À Théodore de Banville

Sure, I haven't been posting much but that's mostly because I simply don't care. Days are passing. Things are happening. I now have a star of David henna-ed into my back. Please don't ask me why. I could never tell you.

This is a poem that Baudelaire wrote to the poet and writer Théodore de Banville.

To Théodore de Banville
You have grasped the hair of the Goddess
With such a wrist, that one has taken you, seeing
That manner of mastery and that beautiful nonchalance,
For a young ruffian striking his mistress down.

Eye clear and fraught with the fire of precocity,
You have bathed your pride of architecture
In the construction whose accurate audacity
Makes one see what will be your ripeness.

Poet, your blood flees from you by every pore;
Is it by chance that the Centaur’s robe
That changed every vein into a ghastly stream

Was colored three times in the subtle drool
Of these vengeful and monstrous reptiles
Which little Hercules strangled to a cradle?

À Théodore de Banville
Vous avez empoigné les cries de la Déesse
Avec un tel poignet, qu'on vous eût pris, à voir
Et cet air de maîtrise et ce beau nonchaloir,
Pour un jeune ruffian terrassant sa maîtresse.

L'oeil clair et plein du feu de la précocité,
Vous avez prélassé votre orgueil d'architecte
Dans des constructions dont l'audace correcte
Fait voir quelle sera votre maturité.

Poète, notre sang nous fuit par chaque pore;
Est-ce que par hasard la robe du Centaure
Qui changeait toute veine en funèbre ruisseau

Était teinte trois fois dans les baves subtiles
De ces vindicatifs et monstrueux reptiles
Que le petit Hercule étranglait au berceau?

Châtiment de l'Orgueil

I have begun to realize that I have associated the glassy memories of early summer, ie drinking way too much, translating for hours on end, and languishing in the sunshine with the feelings I had when first we collided. I have almost completely changed my routine since that night about two weeks ago. I do a lot of staring, a lot of avoiding. Things are hard. All my brothers in arms have lost their glow and have been moping around as well. But things will get better, better.

The next poem is about pride, and is one of the least rhythmic translations I have done as of yet. I may fix it in the future but I am not quite feeling it at the moment.

Punishment of Pride
In these marvelous times where Theology
With the best of sap and energy,
One said that one day a doctor of greatest greatness,
—After having compelled indifferent hearts;
Having stirred in their dark depths;
After having cleared to celestial splendors
Curious paths unknown to himself,
Which perhaps pure Spirits alone had come to,—
Like a man who had climbed too high, taken with panic,
He cried, transported with a satanic pride:
“Jesus, little Jesus! I have pushed you very high!
But if I had wanted to attack you through the defect
In the armor, your shame would equal your glory,
And you would be no more than a hollow fetus!”

Immediately his reason went from him.
The shard of the sun veiled itself with crepe
All chaos rolled into that intellect,
Temple once living, full of order and opulence,
Under the ceiling where so much pomp had gleamed.
Silence and night installed themselves in it,
Like in a cave whose clef is lost.
From then on he was like the beasts of the street,
And, when he went along seeing nothing, to traverse
The fields without distinguishing the summers from the winters,
Filthy, useless and ugly like a used-up thing,
He was made by the children the joke and the laughing-stock.

Châtiment de l'Orgueil
En ces temps merveilleux où la Théologie
Fleurit avec le plus de sève et d'énergie,
On raconte qu'un jour un docteur des plus grands,
— Après avoir forcé les coeurs indifférents;
Les avoir remués dans leurs profondeurs noires;
Après avoir franchi vers les célestes gloires
Des chemins singuliers à lui-même inconnus,
Où les purs Esprits seuls peut-être étaient venus, —
Comme un homme monté trop haut, pris de panique,
S'écria, transporté d'un orgueil satanique:
«Jésus, petit Jésus! je t'ai poussé bien haut!
Mais, si j'avais voulu t'attaquer au défaut
De l'armure, ta honte égalerait ta gloire,
Et tu ne serais plus qu'un foetus dérisoire!»

Immédiatement sa raison s'en alla.
L'éclat de ce soleil d'un crêpe se voila
Tout le chaos roula dans cette intelligence,
Temple autrefois vivant, plein d'ordre et d'opulence,
Sous les plafonds duquel tant de pompe avait lui.
Le silence et la nuit s'installèrent en lui,
Comme dans un caveau dont la clef est perdue.
Dès lors il fut semblable aux bêtes de la rue,
Et, quand il s'en allait sans rien voir, à travers
Les champs, sans distinguer les étés des hivers,
Sale, inutile et laid comme une chose usée,
Il faisait des enfants la joie et la risée.

