Litanies Of Satan

O Angel, the most brilliant and most wise,
A God betrayed by fate, deprived of praise,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

O Prince of exile, you who have been wronged,
Who, even conquered, rises yet more strong,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Great king who knows the lore the earth imparts,
Intimate healer of our anguished hearts,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Who, even to the leprous, the despised,
Can teach by love the taste for Paradise,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Who with your old and hardy mistress, Death,
Breeds Hope, a charming lunatic at best,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Who gives the prisoner his calm disdain,
Who damns the crowds around the guillotine,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Who knows which comers of the envious lands
The jealous God has picked to hide his gems,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Whose clear eye sees the deepest-lying stores
Where, buried, sleep the metals and the ores,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Whose large hand overrides the sudden edge
For the somnambulist who walks the ledge,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Whose magic gives a strength to ancient bones
Of drunkards trampled on the cobblestones,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Who, to console us in our fearful lot,
Taught us the mysteries of shell and shot,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Whose mark, astute accomplice, will be found
On Croesus' mean and unforgiving brow,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Who sees that women's hearts and eyes sustain
The love of rags, the cult of wounds and pain,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Staff of the exiles, the inventor's lamp,
Confessor of the hanged, plotters and tramps,

Satan, take pity on my misery!

Adoptive father of those ostracized
By God, and banished from his paradise,

Satan, take pity on my misery!


Prayer
Glory and praise to Satan, where you reigned
In Heaven, and in depths of Hell the same,
Where now you dream in silent reverie!
And may my soul take rest beneath the Tree
Of Knowledge with you, when above your head
Like a new Temple, those great branches spread!

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

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Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

English

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The Litanies Of Satan

O you, the most knowing, and loveliest of Angels,
a god fate betrayed, deprived of praises,

O Satan, take pity on my long misery!

O, Prince of exile to whom wrong has been done,
who, vanquished, always recovers more strongly,

O Satan, take pity on my long misery!

You who know everything, king of the underworld,
the familiar healer of human distress,

O Satan, take pity on my long misery!

You who teach even lepers, accursed pariahs,
through love itself the taste for Paradise,

O Satan, take pity on my long misery!

O you who on Death, your ancient true lover,
engendered Hope  that lunatic charmer!

O Satan, take pity on my long misery!

You who grant the condemned that calm, proud look
that damns a whole p...

Charles Baudelaire

Litany To Satan (From Baudelaire.)

O grandest of the Angels, and most wise,
O fallen God, fate-driven from the skies,
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

O first of exiles who endurest wrong,
Yet growest, in thy hatred, still more strong,
Satan, at last take pity on our pain!

O subterranean King, omniscient,
Healer of man's immortal discontent,
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show
That Passion is the Paradise below.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou by thy mistress Death hast given to man
Hope, the imperishable courtesan.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mien
Which damns the crowd around the guillotine.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou knowest th...

James Elroy Flecker

Benediction

When, by an edict of the powers supreme,
The Poet in this bored world comes to be,
His daunted mother, eager to blaspheme,
Rages to God, who looks down piteously:

'Rather than have this mockery to nurse
Why not a nest of snakes for me to bear!
And may that night of fleeting lust be cursed,
When I conceived my penance, unaware!

Since from all women you chose me to shame,
To be disgusting to my grieving spouse,
And since I can't just drop into the flames
Like an old love-note, this misshapen mouse,

1'1l turn your hate that overburdens me
Toward the damned agent of your spiteful doom,
And I will twist this miserable tree
So its infected buds will never bloom!'

She swallows thus her hatred's foaming spit
And, never grasping the divine ...

Charles Baudelaire

To the Reader

Stupidity and error, avarice and vice,
possess our spirits, batten on our flesh,
we feed that fond remorse, our guest,
like ragged beggars nourishing their lice.


Our sins are mulish, our repentance vain:
we make certain our confessions pay,
well happily retrace the muddied way,
thinking vile tears will wash away the stain.


Satan Trismegistes rocks the bewitched
Mind, endlessly, on evils pillow, till,
all the precious metal of our wills
vaporised by that knowing alchemist.


The Devil pulls the strings that make us move!
We take delight in such disgusting things:
one step nearer Hell each new day brings
us, void of horror, to the stinking gloom.


We clutch at furtive pleasure as we pass,
like the debauchee wh...

Charles Baudelaire

The Irreparable

How can we kill the long, the old Remorse
That lives, writhes, twists itself
And mines us as the worm devours the dead,
The cankerworm the oak?
How can we choke the old, the long Remorse?

And what brew, or what philtre, or what wine
Could drown this enemy,
As deadly as the avid courtesan,
And patient as the ant?
In what brew? in what philtre? in what wine?

Oh, say it if you know, sweet sorceress!
To this my anguished soul,
Like one who's dying, crushed by wounded men,
Stamped, trampled by a horse's hoof.
Oh, say it if you know, sweet sorceress,

To this man whom the wolf already sniffs
And whom the crow surveys,
This broken soldier! Must he then despair
Of having cross and tomb,
This dying man the wolf already sniffs!

Charles Baudelaire

The Beacons

Ubens, oblivious garden of indolence,
Pillow of cool flesh where no man dreams of love,
Where life flows forth in troubled opulence,
As airs in heaven and seas in ocean move.

Leonard Da Vinci, sombre and fathomless glass,
Where lovely angels with calm lips that smile,
Heavy with mystery, in the shadow pass,
Among the ice and pines that guard some isle.

Rembrandt, sad hospital that a murmuring fills,
Where one tall crucifix hangs on the walls,
Where every tear-drowned prayer some woe distils,
And one cold, wintry ray obliquely falls.

Strong Michelangelo, a vague far place
Where mingle Christs with pagan Hercules;
Thin phantoms of the great through twilight pace,
And tear their shroud with clenched hands void of ease.

The fighter's anger,...

Charles Baudelaire