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Twenty Prose Poems
From the introduction by Michael Hamburger:
“Baudelaire's prose poems were written at long intervals during the last twelve or thirteen years of his life. The prose poem was a medium much suited to his habits and character. Being pre-eminently a moralist, he needed a medium that enabled him to illustrate a moral insight as briefly and vividly as possible. Being an artist and sensualist, he needed a medium that was epigrammatic or aphoristic, but allowed him scope for fantasy and for that element of suggestiveness which he considered essential to beauty. His thinking about society and politics, as about everything else, was experimental; like the thinking of most poets it drew on experience and imagination, rather than on facts and general arguments. That is another reason why the prose poem proved a medium so congenial to Baudelaire.”
Translation of selections from: Le spleen de Paris.
Original French text accompanied by English translation on opposite pages.
“Baudelaire's prose poems were written at long intervals during the last twelve or thirteen years of his life. The prose poem was a medium much suited to his habits and character. Being pre-eminently a moralist, he needed a medium that enabled him to illustrate a moral insight as briefly and vividly as possible. Being an artist and sensualist, he needed a medium that was epigrammatic or aphoristic, but allowed him scope for fantasy and for that element of suggestiveness which he considered essential to beauty. His thinking about society and politics, as about everything else, was experimental; like the thinking of most poets it drew on experience and imagination, rather than on facts and general arguments. That is another reason why the prose poem proved a medium so congenial to Baudelaire.”
Translation of selections from: Le spleen de Paris.
Original French text accompanied by English translation on opposite pages.
81 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1869
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About the author
Charles Baudelaire
2,053 books4,248 followersPublic condemned
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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Displaying 1 - 30 of 44 reviews
April 5, 2018
Incomparable. Oui, j'adore ce livre. Baudelaire's prose poems are to me his most astonishingly original and best. Having the original French and the English translation on facing pages is ideal. There's already a good review posted, so instead, here is a sample of the poetry itself.
The Favours of the Moon
The Moon, who is caprice itself, looked through the window while you were sleeping in your cradle and said to herself: 'I like this child.'
And softly she descended her staircase of clouds and, noiselessly, passed through the window-panes. Then she stretched herself out over you with the supple tenderness of a mother, and laid down her colours on your face. Ever since, the pupils of your eyes have remained green and your cheeks unusually pale. It was while contemplating this visitor that your eyes became so strangely enlarged; and she clasped your neck so tenderly that you have retained for ever the desire to weep.
However, in the expansion of her joy, the Moon filled the whole room like a phosphorescent vapour, like a luminous poison; and all the living light thought and said: 'You shall suffer for ever the influence of my kiss. You shall be beautiful in my fashion. You shall love that which I love and that which loves me: water, clouds, silence and the night; the immense green sea; the formless and multiform streams; the place where you shall not be; the lover whom you shall not know; flowers of monstrous shape; perfumes that cause delirium; cats that shudder, swoon, and curl up on pianos and groan like women, with a voice that is hoarse and gentle!
'And you shall be loved by my lovers, courted by my courtiers. You shall be the queen of all men that have green eyes, whose necks I have clasped in my nocturnal caresses; of those who love the sea, the sea that is immense, tumultuous and green, the formless and multiform streams, the place where they are not, the woman whom they do not know, sinister flowers that resemble the censers of a strange religion, perfumes that confound the will; and the savage and voluptuous animals which are the emblems of their dementia.'
And that, my dear, cursed, spoiled child, is why I am now lying at your feet, seeking in all your person the reflection of the formidable divinity, of the foreknowing godmother, the poisoning wet-nurse of all the lunatics.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Written over many years, the twenty poems in this volume are quite different from one another. The longest, The Generous Gamester (or Gambler) can be read here in another translation.
The Favours of the Moon
The Moon, who is caprice itself, looked through the window while you were sleeping in your cradle and said to herself: 'I like this child.'
And softly she descended her staircase of clouds and, noiselessly, passed through the window-panes. Then she stretched herself out over you with the supple tenderness of a mother, and laid down her colours on your face. Ever since, the pupils of your eyes have remained green and your cheeks unusually pale. It was while contemplating this visitor that your eyes became so strangely enlarged; and she clasped your neck so tenderly that you have retained for ever the desire to weep.
