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Not necessarily dying to be anywhere else or doing much else. I'm content, in my clean, well-lighted place down the street from the apt.

My oldest friend, a fine poet and a dedicated teacher and a loving husband and father, just loved this stuff when we were growing up.

Still does, in fact. It inspired him. I never quite got it- I mean, there's plenty to take from the poems AS poems but really, where does one relate?

I wasn't outraged by Baudelaire, I was given the willies. I was just pretty definitively turned-off by an elaborately detailed, mockingly erotic poem about finding a maggot-teeming corpse, spreadeagled, in the middle of a spring stroll with your lover I get it, I get it, but I'm gonna start slowly backing away now, ok?

I didn't get it, and I didn't even really want to. Now that's totally changed. I don't quite know why. I think it's got something to do with reading Walter Benjamin's interesting take on Baudelaire's style and literary achievement on a bus on the way to visit said friend.

Nothing I like better than a fine and appreciative literary assessment. And I really love it when someone's insights turn my own around So that planted the seed, as did time and experience.

I'm not the same person I was when I first encountered poetry, not to mention life itself, and my tastes haven't changed in the sense of the old favorites, the lodestars, but they've definitely widened and evolved and been enriched and I think deepened.

I think I'm aware of ironies more than I ever was, and unfulfillment, loss, dead air and lights that turn off.

I've been dealing with a long string of anguish, disappointment, despair, confusion and frustration. Time has worn away some of the gilding from the world, and this is what some like to call 'experience'.

Ok, well, sure, but so what? Well, Baudelaire's one of the so-whats. I never understood what his kind of visionary poetics really meant, what it did and where it brought the craft of poetry and the interested, open-minded reader.

I think in some ways this is the kind of poetry that you need to grow into. Rimbaud works just fine when you're pissed off and rebellious and Promethean and you're 16, but he was a genius and his work survives real scrutiny and lasts after the humidity of adolescence cools off Baudelaire a poet Rimbaud admired, btw, no mean feat in and of itself requires a little more out of you to really start to absorb, I've found.

Everybody knows by now that he was into hashish and absinthe and that he had plenty of torrid affairs and that he blew through most of his inheritance on the finest linens and dandied it up something fierce What I think I missed out on initially was the old soul that shifts and speaks within these tortured, skeptical, vivid, tastefully arranged and somehow gruesomely challenging poems.

Baudelaire isn't interested in pissing off the stuffy, conventional reading public because he's a spoiled, creepy, brat it's because he has a vision of life his own, his city's, etc that just couldn't come across in any other guise.

I'm making an ass of myself now, as per usual, so I'm going to stop bumbling down the explication road and just quote this poem in full.

I'm not an expert or anything, but I definitely think that this poem is essential: Reversibility Angel of gladness, do you know of anguish, Shame, of troubles, sobs, and of remorse, And the vague terrors of those awful nights That squeeze the heart like paper in a ball?

Angel of gladness, do you know of pain? Angel of kindness, do you know of hatred, Clenched fists in the shadow, tears of gall, When Vengeance beats his hellish call to arms, And makes himself the captain of our will?

Angel of kindness, do you know revenge? Angel of health, are you aware of Fevers Who by pallid hospitals' great walls Stagger like exiles, with the lagging foot, Searching for sunlight, mumbling with their lips?

Angel of health, do you know of disease? Angel of beauty, do you know of wrinkles, Fear of growing old, the great torment To read the horror of self-sacrifice In eyes our avid eyes had drunk for years?

Angel of beauty, do you know these lines? Angel of fortune, happiness and light, David in dying might have claimed the health That radiates from your enchanted flesh; But, angel, I implore only your prayers, Angel of fortune, happiness and light!

I was reading this at work, looking out through the big windows and watching cold night full of pissing rain trembling in the puddles on the corner of the opposite side of the street, sky all black, stained yellow streetlights, city spaces, melancholic, churning I think I get it now.

Sometimes you have to pick the flowers yourself. View all 16 comments. Poetry for the reluctant poetry reader, i. Hence the choppiness.

Great translation. Each translation adds to or improves the previous and this one reads pretty swell to me. Where do I go from here?