I don't miss him. I just miss the feeling. Emo emo emo.

Don Juan Aux Enfers

Some day I will somehow summon the energy to post some of my own thoughts about the poems themselves. God knows I don't have much else to think about. I have cramps. That's all I can stay. I've started conceptually illustrating this whole she-bang. AND A. STILL DOESN'T LOVE ME!!!!! Boo hoo. Can't say we didn't see it coming.

This is a poem about Don Juan in hell. On one level it's nice to know that the philanderers in this world will get their comeuppance, although it is far less comforting to see how Don Juan reacts to all this.

Don Juan in Hell
When Don Juan descended toward the underground sea
And when he has given his offering to Charon,
A sullen beggar, his eye proud like Antisthenes,
With strong and vengeful arms he seized each oar.

Showing their hanging breasts and their open gowns
The women bent themselves under the black sky,
And, like a great herd of sacrificial victims,
A long moaning trailed behind them.

Laughing, Sganarelle demanded his wages,
While Don Luis with a trembling finger
Showed to all the rambling dead along the shore
The audacious son who scoffed at his white brow.

Shivering under her grief, the chaste and meager Elvira,
Close to her treacherous spouse who was her lover,
She seemed to ask for a final smile,
That would gleam with the sweetness of his first oath.

Altogether upright in his armor, a grand man of stone
Held himself to the bar and cut off the black tide;
But the cool-headed hero, leaning on his sword,
Regarded the slipstream and deigned to see nothing.

Don Juan aux enfers
Quand Don Juan descendit vers l'onde souterraine
Et lorsqu'il eut donné son obole à Charon,
Un sombre mendiant, l'oeil fier comme Antisthène,
D'un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.

Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes,
Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament,
Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,
Derrière lui traînaient un long mugissement.

Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages,
Tandis que Don Luis avec un doigt tremblant
Montrait à tous les morts errant sur les rivages
Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.

Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre Elvire,
Près de l'époux perfide et qui fut son amant,
Semblait lui réclamer un suprême sourire
Où brillât la douceur de son premier serment.

Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre
Se tenait à la barre et coupait le flot noir;
Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapière,
Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.

Bohémiens en voyage/L'Homme et La Mer

It's kind of an uphill battle at this point, though I am very much trying to push it out of my mind. I faced my demons and went to his house the other night, albeit not for him. He was there, of course. With her. And with the other her. I'm kind of the last in line at this point. But who cares? I do. But I can't. It's not right, it's not fair. For him or for me. So I have been brooding and eating cause it's almost Shark Week. Not drinking though. Smoking too much. It's been the rainiest summer in Naptown for as long as I have been here. Love sings, but not to me.

Traveling Bohemians
The prophetic tribe with the burning pupils
Yesterday taking to the road, carrying their young
On their backs, or delivering to their fiery appetites
The never ceasing treasure of hanging breasts.

The men go on foot beneath their glistening weapons
Along the wagons where those of theirs are huddled,
Walking along the sky with eyes weighed down
By doleful regret for absent illusions.

From the bottom of his sandy reduction, the cricket,
Watches them pass, redoubling his music;
Cybele, who loves them, increasing her greenness,

Makes the rock flow and the desert blossom
Before these voyagers, for whom is open
The familiar empire of the future's uncertainty.

Bohémiens en voyage
La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentes
Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits
Sur son dos, ou livrant à leurs fiers appétits
Le trésor toujours prêt des mamelles pendantes.

Les hommes vont à pied sous leurs armes luisantes
Le long des chariots où les leurs sont blottis,
Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantis
Par le morne regret des chimères absentes.

Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon,
Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson;
Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures,

Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désert
Devant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvert
L'empire familier des ténèbres futures.

The Man and the Sea
Free man, always will you cherish the sea!
The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul
In the infinite unwinding of its billows,
And your spirit is no abyss less bitter.

You please to plunge yourself into the bosom of your image;
You embrace it with the eyes and the arms, and your heart
Is sometimes distracted from the proper hearsay
To the noise to that indomitable and savage complaint.

You are both all dark and discreet:
Man, none have sounded in the depths of your abyss;
Oh sea, none know your intimate riches,
You are so jealous in guarding your secrets!

And yet there are countless ages
Where you have fought each other without pity or remorse,
So much do you love the carnage and the death,
Oh eternal wrestlers, oh remorseless brothers!

L'Homme et la mer
Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âme
Dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,
Et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.

Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;
Tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.

Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!

Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!

