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The Poetry of Charles Baudelaire
Les Fleurs du mal was the first and most influential book of poems by Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867). Its themes of sex, death and the corruption of the city were considered scandalous when it was first published in 1857; only later was Baudelaire recognized as one of the greatest French poets of the 19th century. This volume presents all his published poetry, including the innovative poems in prose, in translations from classic editions.
78 pages, Paperback
First published August 16, 2012
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Charles Baudelaire
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Les fleurs du mal
(1857), obscene only volume of French writer, translator, and critic Charles Pierre Baudelaire; expanded in 1861, it exerted an enormous influence over later symbolist and modernist poets.
Reputation of Charles Pierre Baudelaire rests primarily on perhaps the most important literary art collection, published in Europe in the 19th century. Similarly, his early experiment Petits poèmes en prose (1868) ( Little Prose Poems ) most succeeded and innovated of the time.
From financial disaster to prosecution for blasphemy, drama and strife filled life of known Baudelaire with highly controversial and often dark tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Long after his death, his name represents depravity and vice. He seemingly speaks directly to the 20th century civilization.
Reputation of Charles Pierre Baudelaire rests primarily on perhaps the most important literary art collection, published in Europe in the 19th century. Similarly, his early experiment Petits poèmes en prose (1868) ( Little Prose Poems ) most succeeded and innovated of the time.
From financial disaster to prosecution for blasphemy, drama and strife filled life of known Baudelaire with highly controversial and often dark tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Long after his death, his name represents depravity and vice. He seemingly speaks directly to the 20th century civilization.
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May 1, 2022
— 𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 — 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒶 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓎𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝑜𝓃 — 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒶 𝓇𝑜𝑜𝓂 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝒶𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝑒 — 𝒶 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒻𝒻 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑜𝑜𝓂 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓉 𝒻𝒶𝓇 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎 — 𝒶 𝒹𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓈𝓎 𝓈𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓍 — 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑒 — 𝐼’𝓂 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓊𝓅𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓋𝑒𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝒶𝑔𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹 — 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓏𝑒; 𝐼 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝓎𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝒶𝓈 —
“𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁: 𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐻𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓋𝒶𝑔𝓊𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈; 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓇𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉; 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓃 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝓁𝑜𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈.”
“I love your long green slumberous eyes”
“𝐻𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝑔𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝓎, 𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓏𝓏𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒. 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌. 𝐼𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝑜𝓇 𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌, 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓈, 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈, 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝓈.
𝒫𝑒𝓇𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒: ‘𝒜𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎?’ 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝒾𝒻 𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒, 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒶𝓂, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒶𝓂?”
“𝐿𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓁, 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒹. 𝒪𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝒻𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇 𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝒻 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌. 𝐼𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒷𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝓁𝓈𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑜𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁. 𝑀𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓃𝑜 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇. 𝑀𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉.”
“𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓋𝓊𝓁𝑔𝒶𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹.”
“𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁: 𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐻𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓋𝒶𝑔𝓊𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈; 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓇𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉; 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓃 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝓁𝑜𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈.”
“I love your long green slumberous eyes”
“𝐻𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝑔𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝓎, 𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓏𝓏𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒. 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌. 𝐼𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝑜𝓇 𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌, 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓈, 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈, 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝓈.
𝒫𝑒𝓇𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒: ‘𝒜𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎?’ 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝒾𝒻 𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝑒, 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒶𝓂, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒶𝓂?”
“𝐿𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓁, 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒹. 𝒪𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝒻𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇 𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝒻 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌. 𝐼𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒷𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝓁𝓈𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑜𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁. 𝑀𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓃𝑜 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇. 𝑀𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉.”
“𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓋𝓊𝓁𝑔𝒶𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹.”
April 14, 2026
Book 7/20 of Kristen's TBR Project.
Happy Nation Poetry Month! I was gifted this book, because I liked the cover. I know nothing about French poetry, or poetry in translation, or really a lot about poetry at all. I simply thought it was a nice looking little book. I'm not even sure if it's part of a series with other nice covers of poetry books, since the display in the store (nearly 5 years ago) only had this one.
That being said, I evidently went into this book very blind. As I learned from the blurb inside Beaudelaire had a very "live fast, die young" attitude. He wasted away his money on women, and gambling, and booze. He contracted syphilis. He was shipped off to Mauritius. He ended up dying around age 40. I see these aspects of his (short) life come across in his work. He is pre-occupied with the relationship between life and death. He often writes about being broke, but while also hating poor people. He is often waxing about attractive women in far off lands.
I don't think the poetry is bad… even if I didn't particularly enjoy most of it. It's difficult to know with translated works, how the original read. Is this version I read authentic to the author's intention? As I found out, one of the translators in this book (Pearce) was dedicated to Baudelaire's work and poet himself. His translations were more enjoyable than some of the others, and I'd like to think his dedication to the body. Even so, I understand this book was likely published as a cutesy shelf book, not thinking anyone would read through 200+ poems straight through… but I really wish some of the poems had the original French version on the opposite side to compare. Simultaneously, I don't care enough to look up the French originals online.
Of the 150+ poems I read, only a single line really captivated and stood out to me: "when horror comes the way that beauty went." (S11L4 "A Dance With Death" ) I think this is such an evocative image of death.