Pam Ayres Superlative. Pam Ayres? Read this shit now. View all 24 comments. It is fair to say that with his masterful poetry Baudelaire pierces not only our heart but our soul.

His words undress us completely and let us see us for what we really are—just human beings living our lives.

If anything, Les Fleurs du Mal taught me that much. Oh, and The Lord of the Rings, too, of course!

View all 4 comments. It's here, an atmosphere Surrounds the town. Builds some up, knocks me down. Meanwhile the rabble ruled by body Pleasures, thankless beasts overburdened Build toward a bundle of remorse In drugged dances.

Blues, take my hand, Come from them, come here. Look behind me At the defunct years, at the balconies Of heaven; in tattered copes, rise out Of the waters of Regret.

The sun sleeps Moribund on a buttress; and listen, My true-blues, hear dusk's sweet steps. First rate storyteller, imitated fairly well by Dickens, once.

Moliere's anybody? Baudelaire also took crap from the French Government same year Flaubert got off because of the rank of his father: his defense lawyer argued a guilty verdict would impugn Dr Flaubert, much as Lizzie Borden's father was used in her defense in the courtroom a few miles from my house.

I think Charley B was a nasty little prick a word I use advisedly, rarely, un petit bite ; see his love poem to a corpse.

His first addresses me, his reader well translated by R Lowell in "Imitations" as his Brother Hypocrite: insightful for our recent US presidential winner, who could start every rally so.

And of course, he calls me, his reader, his brother hypocrite--as I condescend from the great heights of my superior morality.

I am sure I would be disgusted by Charley B0-bo-bo-dee-baudelaire. I would not vote for him, but I must vote for his disgusting verse.

One demurer, B himself says that writing draws one away from screwing, so he has created the disgust as an artistic enfranchisement.

And, may I say having translated from a half dozen languages--and published them--Charley's Blues evoked a bit of his genius in me.

Baudelaire's opening address to his reader ends with the descent of the Monster, "Ennui. An odor of the tomb, the swampy residence of snails and toads.

Or the art-painting in Prison, by Delacroix, Tasso on his bed, turning pages with his feet, inflamed with a terror of the dizzying circular stairs into the depths of his soul.

Laughter fills the prison, with Doubt and Fear again not unlike US politics circling with grimaces and wails, awakening from horrid dreams to find himself surrounded by four walls.

The Real. His wonderful praise of Daumier defends the comedic historian's mockery, not the harsh laugh of Satan, but the gentle satire of the benevolent.

Europeans often suspect laughter; only the English writer embraces it always I'm even happy to go with you, If not for this frightful haste Which leaves me agitated.

Then, Well, better You--go straight to Hell! Oh great Pharaoh, King Monselet! In front of your unforeseen Instruction, I dream of you: In a bar At the cemetery, six feet deep.

View 2 comments. Truly a unique an haunting voice - a visionary poet who forces you to question all that you find comforting - immersion of the self into the torrent of humanity.

The Devil holds the puppet threads; and swayed By noisome things and their repugnant spell, Daily we take one further step toward Hell, Suffering no horror in the olid shade.

View 1 comment. One of my favorite poets of all time. Baudelaire emphasized above all the disassociated character of modern experience: the sense that alienation is an inevitable part of our modern world.

In his prose, this complexity is expressed via harshness and shifts of mood. The constant emphasis on beauty and innocence, even alongside the seamier aspects of humanity, reinforce an existentialist ideal that rejects morality and embraces transgression.

Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implici One of my favorite poets of all time. Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implicitly rejecting personal experiences and memories; only operations of consciousness e.

Indeed, for Baudelaire, the shock of experiencing is the act of living. Baudelaire's talent for poetry aside, his genius was to jolt the reader into this mindset, to feel what he wanted to feel and experience what he wanted to experience.

After looking at many versions including Richard Howard, James McGowan, and Cyril Scott who was my second favourite this was the only one with truly good poems which replicated the original structures and had the glittering night-magic of Baudelaire's sensual, sinister, romantic, gothic wonderland.

Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself b translated by Edna St.

Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself being a distinguished poet. These are poetic translations rather than ones designed to reproduce the exact meanings line-by-line, but for the non-academic reader I think they are by far the most satisfying as poetry.

