit, once in love with the fight, Hope, whose spur stirred up the fervor, No longer wishes to mount you! Lie down without shame, Old horse whose foot stumbles over every obstruction.
Resign yourself, my heart; sleep your beastly sleep.
Spirit vanquished, exhausted! For you, ancient marauder, Love no longer has taste, no more than quarrel; Goodbye then, songs of brass and sighs of the flute! Pleasures, no longer tempt a somber and sulky heart!
Adorable Springtime has lost its scent!
And Time devours me minute by minute, Like the immense snow a body taken with stiffness; —I contemplate from on high the globe and the roundness And there I no longer seek the shelter of a shack.
Avalanche, will you take me into your fall?
Le Goût du néant Morne esprit, autrefois amoureux de la lutte, L'Espoir, dont l'éperon attisait ton ardeur, Ne veut plus t'enfourcher! Couche-toi sans pudeur, Vieux cheval dont le pied à chaque obstacle butte.
Résigne-toi, mon coeur; dors ton sommeil de brute.
Esprit vaincu, fourbu! Pour toi, vieux maraudeur, L'amour n'a plus de goût, non plus que la dispute; Adieu donc, chants du cuivre et soupirs de la flûte! Plaisirs, ne tentez plus un coeur sombre et boudeur!
Le Printemps adorable a perdu son odeur!
Et le Temps m'engloutit minute par minute, Comme la neige immense un corps pris de roideur; — Je contemple d'en haut le globe en sa rondeur Et je n'y cherche plus l'abri d'une cahute. Avalanche, veux-tu m'emporter dans ta chute? ----
Parties, dramas, lies, lies, lies. My pale daisy, your eyes have lost their soul. I don't miss you, just the visceral reactions that you cause. I wanted to say that I loved the idea of you. But no. Stupid people, double standards, too much booze and angst.
Congratulations to our new President-Elect. I know you will try to heal this country. I just wish I had a more optimistic poem to post. Ah well. Such is the nature of M. Baudelaire.
Obsession Great woods, you frighten me like cathedrals; You howl like the organ; and in our cursed hearts, Chambers of eternal grief where old groans quiver, Answering the echoes of your De profundis.
I hate you, Ocean! Your leaps and your turmoil, My spirit finds them within itself; this bitter laugh Of the vanquished man, full of sobs and insults, I hear it in the enormous laughter of the sea
As you would please me, oh night! Without these stars Whose light speaks a known language! Because I search the empty, and the dark, and the bare!
But the darkness herself is a canvas, Where live, springing from my eye by the thousands, Vanishing beings with familiar looks.
Obsession Grands bois, vous m'effrayez comme des cathédrales; Vous hurlez comme l'orgue; et dans nos coeurs maudits, Chambres d'éternel deuil où vibrent de vieux râles, Répondent les échos de vos De profundis.
Je te hais, Océan! tes bonds et tes tumultes, Mon esprit les retrouve en lui; ce rire amer De l'homme vaincu, plein de sanglots et d'insultes, Je l'entends dans le rire énorme de la mer
Comme tu me plairais, ô nuit! sans ces étoiles Dont la lumière parle un langage connu! Car je cherche le vide, et le noir, et le nu!
Mais les ténèbres sont elles-mêmes des toiles Où vivent, jaillissant de mon oeil par milliers, Des êtres disparus aux regards familiers. ----
Oh stupid boy, I never think on you voluntarily. Get off your high horse and see the beauty on this earth.
Feeling better, lucid dreams. Oh, beauty. Run from him.
Spleen (I am like the king) I am like the king of a rainy country, Rich, although powerless, young and yet very old, Who, despises the deference of his advisors, Gets bored with his dogs as he does with other beasts. Nothing can enliven him, not game, nor falcon, Nor his people dying in front of the balcony. The ridiculous ballads of his favorite clown No longer amuse the brow of this cruel patient; His bed of fleur-de-lis turns into a tomb, And the women of finery, for whom every prince is beautiful, No longer know where to find indecent gowns To pull a smile from this young skeleton. The scientist who makes the gold for him has never been able To remove the corrupted element from his being, And in these tubs of blood that came to us from the Romans, And that in their old days the powerful recall, He has not been able to warm up this stupid cadaver Where the green water of the Lethe flowed in the place of blood.
Spleen (Je suis comme le roi) Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux, Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes, S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes. Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon, Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon. Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade; Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau, Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau, Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette. Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu De son être extirper l'élément corrompu, Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent, Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent, II n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé
Spleen (When the sky low and heavy) When the sky low and heavy weighs like a cover Over the whimpering spirit, prey to the long ennui, And from the horizon embraces the whole circle It pours over us a black day sadder than the nights;
When the earth is changed into a humid prison, Where Hope, like a bat, Goes into it beating the walls with her timid wing And knocks her head on the rotten ceilings;
When the rain scatters its immense trails It imitates the bars of a great prison, And as a silent stock of despicable spiders Go spreading their threads in the depths of our brains,
Suddenly the bells jump with fury And fire toward the sky a hideous howling, Like wandering spirits without a homeland Who put themselves to groaning stubbornly.