Le Guignon/La Vie anterieure

I am not terribly thrilled about squishing poems together, as I firmly believe that each should stand on its own and be admired. However, I am translating at a fairly rapid rate and I want to make sure that everything gets posted. I blame this on my job and the fact that I have heinous amounts of free time during the workday to spend with Baudelaire. But the poems are short, and any poems of particular significance either to myself or to anyone else will be given the proper attention.

I saw him yesterday, the first time since I heard the bad news. He was just sitting, smoking probably. His back turned toward me, he was talking with one of his friends and one of my friends. I could not bring myself to speak to him. I just walked by. Then I hid for awhile. Soon after that it rained.

I have no doubt that he thinks of me when it pours. I find the titles of these poems bitterly appropriate.

Bad Luck
In order to lift a weight that heavy,
Sisyphus, it requires your courage!
Good that one has his heart to the work,
Art is long and Time is short!

Far from celebrated sepulcher
Towards an isolated cemetery,
My heart, like a muffled drum,
Goes beating funeral marches.

—Many a jewel sleeps buried
In the darkness and oblivion,
Quite far from picks and probes;

Many a flower exhales with regret
His perfume sweet like a secret
In the deep solitudes.

Le Guignon
Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu'on ait du coeur à l'ouvrage,
L'Art est long et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon coeur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.

— Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l'oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;

Mainte fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.

The Past Life
I have long lived under vast porticos
That the seaward suns dyed with a thousand lights,
And that their great pillars, upright and majestic,
Rendered such, in the evening, like basaltic grottos.

The billows, in rolling the images of the skies,
Mingled in a solemn and mystique manner
All-powerful chords of their full-bodied music
With the color of the sunset reflected in my eyes.

It is there that I have lived in the voluptuous calms
In the middle of the blue, the waves, the splendors
And naked slaves, pervaded with odor,

That cooled my brow with palms
And whose only care was to fathom
The painful secret that made me languish.

La Vie antérieure
J'ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.

Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d'une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.

C'est là que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l'azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d'odeurs,

Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l'unique soin était d'approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.

Le Mauvais Moine/L'Ennemi

It's 9:30 on a Wednesday morning and I am effing exhausted. So much house drama last night, I couldn't take it. I need to buckle down and give myself some time to do what I want to do instead of spending all my time thinking I will be alone forever. My room is turning into a comparative cesspool and I have forgotten how to spell. Life, living it, never giving it back---huh!

The Bad Monk
The old monasteries on their prominent walls
Flaunted the holy Truth in pictures,
Whose impressions light up the pious insides,
Tempered the cold of their austerity.

In these times where the sowing of Christ flourished,
More than one celebrated monk, cited little today,
Taking a funeral field for his workshop,
He praised Death with simplicity.

—My soul is a tomb where, wicked cenobite,
Since eternity I travel and inhabit,
Nothing beautifies the walls of this execrable cloister.

Oh lazy monk! When will I know then to form
From the living spectacle of my sad destitution
The labor of my hands and the love of my eyes?

Le Mauvais Moine
Les cloîtres anciens sur leurs grandes murailles
Etalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,
Dont l'effet réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,
Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.

En ces temps où du Christ florissaient les semailles,
Plus d'un illustre moine, aujourd'hui peu cité,
Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles,
Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.

— Mon âme est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite,
Depuis l'éternité je parcours et j'habite;
Rien n'embellit les murs de ce cloître odieux.

Ô moine fainéant! quand saurai-je donc faire
Du spectacle vivant de ma triste misère
Le travail de mes mains et l'amour de mes yeux?

The Enemy
My youth has only been a dark thunderstorm,
Crossed here and there by brilliant sunshine;
Thunder and rain have made such a devastation,
That few ruby fruits stay well in my garden.

There I have touched the autumn of ideas,
And must employ the spade and the rakes,
In order to gather fresh flooded earth,
Where water hollows out holes great like tombs.

And who knows if the new flowers that I dream
Will find in this soil washed like the beach
The mystic food that would make their vigor?

—Sorrow! Sorrow! Time eats life,
And the hidden Enemy that gnaws the heart,
Grows and strengthens itself from the blood we lose!

L'Ennemi
Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu'il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voilà que j'ai touché l'automne des idées,
Et qu'il faut employer la pelle et les râteaux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l'eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

La Muse malade/La Muse vénale

Yesterday afternoon it rained and it poured. I sat out on the front porch of our main building at school and just wrote. I used to tell him that I loved the rain. I take off my shoes and walk through the puddles, feeling the warm water splash my ankles and seep into my eyes. I want to think that he thinks of me every time it rains, and as of late it has been doing so often and somewhat unexpectedly. I want to say that's how we were: sudden, unexpected, and brief like those torrential downpours that wash away what's past and submerge the ashes of your camels under their forgiving sheen. But fuck that. I want to believe it's not over. Maybe I'm blind. Maybe I'm stupid.