Female characters seem stronger than in other translations, undoubtedly Millay's work. One commentator in a source I now can't find says that in her translation of Baudelaire's women - often passive in the original - she finds a powerful active voice she only rarely displayed in her own poems.

I've taken a long time to finish Les Fleurs du Mal but this was largely because I despaired of how to describe Baudelaire's verse, something quite beyond my powers, and kept being distracted from reading by trying to find im possible phrases.

Some of the translations from this edition can be found here , with a bit of patience, clicking and scrolling. This is a step towards possession.

Certainly the possession does not last the entire way through, but even in the less interesting or repetitive poems there are some jarring lines, amplified by a soul in Heat.

Like any elevated piece of literature, Flowers of Evil consumed me to such an extent that at times I forgot I was reading words on a page, its intensity moving my mind into some unknown zone where images, thoughts, and recollections screamed by, colliding with each other.

So, too, did I fee This is a step towards possession. So, too, did I feel at times that even the writer himself was "not all there," taken away by a demon, merely the vehicle for some phantasm.

Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because of content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes through them.

But the poetic is everywhere and, for me, the more I can tap into, the better life is. Is it more and more rare to find a person who sees anything poetic in the sun?

And then even rarer yet again to find someone who can see the poetic in such things and communicate it to others on a convincing level.

Sure we have heists, whores, and holey handbags a dime a dozen, but do they even recognize their own beauty much? Are they as tuned in to their own spirit as Baudelaire was?

I hate cars, but I love to watch the rare person who is passionate and soulful about them. I don't read books on toe-picking, but show me someone passionate about their toe-picking and I'll gladly sit down beside them to observe and ask engaging questions, join in a little.

Hate his whoring if you will, but there is a passion, a depth, a profound nature to it that would have me in rapid pursuit to follow him anywhere.

And the guy never seems disappointed! That is what twists the knife in me time and time again! This is the debased as Ideal, wrapping the demon up in lovely meter, rhyme, and high metaphor, carrying the gutter into the heavens!

The Saint of Whores! The Divinity of Syphilis! The God of Pooping your Pants! I love it. He loves! Not foul for a moment!

There is goodness in it all!!!! To find Beauty in the Gutter! This is the Man! Far too much of it to originate from mere constructs and ideas.

No, there are demons and gods at work. The Corpse on the lip, a taste from God. I can not get so close to It, except through Baudelaire.

Beautiful Ugliness. When literature helps you live a new life, or at least revitalize it. View all 8 comments. How to describe this volume of poetry?

Avant-garde, modernistic, innovative, original? Yes, all of those, and to use a modern slang word, edgy.

So edgy in fact, for mid 19th century France, that Napoleon III's government prosecuted him for "an insult to public decency".

Six of the poems were banned until Don't worry; by today's standards they are not so alarming. The Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire seriously makes me regret not knowing a single word of French.

I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood, Like a star that from out its penumbra appears, To float in the regions where madness careers, Fair dagger!

Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown! Or kindle desire by the looks of some clow! Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame!

Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine, There is not a nerve in my trembling frame But cries, " I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!

Especially when he referred his mistress as 'the moon of his life', 'strange goddess' among other sickeningly lovely, romantic things I'm drowned in this poisoned beauty, sweetness and despairs.

As I read this I simply felt as if I understood Baudelaire completely, and as if he understood me.

Then I realized my body craved for a cigarette and was ready to throw a cynical, sarcastic comment. Beautifully debauched and morbid, thank you for inspiring the symbolists and decadents.

Oh the joy I felt reading this again. But sleeping lies many a gem In dark, unfathomed caves, Far from the probes of men; And many a flower waves And wastes its sweet perfumes In desert solitudes.

Your eye contains the evening and the dawn; You pour out odours like an evening storm Your kiss is potion from an ancient jar, That can make heroes cold and children warm.

Are you of heaven or the nether world? The panting lover bending to his love Looks like a dying man who strokes his tomb When my lusts move towards you in caravan My ennuis drink from cisterns of your eyes.

From these black orbits where the soul breathes through, O heartless demon! But that is nothing to the poison flow Out of your eyes, those round Green lakes in which my soul turns upside-down … To these my dreams all go At these most bitter gulfs to drink or drown.

