Tags: charles baudelaire

Eva: Shadows of the deepest blue

Carrion - Charles Baudelaire

Remember, my soul, the thing we saw that lovely summer day?
On a pile of stones where the path turned off, the hideous carrion-
Legs in the air, like a whore - displayed, indifferent to the last,
A belly slick with lethal sweat and swollen with foul gas.

The sun lit up that rottenness as though to roast it through,
Restoring to Nature a hundredfold what she had here made one.
And heaven watched the splendid corpse like a flower open wide-
You nearly fainted dead away at the perfume it gave off.

Flies kept humming over the guts from which a gleaming clot
Of maggots poured to finish off what scraps of flesh remained.
The tide of trembling vermin sank, then bubbled up afresh
As if the carcass, drawing breath, by their lives lived again
And made a curious music there - like running water, or wind,
Or the rattle of chaff the winnower loosens in his fan.

Shapeless - nothing was left but a dream the artist had sketched in,
Forgotten, and only later on finished from memory.
Behind the rocks an anxious bitch eyed us reproachfully,
Waiting for the chance to resume her interrupted feast.

Yet you will come to this offense, this horrible decay,
Wou, the light of my life, the sun and the moon and the stars of my love!
Yes, you will come to this, my queen, after the sacraments,
When you rot underground among the bones already there.

But as their kisses eat you up, my Beauty, tell the worms
I've kept the sacred essence, saved the form of my rotted loves!
-- The woods are dark and deep

Ill-Starred - Charles Baudelaire

To bear a weight that cannot be borne,
Sisyphus, even you aren't that strong,
Although your heart cannot be torn
Time is short and Art is long.
Far from celebrated sepulchers
Toward a solitary graveyard
My heart, like a drum muffled hard
Beats a funeral march for the ill-starred.

—Many jewels are buried or shrouded
In darkness and oblivion's clouds,
Far from any pick or drill bit,

Many a flower unburdens with regret
Its perfume sweet like a secret;
In profoundly empty solitude to sit.
|| EA: Low tide and high tea

The Sick Muse - Charles Baudelaire

Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, today?
Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,
Upon thy brow in alternation play,
Madness and Horror, cold and taciturn.

Have the green lemur and goblin red,
Poured on thee love and terror from their urn?
Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread
Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne?

Would that thy breast, where so deep thoughts arise,
Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs;
Would that thy Christian blood ran by wave by wave

In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave,
When Phoebus shared his alternating reign
With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.