And of the 150+ poems I read, only 3 felt worth noting: "Reversibility," "The Ghost," and "At One O'Clock in the Morning." The latter being one of the prose poems, and from it, I quite enjoyed the lines "I have boasted (why?) of several villainous deeds I never committed, and indignantly denied certain shameful things I accomplished with joy." Lying because you're bored has existed forever it seems…
On that note - the book contains a section for 'poetry in prose' which are longer pieces, some spanning up to 3 pages. I think this is a marketing term, because in my head poetry (verse) is directly opposite to prose, so how can it be prose poetry? Even while reading them, to me, they are just longer, freeform poems. Either way, I actually enjoyed these longer poems a lot more than the typical verse poems in the first 3/4 of the book. Perhaps they are easier to translate, and the forced rhyme schemes aren't as much an obvious impediment. Maybe I also enjoyed the somewhat narrative aspect they offered.
Happy Nation Poetry Month! I was gifted this book, because I liked the cover. I know nothing about French poetry, or poetry in translation, or really a lot about poetry at all. I simply thought it was a nice looking little book. I'm not even sure if it's part of a series with other nice covers of poetry books, since the display in the store (nearly 5 years ago) only had this one.
That being said, I evidently went into this book very blind. As I learned from the blurb inside Beaudelaire had a very "live fast, die young" attitude. He wasted away his money on women, and gambling, and booze. He contracted syphilis. He was shipped off to Mauritius. He ended up dying around age 40. I see these aspects of his (short) life come across in his work. He is pre-occupied with the relationship between life and death. He often writes about being broke, but while also hating poor people. He is often waxing about attractive women in far off lands.
I don't think the poetry is bad… even if I didn't particularly enjoy most of it. It's difficult to know with translated works, how the original read. Is this version I read authentic to the author's intention? As I found out, one of the translators in this book (Pearce) was dedicated to Baudelaire's work and poet himself. His translations were more enjoyable than some of the others, and I'd like to think his dedication to the body. Even so, I understand this book was likely published as a cutesy shelf book, not thinking anyone would read through 200+ poems straight through… but I really wish some of the poems had the original French version on the opposite side to compare. Simultaneously, I don't care enough to look up the French originals online.
Of the 150+ poems I read, only a single line really captivated and stood out to me: "when horror comes the way that beauty went." (S11L4 "A Dance With Death" ) I think this is such an evocative image of death.
And of the 150+ poems I read, only 3 felt worth noting: "Reversibility," "The Ghost," and "At One O'Clock in the Morning." The latter being one of the prose poems, and from it, I quite enjoyed the lines "I have boasted (why?) of several villainous deeds I never committed, and indignantly denied certain shameful things I accomplished with joy." Lying because you're bored has existed forever it seems…
On that note - the book contains a section for 'poetry in prose' which are longer pieces, some spanning up to 3 pages. I think this is a marketing term, because in my head poetry (verse) is directly opposite to prose, so how can it be prose poetry? Even while reading them, to me, they are just longer, freeform poems. Either way, I actually enjoyed these longer poems a lot more than the typical verse poems in the first 3/4 of the book. Perhaps they are easier to translate, and the forced rhyme schemes aren't as much an obvious impediment. Maybe I also enjoyed the somewhat narrative aspect they offered.
July 17, 2020
Life, Death, and Other Miscellanies...
This is a pretty good translation of a 19 Century French poet, Baudelaire. There are other better translators out there. At least, this has not disappointed me. It’s a pretty good book of poesies, Flowers of Evil. Still, I’ve yet to find a better translation. Recommended though.
This is a pretty good translation of a 19 Century French poet, Baudelaire. There are other better translators out there. At least, this has not disappointed me. It’s a pretty good book of poesies, Flowers of Evil. Still, I’ve yet to find a better translation. Recommended though.
August 5, 2021
The quality of imagery and ease of wordplay make this work an enjoyable read. It should, however, be noted that the poet's preference for topics of death, poverty, and exploration of his own ennui and encounters with evil prevent this from being light enjoyment reading.
April 8, 2022
Translating poetry is tricky. So is reading translated poetry. I don’t know if I’m not fond of the translations of these poems or if I just don’t like Baudelaire’s poetry. Either way, I found myself skimming most of the poems and eventually realized that I wasn’t going to finish this book.
April 11, 2020
One of the prose here "The Eyes Of The Poor" was re-written as the song "How Beautiful You Are" by The Cure. Beautifully morbid.
April 10, 2015
Gotta be: one of my favorite poets. Also: some of the best poems ever set to music (Duparc).
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
See how the ships, asleep—
They who would ply the deep!—
Line the canals: to satisfy
Your merest whim they come
From far-flung heathendom
And skim the seven seas. —On high,
The sunset's rays enfold
In hyacinth and gold,
Field and canal; and, with the night,
As shadows gently fall,
Behold! Life sleeps, and all
Lies bathed in warmth and evening light.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
See how the ships, asleep—
They who would ply the deep!—
Line the canals: to satisfy
Your merest whim they come
From far-flung heathendom
And skim the seven seas. —On high,
The sunset's rays enfold
In hyacinth and gold,
Field and canal; and, with the night,
As shadows gently fall,
Behold! Life sleeps, and all
Lies bathed in warmth and evening light.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
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