But all that is not worth the prodigy Of your saliva, girl That bites my soul, and dizzies it, and swirls It down remorselessly, Rolling it, fainting, to the underworld.

O worms! I am the cheek, I am the slap! I am the limbs, I am the rack, The prisoner, the torturer! New palaces, blocks, scaffoldings, Old neighbourhoods, are allegorical for me, And my dear memories are heavier than stone Have you observed that coffins of the old Are nearly small enough to fit a child?

Death, in this similarity, sets up An eerie symbol with a strange appeal Let our closed curtains, then, remove us from the world, And let our lassitude allow us to find rest!

I would obliterate myself upon your throat And find the coolness of the tombs within your breast! A self-indulgent tyrant, stuffed with wine and meat, He sleeps to soothing sounds of monstrous blasphemies.

The sobs of martyred saints and groans of tortured men No doubt provide the Lord with rapturous symphonies We will have beds imbued with mildest scent And couches, deep as tombs, in which to lie, Flowers around us, strange and opulent, Blooming on shelves under the finest skies.

One evening made of rose and mystic blue We will flare out, in an epiphany What do I care if you be wise?

Be lovely! For tears Are as appealing on the face As rivers in the countryside; Flowers are freshened by the storm. I love you most of all when joy Escapes from your defeated brow; Or when a horror drowns your heart I read a majority of the poems in French, which made the experience more beautiful.

Each word is like a unique brushstroke of color on a grand canvas, applied with varying degrees of pressure, and each deeply and sensually hued.

Reading Les fleurs was a deeply personal and stirring experience for me. I have many favorites and could provide analyses on a dozen poems or more, but for the sake of length I read a majority of the poems in French, which made the experience more beautiful.

I have many favorites and could provide analyses on a dozen poems or more, but for the sake of length, I will limit myself to one particularly poignant experience.

Le Flacon was one of those poems that never left me, maybe because it was always a part of me. I love perfume, and I am an avid collector.

I have perfumes that I've worn maybe once or twice, and I have perfumes that I wear every day. Sometimes, I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from re-arranging the bottles of perfume on the vanity table.

Some of the happiness derives from the physical beauty of the arrangement; the glittering, multi-toned flasks of elaborate glass with gold- and silver-plated designs are the stuff of fantasy, a little treasure trove of beauty and fragility in my own room.

But the other, more poignant happiness originates from the fragrance and the memories that accompany it. Some moments in life will always stay with you, and sometimes, that memory leaves not just a visual or emotional mark, but its own fragrance as well.

My childhood home has a certain scent that will always define me and transport my thoughts to past. The ocean of the northwest has a wild, pungent smell that I associate with power and nature.

The same goes for perfumes. One darkly colored flask that I use occasionally contains a deeply sensual tangerine and jasmine perfume that reminds me of a night years ago when the moon was big and red in the sky.

I was by myself and sleepless, and nothing extraordinary happened, except that I feeling hyper-aware and happened to be wearing that perfume.

Somehow, the surreal and rare vision of beauty in the night sky became associated with the fragrance of tangerine and jasmine.

Another flask contains a fresh yet musky perfume, gifted to me when I lived in France. The person who gave me the perfume explained that this fragrance was popular with the young ladies these days, and perhaps I would share in the enthusiasm.

I did. I wore it nearly every day for the remaining month I was in France, and though I have more than half the bottle left, when I take a whiff, I am reminded of the warm sun of Toulouse and Nice in the spring.

Baudelaire understood this fascinating and unique joy--and when the memories are something you'd rather forget, pain. Le flacon is a reflection on memory, and how the past can be brought to life by something as simple as fragrance.

I didn't like all of Baudelaire's works, and I liked some more than the others. In the end, which poems you end up liking or disliking depend on personal taste and, to a degree, whim.

But everyone should pick up Les fleurs du mal. It is a collection that should be read and appreciated. Note: If you do a Google search, you can find all of his poems online for free.

Most sites feature the poems in French with various English translations accompanying it. Death, decay, death, WOE, death, despair, death, afternoon tea!