And since we are on the subject of muses, here are two from M. Baudelaire himself.

The Unhealthy Muse
My poor muse, alas! What have you then this morning?
Your hollow eyes are peopled with nocturnal visions,
And I see turn to turn reflected on your face,
Madness and horror, chilly and taciturn.

The green succubae and the rose-colored elf,
Have they poured for you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare, from a despotic and mischievous fist
Has it drowned you in the depths of the legendary Minturnae?

I would wish exhaling the odor of health
Your breast always to be frequented by strong thoughts,
And your Christian blood to run in rhythmic streams.

Like the many sounds of the old syllables,
Where they reign turn to turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and great Pan, the lord of the harvests.

La Muse malade
Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.

Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin
T'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?
Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin
T'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?

Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé
Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,
Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques,

Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,
Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,
Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.

The Venal Muse
Oh muse of my heart, lover of palaces,
Will you have, when January releases his North Winds,
During the black ennuis of the snowy nights,
A firebrand to warm your two blue feet?

Will you reanimate then your marbled shoulders
In the nocturne rays that pierce the shutters?
Knowing your purse is as dry as your palate
Will you harvest the gold of the vaulted blue?

You must, in order to win your bread every night,
Like a chorus boy, move the censer,
And sing the hymns that you scarcely believe,

Or, acrobat on an empty stomach, spread your charms
And your laughter soaked with tears which one does not see,
To make the vulgar spleen blossom.

La Muse vénale
Ô muse de mon coeur, amante des palais,
Auras-tu, quand Janvier lâchera ses Borées,
Durant les noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirées,
Un tison pour chauffer tes deux pieds violets?

Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées
Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets?
Sentant ta bourse à sec autant que ton palais
Récolteras-tu l'or des voûtes azurées?

II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir,
Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l'encensoir,
Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guère,

Ou, saltimbanque à jeun, étaler tes appas
Et ton rire trempé de pleurs qu'on ne voit pas,
Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.

Les Phares

I just posted a moment ago but I have a few more poems to put up before I fall really, really behind.

The Beacons
Rubens, river of oblivion, garden of idleness,
Pillow of cool flesh where one is not able to love,
But where life flows and stirs itself without cease,
Like the air in the sky and the sea in the sea;

Leonardo da Vinci, deep and somber mirror
Where the charming angels, with the sweet smiles
All full of mystery, appear to the ghost
Of the glaciers and the pines that close their lands.

Rembrandt, sad hospital all busy with murmurs,
And decorated only by a great crucifix,
Where tearful prayers exhale themselves from filth
And a wintry ray crosses curtly;

Michelangelo, muddled place where one sees Hercules
Mixing themselves with Christs, and rising straight
The mighty phantoms who in the twilights
Tear their shroud by stretching their fingers;

Boxer’s wrath, faun’s insolence,
You who knew to gather beauty from blackguards,
Great swollen heart of pride, frail and sallow man,
Puget, melancholy emperor of galley slaves;

Watteau, that carnival where goodness of famous hearts,
Like butterflies, wandering radiant,
Chilly patterns and weightless light through the chandeliers
Pour madness onto this whirling dance;

Goya, nightmare fraught with unknown things,
Fetuses one burns at the witches’ Sabbaths,
Old women at the mirror and children wholly nude,
Adjusting their stockings well to tempt the demons;

Delacroix, lake of blood haunted by evil angels,
Shadowed by a wood of firs always green,
Where, beneath the desolate sky, strange fanfares
Pass, like a smothered sigh from Weber;

These curses, these blasphemies, these complaints,
These ecstasies, these cries, these tears, these hymns,
Are an echo repeated by a thousand labyrinths;
It is divine opium for mortal hearts!

It is a cry repeated by a thousand sentinels,
An order sent back by a thousand megaphones;
It is a beacon lit over a thousand citadels,
A call from lost hunters in the great woods!

Because it is truly, Lord, the best evidence
That we are able to give from our dignity,
That this ardent sobbing furled from age to age
And comes to die on the edge of your eternity!