—And long hearses, without drums or music Parade slowly in my soul; Hope, Conquered, weeps, and atrocious Anxiety, despotic, Over my leaning head plants her black flag.
Spleen (Quand le ciel bas et lourd) Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis, Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;
Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide, Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris, S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;
Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux, Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,
Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement, Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.
— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique, Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir, Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique, Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.
The sun is covered with crepe and I really wish I could convince myself to give a shit. No more sex. Or drugs probably. But prospects, always. I asked him why it lasted this long when hearts had never moved.
"I guess I was just trying to make myself feel something."
I am only unhappy insofar as I have lost a very pretty thing. The same eyes that had originally enticed and seduced me now looked hollow as holy hell last night when the news came crashing down angrily on the stones below. But there was no anger. Sadness for me. Soul-crushing apathy for him. Fuck.
In other news, I hate the travel. But here is a beautiful poem.
Spleen (I have more memories) I have more memories than if I had a thousand years.
A large chest of drawers cluttered with balance-sheets, Verses, love letters, processes, romances, With heavy hair rolled into receipts, Hides fewer secrets than my sorry brain. It is a pyramid, an immense cave, That contains more cadavers than a common grave. —I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, Where long worms drag themselves like remorse, That ever hound my dearest dead. I am an old boudoir full of wilted roses, Where all lies a mess of outdated fashions, Where the plaintive pastels and pale Bouchers Only, breathe the odor of an uncorked flask.
Nothing is equal in length to the shaky days, When under the heavy flakes of the snowy years Ennui, fruit of the doleful incuriosity, Takes the proportions of immortality. —From now on you are no more, oh living matter! Than a granite surrounded by a vague horror Dozing in the depths of a hazy Sahara; An old sphinx ignored by an unworried world, Neglected from the map, and whose wild temper Sings only to the rays of the setting sun.
Spleen (J'ai plus de souvenirs) J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.
Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans, De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances, Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances, Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau. C'est une pyramide, un immense caveau, Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune. — Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune, Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers Qui s'acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers. Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées, Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées, Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher Seuls, respirent l'odeur d'un flacon débouché.
Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées, Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années L'ennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité, Prend les proportions de l'immortalité. — Désormais tu n'es plus, ô matière vivante! Qu'un granit entouré d'une vague épouvante, Assoupi dans le fond d'un Sahara brumeux; Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux, Oublié sur la carte, et dont l'humeur farouche Ne chante qu'aux rayons du soleil qui se couche. ---- I have plenty to occupy me but I waste all my time on the inconsequential things.
It's not January yet, even though Baudelaire sort of says that it is. What to think?
Now it is autumn. Today was the first crisp and eerie day where the leaves looked like they actually belonged on the ground and the chill I felt was completely permanent. No more sticky summer feelings, even if summer did seem like it lasted a terribly long time. My selfsame, my brother, where will you be this evening.
Autumn smells like date rape, Hot Fuss, and every mistake I ever made.
Spleen (Pluviose, angry) Pluviose, angry at the whole city, From his urn in great waves pours a dark coldness Onto the pale residents of the neighboring cemetery And mortality on the hazy suburbs.
My cat searches for a litter on the tile Stirs his meager, mangy body without rest; The soul of an old poet wanders into the gutter With the sad voice of a chilly phantom.
The great bell moans, and the smoking log Accompanies in falsetto the sniffling clock, While in a game full of foul perfumes,
Fatal inheritance from a dropsical old woman, The beautiful knave of hearts and the queen of spades Talk ominously of their former loves.
Spleen (Pluviôse, irrité) Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière, De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.
Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une litière Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux; L'âme d'un vieux poète erre dans la gouttière Avec la triste voix d'un fantôme frileux.
Le bourdon se lamente, et la bûche enfumée Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée Cependant qu'en un jeu plein de sales parfums,
Héritage fatal d'une vieille hydropique, Le beau valet de coeur et la dame de pique Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.
----
Maybe Baudelaire doesn't make me happy, but he makes me the kind of good, sweet, sad that I have come to love.
It was not my problem but now I am making it mine. This is unhealthy. I get these odd mini-panic attacks when I think of what could happen. This is not so much over the situation itself but more with respect to the overwhelming, gut-wrenching fear that it will turn itself into a encore of the fantastic mess that A. caused. I don't care about B. that much. Sure. Cute. Rather, beautiful. But I don't adore him like I did the other one. One's beauty was internal, the other has it out for show. Fuck. What is to be done? Ignore, ignore, ignore. But this is hard to do when one pays no mind in the first place. Drink some more perhaps, or just focus on bettering oneself. This is not new, this is stupid.