That's the Eddie Izzard version of this collection. Didn't finish all of them. I tried reading both the English and the French of every poem, so maybe that had something to do with it.

This guy also gives Poe a run for his money in depressing. The poems I read I loved, though it does get a bit repetitive after awhile.

I'm not an avid reader of poetry, nor does it impress me much, I'm a full descriptions kind of girl.

But I wanted to try and here I am. Email to friends Share on Facebook - opens in a new window or tab Share on Twitter - opens in a new window or tab Share on Pinterest - opens in a new window or tab.

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Die Blumen des Bösen by Charles Baudelaire. Presents the first American translation of the complete text of Baudelaire's masterwork and includes the complete original French texts for easy comparison.

Get A Copy. Hardcover , pages. Published by Weltbild first published June 25th More Details Original Title. National Book Award for Translation Other Editions Friend Reviews.

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What is the right way to read this famous book? Please don't judge me, I'm simply not used to read poetry and I don't know how to approach it.

John Tidball If you want to read the most complete and most recent version of Les Fleurs du Mal, I suggest you read my translations which I have published side by …more If you want to read the most complete and most recent version of Les Fleurs du Mal, I suggest you read my translations which I have published side by side with the original French poems.

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After reading Baudelaire, I suddenly find myself wanting to smoke cigarettes and say very cynical things while donning a trendy haircut.

Plus, if I didn't read Baudelaire, how could I possibly carry on conversations with pretentious art students? In all seriousness, though, I wish my French was better, so that I could read it in its intended language.

I'm sure it looses something in the translation And with a title like "Flowers of Evil," how can you go After reading Baudelaire, I suddenly find myself wanting to smoke cigarettes and say very cynical things while donning a trendy haircut.

And with a title like "Flowers of Evil," how can you go wrong? View all 12 comments. I read Les Fleurs du Mal many years back, but it is still within me.

Just a few words about this beautiful, sometimes nightmarish, masterpiece. What do you expect to feel when reading Charles Baudelaire? Nothing, I expect, falsely innocent, but superior free-flowing dream sequences of surrealism.

I loved to read of prophetic dreams with occasional moments of grace, where the fallen world seems to transform itself into an eternally beautiful moment.

As always with poetry we have our preferences, I read Les Fleurs du Mal many years back, but it is still within me. As always with poetry we have our preferences, those that touches us deeper.

I am no poet, so I have to satisfy myself to tell you that in its better moments for me it is simply splendid. Just a taste: Elevation Above the ponds, the rills and the dells, The mountains and woods, the clouds and the seas, Beyond the sun and the galaxies, Beyond the confines of the starry shells, O my mind, you proceed with agility, And as a good swimmer finds joy in the tide, You gaily traverse the heavens vast and wide With an indescribable and male felicity.

Behind the worry and vast chagrin That weigh on our days as gloomy as night, Happy is he who in vigorous flight Can depart for the fields bright and serene; He whose thoughts, like uncaged birds, Soar skyward each morning in liberty, —Who floats above life, and grasps effortlessly The language of flowers and things without words!

View all 7 comments. So as to try to follow that, I've got to disclose a bit of an embarrassment. Baudelaire was, for me, the kind of poet only certain kinds of people liked.

By this I don't mean Francophiles or the merely pretentious but there was something that set a devotee of C.

It's hard to put it into words- maybe you know it when you see it- but there was something sort of I'm no stranger to French poetry or literary bleakness, believe you me, but there was always something slightly creepy about Baudelaire, I could never put my finger on why I recoiled from it and what this meant.

There's the languid, morbid Romanticism, fond of grand statements and magnificent imagery; the surgically precise mastery of rhyme and meter I don't speak more than toddler's French but you can pretty much get a good sense of this stuff with the original text facing the English translations ; the utterly bleak yet exotic, nigh- perfumed insights, metaphoric associations and twists of phrase; the poet's own and those of his poetic subjects addictions and rhapsodies; the deep, indescribable longings muddled with spleen; the detestation of smug comfort and propriety with the love of the 'perverse', the 'occult' and the melodious rumination mixed with ominous, pervading ennui Well, call me a hardheaded New England Pragmatist, but there was something sort of suspiciously sickly about this guy.

