Je nai pas oublié, voisine de la ville

Ive not forgotten, near to the town,
our white house, small but alone:
its Pomona of plaster, its Venus of old
hiding nude limbs in the meagre grove,
and the sun, superb, at evening, streaming,
behind the glass, where its sheaves were bursting,
a huge eye in a curious heaven, present
to gaze at our meal, lengthy and silent,
spreading its beautiful candle glimmer
on the frugal cloth and the rough curtain.

Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire was a renowned French poet, essayist, and art critic born on April 9, 1821, in Paris, France. Best known for his collection of poems Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil), Baudelaire profoundly influenced the Symbolist and Modernist movements. He led a controversial life, marked by financial difficulties, substance abuse, and relationships with various women. Despite a relatively short life, dying at the age of 46 on August 31, 1867, his work has had a lasting impact on both French and international literature. Baudelaire's writing is characterized by its exploration of beauty, decadence, and the human condition.

Charles Baudelaire

The Happy Corpse

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

The Soul Of Wine

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

The Dancing Serpent

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

The Cat

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

English

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I Have Not Forgotten Our Little White Retreat

I have not forgotten our little white retreat
Where we were neighbors to the town of busy streets;
Our plaster Venus and Pomona barely could
Conceal their nakedness within our meagre wood.
Evenings, the sun would stream superbly, and would splash
Prismatic colors through the simple window glass;
He seemed a curious eye in overarching space
Who watched us as we dined in silence, without haste,
And spread throughout the room a mellow candle-glow
On frugal drapes of serge, the tablecloth below.

Charles Baudelaire

Spleen I

Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière,
De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux
Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière
Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.

Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une litière
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux;
Lâme dun vieux poète erre dans la gouttière
Avec la triste voix dun fantôme frileux.

Le bourdon se lamente, et la bûche enfumée
Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée,
Cependant quen un jeu plein de sales parfums,

Héritage fatal dune vieille hydropique,
Le beau valet de cur et la dame de pique
Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.

Charles Baudelaire

La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse

The great-hearted servant of whom you were jealous,
sleeping her sleep in the humble grass,
shouldnt we take her a few flowers?
The dead, the poor dead, have griefs like ours,
and when October sighs, clipper of trees,
round their marble tombs, with its mournful breeze,
they must find the living, ungratefully, wed,
snug in sleep, to the warmth of their bed,
while they, devoured by dark reflection,
without bedfellow, or sweet conversation,
old skeletons riddled with worms, deep frozen,
feel the winter snows trickling round them,
and the years flow by without kin or friend
to replace the wreaths at their railings end.

If some night, when the logs whistle and flare,
seeing her sitting calm, in that chair,
if on a December night, cold and blue,
I might...

Charles Baudelaire

Spleen Ii

Jai plus de souvenirs que si javais mille ans.

Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.
Cest une pyramide, un immense caveau,
Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.
Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune,
Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers
Qui sacharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.
Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées,
Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées,
Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher,
Seuls, respirent lodeur dun flacon débouché.

Rien négale en longueur les boiteuses journées,
Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années

Charles Baudelaire

Je tadore à légal de la voûte nocturne

I adore you, the nocturnal vaults likeness,
o vast taciturnity, o vase of sadness:
I love you, my beauty, the more you flee,
grace of my nights, the more you seem,
to multiply distances, ah ironically,
that bar my arms from the blue immensity.

I advance to the attack, climb to the assault
like a swarm of worms attacking a corpse,
and I cherish, o creature cruel, and implacable,
your coldness that makes you, for me, more beautiful!

Charles Baudelaire

Landscape

In order to write my chaste verses Ill lie
like an astrologer near to the sky
and, by the bell-towers, listen in dream
to their solemn hymns on the air-stream.
Hands on chin, from my attics height
Ill see the workshops of song and light,
the gutters, the belfries those masts of the city,
the vast skies that yield dreams of eternity

It is sweet to see stars being born in the blue,
through the mists, the lamps at the windows, too,
the rivers of smoke climbing the firmament,
and the moon pouring out her pale enchantment.
Ill see the springs, summers, autumns glow,
and when winter brings the monotonous snow
Ill close all my doors and shutters tight
and build palaces of faery in the night.
Then Ill dream of blue-wet horizons,
weeping fountains of ...

Charles Baudelaire

Je nai pas oublié, voisine de la ville

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Je nai pas oublié, voisine de la ville