However, in the expansion of her joy, the Moon filled the whole room like a phosphorescent vapour, like a luminous poison; and all the living light thought and said: 'You shall suffer for ever the influence of my kiss. You shall be beautiful in my fashion. You shall love that which I love and that which loves me: water, clouds, silence and the night; the immense green sea; the formless and multiform streams; the place where you shall not be; the lover whom you shall not know; flowers of monstrous shape; perfumes that cause delirium; cats that shudder, swoon, and curl up on pianos and groan like women, with a voice that is hoarse and gentle!
'And you shall be loved by my lovers, courted by my courtiers. You shall be the queen of all men that have green eyes, whose necks I have clasped in my nocturnal caresses; of those who love the sea, the sea that is immense, tumultuous and green, the formless and multiform streams, the place where they are not, the woman whom they do not know, sinister flowers that resemble the censers of a strange religion, perfumes that confound the will; and the savage and voluptuous animals which are the emblems of their dementia.'
And that, my dear, cursed, spoiled child, is why I am now lying at your feet, seeking in all your person the reflection of the formidable divinity, of the foreknowing godmother, the poisoning wet-nurse of all the lunatics.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Written over many years, the twenty poems in this volume are quite different from one another. The longest, The Generous Gamester (or Gambler) can be read here in another translation.
November 8, 2018
هذه القصائد لا تُنشر عادةً ضمن أعمال شارل بودلير الشعرية، فهي لا ترد ضمن ديوان "أزهار الشر" ولا "سأم باريس"، وهي خارجة على السياق الشعري لبودلير، وقد أدرجها المترجم رفعت سلّام ضمن أعمال شارل بودلير الشعرية الكاملة تحت عنوان "قصائد بلچيكية".
إنها حالة من الهجاء الساخر والمرير لبلچيكا وللشخصية البلچيكية، الصيغة الشعرية التي حاول بودلير أن يكشف فيها بؤس الذهنية البلچيكية ليست بجمال ورونق قصائده في باقي الدواوين، لكن لا بأس بها.. ليست سيئة.
إنها حالة من الهجاء الساخر والمرير لبلچيكا وللشخصية البلچيكية، الصيغة الشعرية التي حاول بودلير أن يكشف فيها بؤس الذهنية البلچيكية ليست بجمال ورونق قصائده في باقي الدواوين، لكن لا بأس بها.. ليست سيئة.
December 12, 2021
زحمت کار بعضی کتابها آدم را مجاب میکند از نواقص آن بگذرد. دست مریزاد دارد.
April 27, 2007
I adore this book. Yes, adore.
Twenty Prose Poems (or, if you must, Petits Poemes en Prose) is a 70-some page book, and half of it is the French originals. When a friend passed it on to me more than a month ago, I thought I'd devour the thing in a day or two. But it turned out that my usually voracious appetite for reading only wanted one, maybe two prose poems a day. And not because they are particularly dense, or difficult, or dull--in fact, just the opposite. I enjoyed each one of these strange little genre-hybrids so much that I didn't want to dilute the experience by gulping it too fast. I wanted every bite.
In a letter, Baudelaire wrote that he was aiming for nothing less than "the miracle of poetic prose, musical but with neither meter nor rhyme, supple enough and rugged enough to lend itself to the lyrical movements of the soul, to the undulations of reverie, to the jolts and spasms of conscience?"
Bold, Mr. Baudelaire, very bold. And accurate.
Such ambition did nothing to stifle his a sense of humor--evident just from his titles, which range from "Get Drunk!" to "The Soup and the Clouds" to "Let's Beat Up the Poor." Baudelaire's got a love of wordplay and a taste for epiphany. The doubleness manifested in his very genre--prose poem--finds constant textual echoes, from his scathing remarks on hypocrisy to his sight for the strange oppositions alive in Paris in the mid-nineteenth century. I was particularly struck by the image at the end of "The Double Room" (natch):
"Yes! Time rules now; he has returned his brutal dictatorship. He pushes me, as though I were an ox, with his two-pronged goad: 'Move on there, beast! Sweat, you slave! Live, convict, live!'"