I mean, here I am, pm, feasting on my pauper's pleasures of potato salad, a rather stale corn muffin and a can of Sprite.

I'm very ok with this. Not necessarily dying to be anywhere else or doing much else. I'm content, in my clean, well-lighted place down the street from the apt.

My oldest friend, a fine poet and a dedicated teacher and a loving husband and father, just loved this stuff when we were growing up. Still does, in fact.

It inspired him. I never quite got it- I mean, there's plenty to take from the poems AS poems but really, where does one relate?

I wasn't outraged by Baudelaire, I was given the willies. I was just pretty definitively turned-off by an elaborately detailed, mockingly erotic poem about finding a maggot-teeming corpse, spreadeagled, in the middle of a spring stroll with your lover I get it, I get it, but I'm gonna start slowly backing away now, ok?

I didn't get it, and I didn't even really want to. Now that's totally changed. I don't quite know why. I think it's got something to do with reading Walter Benjamin's interesting take on Baudelaire's style and literary achievement on a bus on the way to visit said friend.

Nothing I like better than a fine and appreciative literary assessment. And I really love it when someone's insights turn my own around So that planted the seed, as did time and experience.

I'm not the same person I was when I first encountered poetry, not to mention life itself, and my tastes haven't changed in the sense of the old favorites, the lodestars, but they've definitely widened and evolved and been enriched and I think deepened.

I think I'm aware of ironies more than I ever was, and unfulfillment, loss, dead air and lights that turn off. I've been dealing with a long string of anguish, disappointment, despair, confusion and frustration.

Time has worn away some of the gilding from the world, and this is what some like to call 'experience'. Ok, well, sure, but so what?

Well, Baudelaire's one of the so-whats. I never understood what his kind of visionary poetics really meant, what it did and where it brought the craft of poetry and the interested, open-minded reader.

I think in some ways this is the kind of poetry that you need to grow into. Rimbaud works just fine when you're pissed off and rebellious and Promethean and you're 16, but he was a genius and his work survives real scrutiny and lasts after the humidity of adolescence cools off Baudelaire a poet Rimbaud admired, btw, no mean feat in and of itself requires a little more out of you to really start to absorb, I've found.

Everybody knows by now that he was into hashish and absinthe and that he had plenty of torrid affairs and that he blew through most of his inheritance on the finest linens and dandied it up something fierce What I think I missed out on initially was the old soul that shifts and speaks within these tortured, skeptical, vivid, tastefully arranged and somehow gruesomely challenging poems.

Baudelaire isn't interested in pissing off the stuffy, conventional reading public because he's a spoiled, creepy, brat it's because he has a vision of life his own, his city's, etc that just couldn't come across in any other guise.

I'm making an ass of myself now, as per usual, so I'm going to stop bumbling down the explication road and just quote this poem in full.

I'm not an expert or anything, but I definitely think that this poem is essential: Reversibility Angel of gladness, do you know of anguish, Shame, of troubles, sobs, and of remorse, And the vague terrors of those awful nights That squeeze the heart like paper in a ball?

Angel of gladness, do you know of pain? Angel of kindness, do you know of hatred, Clenched fists in the shadow, tears of gall, When Vengeance beats his hellish call to arms, And makes himself the captain of our will?

Angel of kindness, do you know revenge? Angel of health, are you aware of Fevers Who by pallid hospitals' great walls Stagger like exiles, with the lagging foot, Searching for sunlight, mumbling with their lips?

Angel of health, do you know of disease? Angel of beauty, do you know of wrinkles, Fear of growing old, the great torment To read the horror of self-sacrifice In eyes our avid eyes had drunk for years?

Angel of beauty, do you know these lines? Angel of fortune, happiness and light, David in dying might have claimed the health That radiates from your enchanted flesh; But, angel, I implore only your prayers, Angel of fortune, happiness and light!

I was reading this at work, looking out through the big windows and watching cold night full of pissing rain trembling in the puddles on the corner of the opposite side of the street, sky all black, stained yellow streetlights, city spaces, melancholic, churning I think I get it now.

Sometimes you have to pick the flowers yourself. View all 16 comments. Poetry for the reluctant poetry reader, i.

Hence the choppiness. Great translation. Each translation adds to or improves the previous and this one reads pretty swell to me.