Baudelaire's imagery is shifting. He has gone from the summer references in things like "Une Charogne" to the portraits of fall in "Chant d'Automne" and "Causerie" into the blatant references to winter that are coming with this poem. The languor and the phantasmagorical stumbling over one's words and the swimming of passion through the soggy humid air...it's no longer there. Bells cannot sound as clearly in the humid air, whether they be broken or not.
I started this in summer and it will be winter soon enough. It doesn't matter if the weather refuses to budge.
The Cracked Bell It is bitter and sweet, through the nights of winter, To listen, by the fire that flutters and that smokes, To the distant memories slowly rising At the sound of the bells that sing in the mist.
Blessed is the bell with the vigorous throat Which, despite its age, is lively and in good health, Faithfully throws its religious cry, Like an old soldier who watches from under the tent!
Me, my soul is cracked, and when in her ennuis, She wants to populate the cold night air with her songs, It often happens that her faded voice
Resembles the heavy groan of an injured man one forgets At the edge of a lake of blood, under a great pile of the dead And who dies, without movement, in immense effort.
La Cloche fêlée II est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d'hiver, D'écouter, près du feu qui palpite et qui fume, Les souvenirs lointains lentement s'élever Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume.
Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante, Jette fidèlement son cri religieux, Ainsi qu'un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente!
Moi, mon âme est fêlée, et lorsqu'en ses ennuis Elle veut de ses chants peupler l'air froid des nuits, II arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie
Semble le râle épais d'un blessé qu'on oublie Au bord d'un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d'immenses efforts.
The Cask of Hatred Hatred is the cask of the pale Danaïdes; Desperate Vengeance with arms red and strong, Beautifully pours into the empty darkness Great buckets full of blood and tears of the dead,
The Demon makes secret holes in these abysses, Through which a thousand years of sweat and stress would flee, Even if she would know to revive her victims, And by milking them resuscitate their bodies.
Hatred is a drunkard in the depths of a tavern, Who always feels the thirst born from the liquor And multiply itself like the Lernaean Hydra.
—But the happy drinkers know their conqueror, And Hatred is doomed to this lamentable fate Of never being able to fall asleep beneath the table.
Le Tonneau de la Haine La Haine est le tonneau des pâles Danaïdes; La Vengeance éperdue aux bras rouges et forts À beau précipiter dans ses ténèbres vides De grands seaux pleins du sang et des larmes des morts,
Le Démon fait des trous secrets à ces abîmes, Par où fuiraient mille ans de sueurs et d'efforts, Quand même elle saurait ranimer ses victimes, Et pour les pressurer ressusciter leurs corps.
La Haine est un ivrogne au fond d'une taverne, Qui sent toujours la soif naître de la liqueur Et se multiplier comme l'hydre de Lerne.
— Mais les buveurs heureux connaissent leur vainqueur, Et la Haine est vouée à ce sort lamentable De ne pouvoir jamais s'endormir sous la table. ----
A Fantastic Engraving This curious specter has no clothing than, Grotesquely encamped on his skeletal brow, A dreadful diadem feeling like a carnival. Without spurs, without whip, he winds a horse, Phantom like him, apocalyptic beast, That leaks through the nostrils like an epileptic. Traversing the space they through together, And they press infinity with an indiscriminate hoof. The rider carries a flaming sword Over the nameless multitude that his horse crushed, And looks over, like a prince inspecting his mansion, The cemetery cold and immense, without a horizon, Where lies, in the glimmers of a white and lifeless sun, The nations of ancient and modern history.
Une gravure fantastique Ce spectre singulier n'a pour toute toilette, Grotesquement campé sur son front de squelette, Qu'un diadème affreux sentant le carnaval. Sans éperons, sans fouet, il essouffle un cheval, Fantôme comme lui, rosse apocalyptique, Qui bave des naseaux comme un épileptique. Au travers de l'espace ils s'enfoncent tous deux, Et foulent l'infini d'un sabot hasardeux. Le cavalier promène un sabre qui flamboie Sur les foules sans nom que sa monture broie, Et parcourt, comme un prince inspectant sa maison, Le cimetière immense et froid, sans horizon, Où gisent, aux lueurs d'un soleil blanc et terne, Les peuples de l'histoire ancienne et moderne.
The Joyful Dead In a rich soul full of snails I wish to dig myself a deep grave, Where I can spread out my old bones at leisure And sleep in the oblivion like a shark in the wave.
I hate the testaments and I hate the tombs; Rather than imploring a tear from the world, Living, I would love better to invite the crows To draw all the remnants from my filthy carcass.
