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.