Where do I go from here? Pam Ayres Superlative. Pam Ayres? Read this shit now. View all 24 comments. It is fair to say that with his masterful poetry Baudelaire pierces not only our heart but our soul.

His words undress us completely and let us see us for what we really are—just human beings living our lives.

If anything, Les Fleurs du Mal taught me that much. Oh, and The Lord of the Rings, too, of course! View all 4 comments.

It's here, an atmosphere Surrounds the town. Builds some up, knocks me down. Meanwhile the rabble ruled by body Pleasures, thankless beasts overburdened Build toward a bundle of remorse In drugged dances.

Blues, take my hand, Come from them, come here. Look behind me At the defunct years, at the balconies Of heaven; in tattered copes, rise out Of the waters of Regret.

The sun sleeps Moribund on a buttress; and listen, My true-blues, hear dusk's sweet steps.

First rate storyteller, imitated fairly well by Dickens, once. Moliere's anybody? Baudelaire also took crap from the French Government same year Flaubert got off because of the rank of his father: his defense lawyer argued a guilty verdict would impugn Dr Flaubert, much as Lizzie Borden's father was used in her defense in the courtroom a few miles from my house.

I think Charley B was a nasty little prick a word I use advisedly, rarely, un petit bite ; see his love poem to a corpse.

His first addresses me, his reader well translated by R Lowell in "Imitations" as his Brother Hypocrite: insightful for our recent US presidential winner, who could start every rally so.

And of course, he calls me, his reader, his brother hypocrite--as I condescend from the great heights of my superior morality. I am sure I would be disgusted by Charley B0-bo-bo-dee-baudelaire.

I would not vote for him, but I must vote for his disgusting verse. One demurer, B himself says that writing draws one away from screwing, so he has created the disgust as an artistic enfranchisement.

And, may I say having translated from a half dozen languages--and published them--Charley's Blues evoked a bit of his genius in me.

Baudelaire's opening address to his reader ends with the descent of the Monster, "Ennui. An odor of the tomb, the swampy residence of snails and toads.

Or the art-painting in Prison, by Delacroix, Tasso on his bed, turning pages with his feet, inflamed with a terror of the dizzying circular stairs into the depths of his soul.

Laughter fills the prison, with Doubt and Fear again not unlike US politics circling with grimaces and wails, awakening from horrid dreams to find himself surrounded by four walls.

The Real. His wonderful praise of Daumier defends the comedic historian's mockery, not the harsh laugh of Satan, but the gentle satire of the benevolent.

Europeans often suspect laughter; only the English writer embraces it always I'm even happy to go with you, If not for this frightful haste Which leaves me agitated.

Then, Well, better You--go straight to Hell! Oh great Pharaoh, King Monselet! In front of your unforeseen Instruction, I dream of you: In a bar At the cemetery, six feet deep.

View 2 comments. Truly a unique an haunting voice - a visionary poet who forces you to question all that you find comforting - immersion of the self into the torrent of humanity.

The Devil holds the puppet threads; and swayed By noisome things and their repugnant spell, Daily we take one further step toward Hell, Suffering no horror in the olid shade.

View 1 comment. One of my favorite poets of all time. Baudelaire emphasized above all the disassociated character of modern experience: the sense that alienation is an inevitable part of our modern world.

In his prose, this complexity is expressed via harshness and shifts of mood. The constant emphasis on beauty and innocence, even alongside the seamier aspects of humanity, reinforce an existentialist ideal that rejects morality and embraces transgression.

Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implici One of my favorite poets of all time. Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implicitly rejecting personal experiences and memories; only operations of consciousness e.

Indeed, for Baudelaire, the shock of experiencing is the act of living. Baudelaire's talent for poetry aside, his genius was to jolt the reader into this mindset, to feel what he wanted to feel and experience what he wanted to experience.

After looking at many versions including Richard Howard, James McGowan, and Cyril Scott who was my second favourite this was the only one with truly good poems which replicated the original structures and had the glittering night-magic of Baudelaire's sensual, sinister, romantic, gothic wonderland.

Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself b translated by Edna St. Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself being a distinguished poet.