Les Phares
Rubens, fleuve d'oubli, jardin de la paresse,
Oreiller de chair fraîche où l'on ne peut aimer,
Mais où la vie afflue et s'agite sans cesse,
Comme l'air dans le ciel et la mer dans la mer;

Léonard de Vinci, miroir profond et sombre,
Où des anges charmants, avec un doux souris
Tout chargé de mystère, apparaissent à l'ombre
Des glaciers et des pins qui ferment leur pays;

Rembrandt, triste hôpital tout rempli de murmures,
Et d'un grand crucifix décoré seulement,
Où la prière en pleurs s'exhale des ordures,
Et d'un rayon d'hiver traversé brusquement;

Michel-Ange, lieu vague où l'on voit des Hercules
Se mêler à des Christs, et se lever tout droits
Des fantômes puissants qui dans les crépuscules
Déchirent leur suaire en étirant leurs doigts;

Colères de boxeur, impudences de faune,
Toi qui sus ramasser la beauté des goujats,
Grand coeur gonflé d'orgueil, homme débile et jaune,
Puget, mélancolique empereur des forçats;

Watteau, ce carnaval où bien des coeurs illustres,
Comme des papillons, errent en flamboyant,
Décors frais et légers éclairés par des lustres
Qui versent la folie à ce bal tournoyant;

Goya, cauchemar plein de choses inconnues,
De foetus qu'on fait cuire au milieu des sabbats,
De vieilles au miroir et d'enfants toutes nues,
Pour tenter les démons ajustant bien leurs bas;

Delacroix, lac de sang hanté des mauvais anges,
Ombragé par un bois de sapins toujours vert,
Où, sous un ciel chagrin, des fanfares étranges
Passent, comme un soupir étouffé de Weber;

Ces malédictions, ces blasphèmes, ces plaintes,
Ces extases, ces cris, ces pleurs, ces Te Deum,
Sont un écho redit par mille labyrinthes;
C'est pour les coeurs mortels un divin opium!

C'est un cri répété par mille sentinelles,
Un ordre renvoyé par mille porte-voix;
C'est un phare allumé sur mille citadelles,
Un appel de chasseurs perdus dans les grands bois!

Car c'est vraiment, Seigneur, le meilleur témoignage
Que nous puissions donner de notre dignité
Que cet ardent sanglot qui roule d'âge en âge
Et vient mourir au bord de votre éternité!

J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues

I want to say that after this weekend I have officially lost my muse. Granted, it really won't affect the translation project but it still seems like terrible timing. I am mostly upset because I am not more upset about it. You know, in that open-your-veins-and-dissolve kind of way. I am just kind of what-ev-er about it. I know he settled and that he is not happy though it does me little or no good to think that. Well poo to him. I am getting a bit behind on the posting here because I have been too caught up in my own selfish meanderings. Oh well, here goes.

I love the memory of these naked epochs

I love the memory of these naked epochs,
Whose statues Phoebus pleased himself to gild.
Then man and woman in their agility
Enjoyed without falsehood and without anxiety,
And, the amorous sky fondling their spine,
Exercised the health of their noble machine.
Then Cybele, fertile in generous produce,
Did not find her children a load too heavy,
But, a she-wolf in whose heart flowed communal tenderness
She watered the universe with her dark-brown nipples.
Man, elegant, robust and strong, had the right
To be proud of the beauties that named him their king;
Fruits clear of every outrage and unbroken from cracks,
Whose flesh slick and firm invited bites!

The Poet today, when he wishes to imagine
These innate grandeurs, in places where they see
The nudity of the man and that of the female,
He feels a dark chill envelope his soul
Before the dark scene fraught with terror.
Oh, monstrosities crying their clothes!
Oh, ridiculous trunks! Torsos fit for masks!
Oh, poor bodies bent, skimpy, paunchy or flaccid,
That the god of Usefulness, remorseless and serene,
Children, wrapped in swaddling clothes of brass!
And you, women, alas! Pale as candles,
That gnaw and that nourish the debauchery, and you, virgins,
Who drag the heredity of maternal vice
And all the hideousness of fertility!

We have, it is true, corrupt nations,
Beauty unknown to the ancient peoples:
Of faces gnawed by cankers of the heart,
And that which one would call beauties of listlessness;
But these inventions of our tardy muses
Will never prevent the unhealthy races
From paying to youth an homage profound,
—To holy youth, to simple air, to gentle brow,
To eye clean and clear like running water,
Which goes spilling over all, heedless,
Like the blue of the sky, the birds and the flowers,
Its perfumes, its songs and its sweet warmth!