It seems that he had originally intended to write a set of one hundred prose poems, but these twenty were written over a long span of time, and while some were published during his lifetime, it wasn't until two years after his death that they were collected.
But thank god for that.
Twenty Prose Poems (or, if you must, Petits Poemes en Prose) is a 70-some page book, and half of it is the French originals. When a friend passed it on to me more than a month ago, I thought I'd devour the thing in a day or two. But it turned out that my usually voracious appetite for reading only wanted one, maybe two prose poems a day. And not because they are particularly dense, or difficult, or dull--in fact, just the opposite. I enjoyed each one of these strange little genre-hybrids so much that I didn't want to dilute the experience by gulping it too fast. I wanted every bite.
In a letter, Baudelaire wrote that he was aiming for nothing less than "the miracle of poetic prose, musical but with neither meter nor rhyme, supple enough and rugged enough to lend itself to the lyrical movements of the soul, to the undulations of reverie, to the jolts and spasms of conscience?"
Bold, Mr. Baudelaire, very bold. And accurate.
Such ambition did nothing to stifle his a sense of humor--evident just from his titles, which range from "Get Drunk!" to "The Soup and the Clouds" to "Let's Beat Up the Poor." Baudelaire's got a love of wordplay and a taste for epiphany. The doubleness manifested in his very genre--prose poem--finds constant textual echoes, from his scathing remarks on hypocrisy to his sight for the strange oppositions alive in Paris in the mid-nineteenth century. I was particularly struck by the image at the end of "The Double Room" (natch):
"Yes! Time rules now; he has returned his brutal dictatorship. He pushes me, as though I were an ox, with his two-pronged goad: 'Move on there, beast! Sweat, you slave! Live, convict, live!'"
It seems that he had originally intended to write a set of one hundred prose poems, but these twenty were written over a long span of time, and while some were published during his lifetime, it wasn't until two years after his death that they were collected.
But thank god for that.
May 21, 2023
آیا هرگز زندگی خواهیم کرد؟
October 12, 2022
از فریادهایمان از زیبایی
June 8, 2021
I’m not big on prose poetry but this was excellent. And very funny, especially towards the end.
November 5, 2022
November 2022 Review
Revisited this again nearly ten years later. I would like to own a hardcopy someday.
December 2013 Review
A beautiful quick set of rich pieces of prose. Feed on this when you're hungry for something better.
Most of these I believe are in Paris Spleen, but since I read this first, it's what created my love for Baudelaire. Even with a limited knowledge of literature I feel one could appreciate the simple and engaging little slices of life he's fashioned. Definitely would love to have analyzed these in a lit class, and I'll for sure return to them again some day.
Revisited this again nearly ten years later. I would like to own a hardcopy someday.
December 2013 Review
A beautiful quick set of rich pieces of prose. Feed on this when you're hungry for something better.
Most of these I believe are in Paris Spleen, but since I read this first, it's what created my love for Baudelaire. Even with a limited knowledge of literature I feel one could appreciate the simple and engaging little slices of life he's fashioned. Definitely would love to have analyzed these in a lit class, and I'll for sure return to them again some day.
March 18, 2019
Faves
Venus and the fool
What is truth?
The desire to paint
Venus and the fool
What is truth?
The desire to paint
January 25, 2025
Uau. Qué barbaridad. Me los he leído todos en una sola sentada. Favorito instantáneo. Estamos acostumbrados a un Baudelaire grotesco, vulgar y decrépito. Aquí vemos que es moralista, que es un poeta pero también un filósofo.
“Oh, must we suffer eternally, or flee eternally from all that is beautiful? Nature unpitying enchantress, ever-victorious rival, let me be! Leave off tempting my desires and my pride! The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries out in terror before being vanquished.”