Oh worms! Black companions without ears and eyes, You see a free and joyous dead man coming to you; Well-fed philosophers, sons of corruption,
So go through my ruin without remorse, And tell me if there is still some torture For this old soulless body, death amongst the dead!
Le Mort joyeux Dans une terre grasse et pleine d'escargots Je veux creuser moi-même une fosse profonde, Où je puisse à loisir étaler mes vieux os Et dormir dans l'oubli comme un requin dans l'onde.
Je hais les testaments et je hais les tombeaux; Plutôt que d'implorer une larme du monde, Vivant, j'aimerais mieux inviter les corbeaux À saigner tous les bouts de ma carcasse immonde.
Ô vers! noirs compagnons sans oreille et sans yeux, Voyez venir à vous un mort libre et joyeux; Philosophes viveurs, fils de la pourriture,
À travers ma ruine allez donc sans remords, Et dites-moi s'il est encor quelque torture Pour ce vieux corps sans âme et mort parmi les morts!
Sepulcher If in a heavy and somber night A good Christian, by charity, Behind some old ruins Buries your vaunted body,
At the hour where the innocent stars Close their heavy eyes, The spider there will make his webs, And the viper his babies;
All year you will hear Over your convicted head The pitiful cries of the wolves
And of the scrawny sorcerers, The frolics of lustful old men And the intrigues of the black rogues.
Sépulture Si par une nuit lourde et sombre Un bon chrétien, par charité, Derrière quelque vieux décombre Enterre votre corps vanté,
À l'heure où les chastes étoiles Ferment leurs yeux appesantis, L'araignée y fera ses toiles, Et la vipère ses petits;
Vous entendrez toute l'année Sur votre tête condamnée Les cris lamentables des loups
Et des sorcières faméliques, Les ébats des vieillards lubriques Et les complots des noirs filous. ----
Too tired to exist, really. Back from the land of too much intrigue and not enough forethought. I may see him tonight, tomorrow. Either way I am full of dread. I am not his type. Too sullen, too old...my alcoholism is no longer charming--just pathetic, it seems. If I were not here I would not have to care, but for the sake of putting on a show I must fight for something I don't even really want anymore. How do I put it down without looking defeated? It was beautiful and carefree once upon a time but now...well, who knows. By starlight I will let him go. I have another lover, a lover that tells me that if A comes immediately before B then A cannot be last and B cannot be first. I wish life has Not Laws. No, it just has jungle juice and public spectacles.
I wonder if my lack of posting comes about directly as a result of my lack of drama. The ennui has mostly faded and I don't know if that is because I went an entire week without reading Les Fleurs du Mal or if it is because the person I question always says what he means and likes hanging out with me and doesn't give me bullshit and vagueness like the others did. In return, I don't have to give him bullshit or vagueness either. It's nice for a change. Really is. The world is not so melodramatic and no matter how full of rage I am over little X-factors, somehow they don't matter that much anymore.
Two animal poems. The second one reminded me a bit of my sister, for no reason other than the fact that she has been collecting owl things for about ten years now.
The Cats The fervent lovers and the austere scholars
Love equally, in their mature season,
The cats strong and sweet, pride of the house,
Who like them are sensitive to cold and like them sedentary.
Friends of knowledge and of passion
Explore the silence and the horror of the darkness;
Erebus would have taken them for his gloomy steeds,
If they were able to give their pride into servitude.
In dreaming they take noble airs
Of great sphinxes stretched out in the depths of solitude,
Who seem to sleep in an endless dream;
Their fertile loins are full of magic sparks,
And fragments of gold, like fine sand,
Vaguely stud their mystical eyes.
Les Chats Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères
Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.
Amis de la science et de la volupté
Ils cherchent le silence et l'horreur des ténèbres;
L'Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,
S'ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.
Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,
Qui semblent s'endormir dans un rêve sans fin;
Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d'étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d'or, ainsi qu'un sable fin,
Etoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.
The Owls Under the yews which shelter them
The owls have arranged themselves
As foreign gods
Shooting their red eyes. They meditate.
Without moving they abide
Until the melancholy hour
Where, heaving back the slanting sun,
The darkness will establish itself.
Their attitude instructs the wise
That in this world one must fear
Uproar and movement;
Man drunk on a passing shadow
Forever carries the punishment
Of having wished to change his place.
Les Hiboux Sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent
Les hiboux se tiennent rangés
Ainsi que des dieux étrangers
Dardant leur oeil rouge. Ils méditent.
Sans remuer ils se tiendront
Jusqu'à l'heure mélancolique
Où, poussant le soleil oblique,
Les ténèbres s'établiront.
Leur attitude au sage enseigne
Qu'il faut en ce monde qu'il craigne
Le tumulte et le mouvement;
L'homme ivre d'une ombre qui passe
Porte toujours le châtiment
D'avoir voulu changer de place.