J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues
J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues,
Dont Phoebus se plaisait à dorer les statues.
Alors l'homme et la femme en leur agilité
Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété,
Et, le ciel amoureux leur caressant l'échine,
Exerçaient la santé de leur noble machine.
Cybèle alors, fertile en produits généreux,
Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux,
Mais, louve au coeur gonflé de tendresses communes
Abreuvait l'univers à ses tétines brunes.
L'homme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit
D'être fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi;
Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gerçures,
Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures!

Le Poète aujourd'hui, quand il veut concevoir
Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux où se font voir
La nudité de l'homme et celle de la femme,
Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son âme
Devant ce noir tableau plein d'épouvantement.
Ô monstruosités pleurant leur vêtement!
Ô ridicules troncs! torses dignes des masques!
Ô pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques,
Que le dieu de l'Utile, implacable et serein,
Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d'airain!
Et vous, femmes, hélas! pâles comme des cierges,
Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges,
Du vice maternel traînant l'hérédité
Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité!

Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues,
Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues:
Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur,
Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur;
Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives
N'empêcheront jamais les races maladives
De rendre à la jeunesse un hommage profond,
— À la sainte jeunesse, à l'air simple, au doux front,
À l'oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu'une eau courante,
Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante
Comme l'azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs,
Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs!

L'Albatros/Élévation/Correspondances

I have been a bit depressed lately due to a number of circumstances that are mostly beyond my control. I suppose there's a point where my self-imposed alcoholism stops being poetic and starts being pathetic. I give myself another couple days and if things don't change by then I may call it quits.

Below are three different poems. They are all short (comparatively speaking) so I hope this is tolerable. I am also trying to figure out what's going on with my illustrations. Also, happy Friday the 13th.

The Albatross
Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a company
Capture albatrosses, huge birds of the sea,
Which follow, lazy companions of the journey,
The ship gliding over the bitter chasms.

Barely had they dumped them on the boards,
That these kings of the blue, clumsy and shamed,
Let their great white wings pitifully
Drag alongside them like oars.

This winged voyager, how he is awkward and weak!
He, so beautiful before, he is shapeless and funny!
One aggravates his beak with a pipe,
The other mimics, limping, the cripple who flew!

The Poet resembles the prince of the clouds
Who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer;
Exiled on the soil in the middle of jeers,
His giant wings keep him from walking.

L'Albatros
Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

Elevation
Above the lakes, above the valleys,
The mountains, the forests, the clouds, the seas,
Across the sun, across the ether,
Across the confines of the starry spheres,

My, spirit you move with agility,
And, like a good swimmer swoons in the sea,
You gaily furrow the profound immensity
With an unspeakable and manly pleasure.

Take flight far away from these morbid miasmas;
Go purify yourself in the upper air,
And drink, like a pure and heavenly liquor,
The clear fire that fills the lucid spaces.

Behind the worries and the great sorrows
That load with our heaviness the hazy existence,
Happy the one who is able with his vigorous wing
To thrust himself over the fields luminous and serene;

The one whose thoughts, like skylarks,
Towards the morning sky takes free flight
—Who soars over life, and understands without effort
The language of the flowers and the silent things!

Élévation
Au-dessus des étangs, au-dessus des vallées,
Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers,
Par delà le soleil, par delà les éthers,
Par delà les confins des sphères étoilées,

Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilité,
Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pâme dans l'onde,
Tu sillonnes gaiement l'immensité profonde
Avec une indicible et mâle volupté.

Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides;
Va te purifier dans l'air supérieur,
Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,
Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.

Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins
Qui chargent de leur poids l'existence brumeuse,
Heureux celui qui peut d'une aile vigoureuse
S'élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins;

Correspondences
Nature is a temple where living pillars
Sometimes let out confused words;
Man passes there to traverse the forest of symbols
Which observe him with familiar gazes.

Like the long echoes that confuse themselves in the distance
In a dark and deep unity,
Vast like the night and the clarity,
The perfumes, the colors and the sounds that answer them.

There are perfumes cool like the flesh of children,
Sweet like oboes, green like the meadows,
—And others, corrupt, rich, and triumphant,

Having the expansiveness of infinite things,
Like amber, musk, benzoin, and incense,
That sing the transport of the spirit and the senses.

Correspondances
La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.

Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.

II est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
— Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,

Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.

Bénédiction

I am still working out some kinks with the whole post-cutting business so I am afraid that this may look at bit funny for awhile. Ah well. At least it will save a bit of space for the time being. Behind the cut is Baudelaire's first poem in the "Spleen et Ideal" section of Les Fleurs du Mal, which is entitled "Bénédiction". It is our first introduction to the Poet as a character, a character that will undoubtedly show up time and time again throughout the course of Les Fleurs du Mal. This whole poem seems to smack a bit of martyrdom-complex and self-righteousness, though sometimes one can't help but wonder if that kind of attitude is completely inappropriate given the circumstances.