En estos poemas prosaicos vemos una habitación preciosa cuya belleza es condicionada por el opio, vemos a un hombre intentando combatir la inexorabilidad del tiempo, vemos una luna que quiere ser madre y vemos a su pequeño “lunático”, vemos un bufón hablando con una escultura de mármol que representa Venus, vemos un simple hombre conducido por el demonio por las catacumbas de la felicidad, vemos las sílfides que salen de sus tumbas, vemos el recuerdo del pelo de la amada, vemos el anhelo por viajar a un lugar inhabitado y amar a alguien desconocido, vemos la incitación a emborracharse de vino y poesía, vemos a Baudelaire regateando con su alma; la que no le contesta, vemos la fugacidad de las nubes y del perfume y vemos lo infinitesimal que es el perseguir, el esperar, el ansiar y el vivir.
No quiero manchar más a Baudelaire con palabras que parecen escritas en vano. Nunca nadie más como él. Espectacular.
“Oh, must we suffer eternally, or flee eternally from all that is beautiful? Nature unpitying enchantress, ever-victorious rival, let me be! Leave off tempting my desires and my pride! The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries out in terror before being vanquished.”
En estos poemas prosaicos vemos una habitación preciosa cuya belleza es condicionada por el opio, vemos a un hombre intentando combatir la inexorabilidad del tiempo, vemos una luna que quiere ser madre y vemos a su pequeño “lunático”, vemos un bufón hablando con una escultura de mármol que representa Venus, vemos un simple hombre conducido por el demonio por las catacumbas de la felicidad, vemos las sílfides que salen de sus tumbas, vemos el recuerdo del pelo de la amada, vemos el anhelo por viajar a un lugar inhabitado y amar a alguien desconocido, vemos la incitación a emborracharse de vino y poesía, vemos a Baudelaire regateando con su alma; la que no le contesta, vemos la fugacidad de las nubes y del perfume y vemos lo infinitesimal que es el perseguir, el esperar, el ansiar y el vivir.
No quiero manchar más a Baudelaire con palabras que parecen escritas en vano. Nunca nadie más como él. Espectacular.
February 3, 2021
I dare say my favorite poet these days... <3
October 30, 2023
Baudelaire never misses.
October 19, 2014
“Ah! miserável cão, se eu tivesse lhe oferecido um pacote de excrementos, você o teria farejado com prazer e talvez até devorado. Assim você mesmo, indigno companheiro de minha triste vida, você se parece com o público a quem não se pode jamais presentear com perfumes delicados que o exasperam mas com sujeiras cuidadosamente escolhidas.”
November 10, 2016
Where evil comes up softly like a flower.
Поезията на Бодлер е изящество, класа, истинско изкуство. Обичам да чета и препрочитам думите му, макар че ми въздейства малко като Рейдиохед- може с всяко следващо изречение да те помрачава все повече и повече... но същевременно не можеш да спреш да попиваш. Оплита те, но приятно. С една дума- красота; (...) like reflections of fireworks in hell.
И не е за всеки. Бодлер сам го посочва, с известно чувство за превъзходство, струва ми се (и има защо): The vulgar herd can never understand.
Страданието пречиства- (...) a mournful harmony, like that of the rising tide or of a storm brewing.
Perhaps you will say to me: "Are you sure that it is the real story?" What does it matter, what does any reality outside of myself matter if it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?
Поезията на Бодлер е изящество, класа, истинско изкуство. Обичам да чета и препрочитам думите му, макар че ми въздейства малко като Рейдиохед- може с всяко следващо изречение да те помрачава все повече и повече... но същевременно не можеш да спреш да попиваш. Оплита те, но приятно. С една дума- красота; (...) like reflections of fireworks in hell.
И не е за всеки. Бодлер сам го посочва, с известно чувство за превъзходство, струва ми се (и има защо): The vulgar herd can never understand.
Страданието пречиства- (...) a mournful harmony, like that of the rising tide or of a storm brewing.
Perhaps you will say to me: "Are you sure that it is the real story?" What does it matter, what does any reality outside of myself matter if it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?
December 27, 2024
And now the profundity of the sky perplexes me; the limpid light exasperates me. The insensitiveness of the sea, the immobility of the scene, revolt me.
Oh, must we suffer eternally, or flee eternally from all that is beautiful? Nature, unpitying enchantress, ever-victorious rival, let me be! Leave off tempting my desires and my pride! The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries out in terror before being vanquished.
ONE SHOULD always be drunk. That's all that matters; that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down, you must get drunk without ceasing.
