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Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire

1821-04-09 Paris, França
1867-08-31 Paris, França
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Some Poems

We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.

Le Gout du Néant

Le Gout 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 bute.
The world only goes round by misunderstanding.
It is the greatest art of the devil to convince us he does not exist.
I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.

Evening Harmony

Evening Harmony
The hour has come at last when, trembling to and fro,
Each flower is a censer sifting its perfume;
The scent and sounds all swirl in evening’s gentle fume;
A melancholy waltz, a languid vertigo!
Each flower is a censer sifting its perfume;
A violin’s vibrato wounds the heart of woe;
A melancholy waltz, a languid vertigo!
The sky, a lofty altar, lovely in the gloom,
A violin’s vibrato wounds the heart of woe,
A tender heart detests the black of nullity,
The sky, a lofty altar, lovely in the gloom;
The sun is drowning in the evening’s blood-red glow.
A tender heart detests the black of nullity,
And lovingly preserves each trace of long ago!
The sun is drowning in the evening’s blood-red glow …
Your memory shines through me like an ostensory!
Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

Get Drunk

Get Drunk
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

Lethe

Lethe
Come to my heart, cruel, insensible one,
Adored tiger, monster with the indolent air;
I would for a long time plunge my trembling fingers
Into the heavy tresses of your hair;
And in your garments that exhale your perfume
I would bury my aching head,
And breathe, like a withered flower,
The sweet, stale reek of my love that is dead.
I want to sleep! sleep rather than live!
And in a slumber, dubious as the tomb's,
I would lavish my kisses without remorse
Upon the burnished copper of your limbs.
To swallow my abated sobs
Nothing equals your bed's abyss;
Forgetfulness dwells in your mouth,
And Lethe flows from your kiss.
My destiny, henceforth my pleasure,
I shall obey, predestined instrument,
Docile martyr, condemned innocent,
Whose fervour but augments his torment.
I shall suck, to drown my rancour,
Nepenthe, hemlock, an opiate,
At the charming tips of this pointed breast
That has never imprisoned a heart.

The Enemy

The Enemy
My youth was nothing but a black storm
Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.
The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores
Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once.
I should employ the rake and the plow,
Having reached the autumn of ideas,
To restore this inundated ground
Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees.
And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed
Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned
The mystic nourishment that fortifies?
—O Sorrow—O Sorrow—Time consumes Life,
And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart
Uses the blood that I lose to play my part.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
Charles Baudelaire was born in Paris. He made a name as an art critic and translator of Edgar Allan Poe, but his fame rests on the poems of Les Fleurs du Mal. He visited Mauritius in but lived most of his life in Paris in poverty on a small allowance. He is pre-eminently the poet of the City, and an illusory immorality clings to his poetry that reveals, in reality, the sensitivity of a deeply moral spirit.
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Charles Baudelaire (Part 1): The Poet's Life
Por que ler: CHARLES BAUDELAIRE - As Flores do Mal
Charles Baudelaire - The Beauty and Horror of Modern Life
Charles Baudelaire - vita e opere
Comment Charles Baudelaire a écrit "Les Fleurs du Mal"
Charles Baudelaire - Les Fleurs du Mal (and Selected Poems) BOOK REVIEW
La minute de poésie : L'albatros [Charles Baudelaire]
Tédio | Poema de Charles Baudelaire com narração de Mundo Dos Poemas
Charles Baudelaire - Los gatos
Charles Baudelaire en 10 choses à savoir - Culture Prime
Charles Baudelaire (Part 2): The Poetics of Evil
Charles Baudelaire - Les fleurs du mal
Baudelaire: Flowers of Evil
Au cœur de l'histoire: Charles Baudelaire (Franck Ferrand)
Charles Baudelaire - O Veneno (As Flores do Mal) - tradução do poema por Luís Delfino
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE Poems: HYMN TO BEAUTY (A Poem by Charles Baudelaire)
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821-1867) – Une vie, une œuvre [2011]
Be Drunk by Charles Baudelaire [with subtitles] read by Arthur L Wood
EMBRIAGUEM-SE – Charles Baudelaire
RESENHA #143: FLORES DO MAL | LES FLEURS DU MAL, de CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
La minute de poésie : Poèmes Choisis [Charles Baudelaire]
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Charles Baudelaire's "The Flowers of Evil" (Les Fleurs du mal), translated by Aaron Poochigian
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Literatura Fundamental 02 - As Flores do Mal - Álvaro Faleiro
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EMBRIÁGUENSE. Charles Baudelaire.
Les FLEURS du MAL : Introduction à la poésie de Baudelaire
El Spleen de Charles Baudelaire en Charles Chaplin | MÁS LITERATURA
Enivrez-vous, Charles Baudelaire - Animated Poem
🌸Charles BAUDELAIRE – Español
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), le poète "maudit" (2020 - Toute une vie / France Culture)
Pourquoi Baudelaire écrit-il de la poésie ? avec Jérôme Thélot, professeur de littérature.
Thierry Ardisson rencontre Charles Baudelaire | INA Arditube
Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire | Bac français 2023
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"EMBRIÁGUENSE" de Charles Baudelaire por Ricardo Vonte
Be Drunk by Charles Baudelaire - Poetry Reading

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