Lola de Valence/La Lune offensée

For some odd reason I have never really realized the disparity between my work environment and what I do while I am in said environment. I spend the day with my thoughts and this beautiful poetry. But the world around me is mundane and trite to the point of desperation. This is no judgment on those around me: if it makes them happy then they should continue onward. But as for me, my arms are broken having embraced the clouds. Or something. Sometimes I wonder if I truly am the way I perceive myself and not just as trite as the rest of them. Eh.

Now that Spleen is done I am trying to retroactively analyze it and figure out if there is some common theme or story going on. I spent the whole time I was translating just sitting around, drinking and moping. Now I must get my ass in gear. Still dreaming of logic games and analytic reasoning puzzles. Fuck it.

Baudelaire wrote another poem on a painting. OMG for realz. It is a tribute to Édouard Manet's "Lola of Valencia"

Lola of Valencia
Among so many beauties that one can see everywhere,
I survey well, friends, that desire hesitates;
But one sees sparkling in Lola of Valencia
The unexpected charm of a black and rosy jewel.


Lola de Valence
Entre tant de beautés que partout on peut voir,
Je contemple bien, amis, que le désir balance;
Mais on voit scintiller en Lola de Valence
Le charme inattendu d'un bijou rose et noir.


The Offended Moon
Oh Moon that our fathers discreetly adored,
From the height of the blue countries where, radiant seraglio,
The stars follow you in smart attire,
My old Cynthia, lamp of our sanctums,

Do you see the lovers on their prosperous pallets,
Showing the cold enamel of their mouths while sleeping?
The poet bumping his head on his work?
Or the vipers coupling on the dry grass?

Under your yellow domino, and your hidden foot,
Do you go, as before, from evening to morning,
Kissing the quaint graces of Endymion?

—“I see your mother, child of this impoverished century,
Who tilts a heavy heap of years toward her mirror,
And artfully plasters the breast that nourished you!”

La Lune offensée
Ô Lune qu'adoraient discrétement nos pères,
Du haut des pays bleus où, radieux sérail,
Les astres vont te suivre en pimpant attirail,
Ma vieille Cynthia, lampe de nos repaires,

Vois-tu les amoureux sur leurs grabats prospères,
De leur bouche en dormant montrer le frais émail?
Le poète buter du front sur son travail?
Ou sous les gazons secs s'accoupler les vipères?

Sous ton domino jaune, et d'un pied clandestin,
Vas-tu, comme jadis, du soir jusqu'au matin,
Baiser d'Endymion les grâces surannées?

— «Je vois ta mère, enfant de ce siècle appauvri,
Qui vers son miroir penche un lourd amas d'années,
Et plâtre artistement le sein qui t'a nourri!»
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So please, the mediocrity of your existence is not such that you must abandon all hope. Unfortunately, the climate tells us otherwise. I want out, out. Soon enough, I guess. No more rage, if nothing else. Just a healthy amount of concern.