Benediction

When, by a decree from supreme powers,
The Poet appears in this uninterested world,
His mother terrified and fraught with blasphemies,
Contracts her fists toward God, who takes pity on her.

“Ah, that I would have laid down a whole knot of vipers,
Instead of nursing this ridicule!
Cursed is the night of fleeting pleasures
Where my stomach conceived my atonement!

Since you have chosen me among all women
To be the disgust of my sad spouse,
And that I am not able to throw into the flames,
Like a love-letter, this stunted monster.

I will cause your hatred to flow, that which overpowers me
Over the cursed implement of your cruelties,
And wring so hard this miserable tree,
That he will not be able to grow these stinking buds!”

She reduces thus the froth of her hatred,
And, not comprehending the eternal designs
She prepares for herself deep down in Gehenna
The pyres consecrated to maternal crimes.

However, under the invisible guard of an Angel,
The disinherited Child gets drunk from the sun,
And in all that he drinks, and in all that he eats
He finds the ambrosia and the ruddy nectar.

He plays with the wind, he reasons with the clouds,
And, intoxicated with singing goes the way of the cross;
And the Spirit that follows him on the pilgrimage
Cries from seeing him happy as a bird of the forest.

All those whom he wants to love watch him with fear,
Or easily, they embolden themselves with his tranquility,
They seek to know what will pull a lament from him,
And build over him the attempt at savagery.

In the bread and the wine destined for his mouth
They mix the cinder with the unchaste spit,
With hypocrisy they throw that which he touches,
And they blame themselves, having put their feet in his footprints.

His woman goes crying in public places:
“Because he finds me beautiful enough to adore,
I will take the trade of the old idols,
And like them I wish to be re-gilded;

I will get drunk from spikenard, from incense, from myrrh,
From genuflections, from meats and from wines,
For knowing that I can in the heart that admires me
Usurp with laughter the divine gifts!

And, when I am bored of these impious jokes,
I will lay my frail and strong hand over him;
And my nails, similar to harpies’ nails,
They will know to open themselves a path up to his heart.

Like a very young bird that trembles and that palpitates,
I will wrest this heart all red from his breast,
And, in order to satisfy my favorite beast,
I will throw it to the ground with disdain!”

Toward the Heavens, where his eye sees a splendid throne,
The tranquil poet raises his pious arms
And the far-flung lightning of his lucid spirit
Steals the furious people from his sight:

—“You are hallowed, my God, who gives us suffering
As a divine remedy for our impurities
And as the best and purest essence
That prepares the strong for holy pleasure!

I know that you keep a place for the Poet
In the blessed ranks of holy Legions,
And that you invite him to the eternal feast
Of Thrones, of Virtues, of Dominations.

I know that suffering is the only nobility
Where earth and hell will never bite,
And in order to plait my mystical crown
It is necessary to tax every time and every universe.

But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyria
The unfamiliar metals, the pearls of the sea,
Mounted by your hand, would not suffice,
To that beautiful diadem, dazzling and clear;

Because it will be made from pure light alone,
Drawn from the holy home of primal rays,
And to our mortal eyes, in their undivided splendor,
Are not from dark and mournful mirrors."

Bénédiction

Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes,
Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé,
Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes
Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié:

— «Ah! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un noeud de vipères,
Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision!
Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémères
Où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation!

Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmes
Pour être le dégoût de mon triste mari,
Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes,
Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri,

Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accable
Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés,
Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable,
Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!»

Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine,
Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels,
Elle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne
Les bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels.

Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange,
L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil
Et dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mange
Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil.

II joue avec le vent, cause avec le nuage,
Et s'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix;
Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinage
Pleure de le voir gai comme un oiseau des bois.

Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l'observent avec crainte,
Ou bien, s'enhardissant de sa tranquillité,
Cherchent à qui saura lui tirer une plainte,
Et font sur lui l'essai de leur férocité.

Dans le pain et le vin destinés à sa bouche
Ils mêlent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats;
Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche,
Et s'accusent d'avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas.

Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques:
«Puisqu'il me trouve assez belle pour m'adorer,
Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques,
Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer;

Et je me soûlerai de nard, d'encens, de myrrhe,
De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins,
Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m'admire
Usurper en riant les hommages divins!

Et, quand je m'ennuierai de ces farces impies,
Je poserai sur lui ma frêle et forte main;
Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies,
Sauront jusqu'à son coeur se frayer un chemin.

Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite,
J'arracherai ce coeur tout rouge de son sein,
Et, pour rassasier ma bête favorite
Je le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain!»

Vers le Ciel, où son oeil voit un trône splendide,
Le Poète serein lève ses bras pieux
Et les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucide
Lui dérobent l'aspect des peuples furieux:

— «Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffrance
Comme un divin remède à nos impuretés
Et comme la meilleure et la plus pure essence
Qui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés!

Je sais que vous gardez une place au Poète
Dans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions,
Et que vous l'invitez à l'éternelle fête
Des Trônes, des Vertus, des Dominations.

Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse unique
Où ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers,
Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystique
Imposer tous les temps et tous les univers.

Mais les bijoux perdus de l'antique Palmyre,
Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer,
Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffire
A ce beau diadème éblouissant et clair;
Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumière,
Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs,
Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière,
Ne sont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs!»

------------------------

We sat in bed and said a lot of stupid shit. But he looked at the ceiling and said "I wonder what it would be like if I just dragged you to Chicago with me. We both really want to get married."
I've been on a bender. Tuesday through Sunday with a short break on Thursday night for idleness and social responsibility. I'm falling hard and when he crawls next to me over the starchy ocean of my covers I want to melt. But they're never different, they all say. Would to God. Pissed-off poets.

Au Lecteur

Someday I will figure out how to format these effing posts. Right now it is just miles and miles of text. Enjoy.

To the Reader

Folly, error, sin, greed,
Occupy our spirits and work our bodies,
And we nourish our amiable remorse
As the beggars feed their vermin.

Our sins are headstrong, our repentances are cowardly;
We make each other pay highly for our confessions,
And we gaily re-enter onto the muddy way,
Believing we cleanse all our stains with loathsome tears.

On the cushion of evil there is Thrice-Great Satan,
Who rocks our enchanted spirits at length,
And the full-bodied metal of our willpower
Is altogether vaporized by this learned alchemist.

It is the devil that holds the strings that stir us!
In repugnant objects we find charms;
Every day we descend toward hell by a footstep,
Without horror, to traverse the stinking darkness.

As a poor libertine who kisses and eats
The tortured breast of an ancient harlot,
In passing we steal a hidden pleasure
Which we squeeze well like an old orange.

Skin-tight, swarming, like a million maggots,
In our brains a legion of Demons carouse,
And, when we breathe, Death into our lungs
Descends, invisible river, with dull wails.

If rape, poison, dagger, fire,
Have not yet embroidered their pleasant designs onto
The banal canvas of our pitiful fortunes,
It is that our soul, alas! Is not hard enough.

But among the jackals, panthers, hounds,
Monkeys, scorpions, vultures, serpents,
The barking monsters, howling, growling, crawling,
In the despicable menagerie of our vices,

There is one more ugly, more nasty, more ignoble!
Although he does not move either grand gestures or grand cries,
He would gladly make the earth into rubble,
And with a yawn he would swallow the world;

He is Ennui! His eye burdened with an involuntary tear,
He dreams of scaffolds while he smokes his hooka.
You know him, reader, the delicate monster,
—Hypocrite reader! —My selfsame—my brother!

Au Lecteur

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.

Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,

II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;

C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!

Dedication

This is barely a poem at all but simply a note of dedication to Baudelaire's friend Théophile Gautier.
It is the first translation posted here. More to follow either tomorrow or tonight depending on whether or not I decide I want to go on another drinking spree.
--------------------

Dédicace

Au poète impeccable
Au parfait magicien ès lettres françaises
A mon très-cher et très-vénéré
Maître et ami
Théophile Gautier
Avec les sentiments
De la plus profonde humilité
Je dédie
Ces fleurs maladives
C.B.

Dedication

To the impeccable poet,
To the perfect magician in French letters
To my very-dear and very-venerated
Master and friend
Théophile Gautier
With sentiments
Of more profound humility
I dedicate
These morbid flowers.
C.B.

An introduction

Well this blog is new and I cannot possibly imagine how anyone will manage to find it, but I figure it is mostly for my own benefit at this point. I haven't quite gotten started on the actual mechanics of the poetry yet but I figured I would start with some random information about what's going on.

I am hoping to get through the 1868 edition of Les Fleurs du Mal, an edition that was published posthumously and includes about 14 poems that were unpublished during Baudelaire's lifetime.

I have not figured out a system yet. This is entirely a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants endeavor and I hope I can get something out of it.

Stay tuned, imaginary audience!

E.