These are poetic translations rather than ones designed to reproduce the exact meanings line-by-line, but for the non-academic reader I think they are by far the most satisfying as poetry.

Female characters seem stronger than in other translations, undoubtedly Millay's work. One commentator in a source I now can't find says that in her translation of Baudelaire's women - often passive in the original - she finds a powerful active voice she only rarely displayed in her own poems.

I've taken a long time to finish Les Fleurs du Mal but this was largely because I despaired of how to describe Baudelaire's verse, something quite beyond my powers, and kept being distracted from reading by trying to find im possible phrases.

Some of the translations from this edition can be found here , with a bit of patience, clicking and scrolling.

This is a step towards possession. Certainly the possession does not last the entire way through, but even in the less interesting or repetitive poems there are some jarring lines, amplified by a soul in Heat.

Like any elevated piece of literature, Flowers of Evil consumed me to such an extent that at times I forgot I was reading words on a page, its intensity moving my mind into some unknown zone where images, thoughts, and recollections screamed by, colliding with each other.

So, too, did I fee This is a step towards possession. So, too, did I feel at times that even the writer himself was "not all there," taken away by a demon, merely the vehicle for some phantasm.

Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because of content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes through them.

But the poetic is everywhere and, for me, the more I can tap into, the better life is. Is it more and more rare to find a person who sees anything poetic in the sun?

And then even rarer yet again to find someone who can see the poetic in such things and communicate it to others on a convincing level.

Sure we have heists, whores, and holey handbags a dime a dozen, but do they even recognize their own beauty much? Are they as tuned in to their own spirit as Baudelaire was?

I hate cars, but I love to watch the rare person who is passionate and soulful about them.

I don't read books on toe-picking, but show me someone passionate about their toe-picking and I'll gladly sit down beside them to observe and ask engaging questions, join in a little.

Hate his whoring if you will, but there is a passion, a depth, a profound nature to it that would have me in rapid pursuit to follow him anywhere.

And the guy never seems disappointed! That is what twists the knife in me time and time again! This is the debased as Ideal, wrapping the demon up in lovely meter, rhyme, and high metaphor, carrying the gutter into the heavens!

The Saint of Whores! The Divinity of Syphilis! The God of Pooping your Pants! I love it. He loves!

Not foul for a moment! There is goodness in it all!!!! To find Beauty in the Gutter! This is the Man! Far too much of it to originate from mere constructs and ideas.

No, there are demons and gods at work. The Corpse on the lip, a taste from God. I can not get so close to It, except through Baudelaire.

Beautiful Ugliness. When literature helps you live a new life, or at least revitalize it. View all 8 comments.

How to describe this volume of poetry? Avant-garde, modernistic, innovative, original? Yes, all of those, and to use a modern slang word, edgy.

So edgy in fact, for mid 19th century France, that Napoleon III's government prosecuted him for "an insult to public decency".

Six of the poems were banned until Don't worry; by today's standards they are not so alarming. The Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire seriously makes me regret not knowing a single word of French.

I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood, Like a star that from out its penumbra appears, To float in the regions where madness careers, Fair dagger!

Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown! Or kindle desire by the looks of some clow! Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame!

Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine, There is not a nerve in my trembling frame But cries, " I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!

Especially when he referred his mistress as 'the moon of his life', 'strange goddess' among other sickeningly lovely, romantic things Learn More - opens in a new window or tab.

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Here Edna St. View all read article comments. Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because of content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes through. Death, in this similarity, sets up An eerie symbol with a strange appeal Let our closed continue reading, then, remove us from the world, And let our lassitude allow us to find rest! The ocean of the northwest has a wild, pungent smell that I associate with power and nature. Artikelstandort Alle ansehen Artikelstandort. Mittel 1. EST3 ar. Erfolgreiches Outdoor Growing article source in einer Anzahl an Klimata möglich. Passwort vergessen? Torf In den ersten Tagen der Blüte muss man nicht auf die Suche nach Männern gehen. ZAB ar. Kaufen Sie hier Ihre Samen! ILA en. Carboxamides, their preparation and pharmaceutical compositions containing. JPA ja. Squad deutsch fr. PTE ar. Zimmerpflanzensamen Pure Power Plant Automatic.