But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk.
And it, at some time, on the steps of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the bleak solitude of your room, you are waking up when drunkenness has already abated, ask the wind, the wave, a star, the clock, all that which flees, all that which groans, all that which rolls, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply : 'It is time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk, and never pause for rest! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose!'
Oh, must we suffer eternally, or flee eternally from all that is beautiful? Nature, unpitying enchantress, ever-victorious rival, let me be! Leave off tempting my desires and my pride! The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries out in terror before being vanquished.
ONE SHOULD always be drunk. That's all that matters; that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down, you must get drunk without ceasing.
But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk.
And it, at some time, on the steps of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the bleak solitude of your room, you are waking up when drunkenness has already abated, ask the wind, the wave, a star, the clock, all that which flees, all that which groans, all that which rolls, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply : 'It is time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk, and never pause for rest! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose!'
August 16, 2007
I found this in a secondhand bookshop. And since I'd heard so much of Baudelaire but haven't read anything of his, I decided to pick it up and was pleasantly surprised by his "prose poems". It's a bit like Barthes' Mythologies, but less pointed. I imagine Baudelaire would've been great to share a bottle of wine with and just talk all day. It's a fun little collection.
August 4, 2007
There is some great stuff here of course, but it doesn't sing in this Michael Hamburger translation. It's been a long time since I read the Richard Howard or Varese translations, but I think they are better.
July 1, 2008
One of the best books of poetry I've read. Baudelaire has a great, twisted sense of humor and is also able to conjure up wonderful images. I'm definitely planning to check out Les Fleurs Du Mal after this one.
January 9, 2009
My favorite poem so far is On Drunkenness, which I used to share with my students either at the beginning or the end of the semester. Good stuff!
April 4, 2011
I simply loved the prose poems of Baudelaire. It is one of the books I'm constantly returning to, and finding it relevant at every
May 1, 2011
So many wonderful observations, ironies, bits of lyrical wonder and despair. "assommons les pauvres" and "la soupe et les nuages" are classic.
January 3, 2012
Baudelaire addresses the dark themes of urban 19th century Parisian life -- wine, opium, poverty and violence -- with lyrical, free prose.
March 29, 2013
Monsieur Baudelaire's conflicted longings to immerse himself in / separate himself from the world shall forever bind us.
February 4, 2013
I especially liked "The Fool and the Venus," "The Eyes of the Poor" and "The Generous Gamester."
January 3, 2015
If you like vision and saucy philosophers, read this book.
April 5, 2024
«و دقیقه به دقیقه، زمان مرا دربرمیگیرد،
همچون بارش بیانتهای برفی که بدنی بیحرکت را میپوشاند.»
همچون بارش بیانتهای برفی که بدنی بیحرکت را میپوشاند.»
June 6, 2008
Baudelaire = GOD!!!
October 11, 2011
Un exemple de la littérature parfaite pour le mot juste et l'expression
October 9, 2017
It's always hard to comment on poem compilations because there are some poems that touch my heart and some I dont relate. This is my first proper introduction to this form and I really loved it, definitely going to read others as well. When it comes to Baudelaire I think he has a sharp pen and almost all of the prose poems has a plot twist that striked me. Most of the poems felt magical, almost in a fairy-tale manner to me. Even though I didn't enjoy some poems I am going to give it 5 stars in the name of appreciating shock factor.
"The life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover gis health beside the window. It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not..."
"The life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover gis health beside the window. It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not..."
February 1, 2019
There were several poems within this book that truly spoke to me: At One O’Clock in the Morning, The Eyes of the Poor, The Generous Gamester, and The Port. These poems made me actually think, not something that every book can claim. The language was beautifully vivid - though for a younger crowd, it might be viewed as dense and difficult to comprehend - and each poem described something that accurately captured one of the countless potential portrayals of humanity.
I’d definitely read this book once more a few years down the road when my outlook on life has been altered by experience. I’d be curious to see how my opinion of each poem would change.
I’d definitely read this book once more a few years down the road when my outlook on life has been altered by experience. I’d be curious to see how my opinion of each poem would change.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 44 reviews