The Vampire - Charles Baudelaire

 

The Vampire

by Charles Baudelaire

You who, like the stab of a knife,

Entered my plaintive heart;

You who, strong as a herd

Of demons, came, ardent and adorned,

To make your bed and your domain

Of my humiliated mind

-- Infamous bitch to whom I'm bound

Like the convict to his chain,

Like the stubborn gambler to the game,

Like the drunkard to his wine,

Like the maggots to the corpse,

-- Accurst, accurst be you!

I begged the swift poniard

To gain for me my liberty,

I asked perfidious poison

To give aid to my cowardice.

Alas! both poison and the knife

Contemptuously said to me:

"You do not deserve to be freed

From your accursed slavery,

Fool! -- if from her domination

Our efforts could deliver you,

Your kisses would resuscitate

The cadaver of your vampire!"

~Charles Baudelaire~

(Translated by William Aggeler, from The Flowers of Evil)

BIO: Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a French poet, art critic, essayist, and translator whose innovative style influenced such poets as Paul Verlaine, Stephane Mallarme, and Arthur Rimbaud. A close friend of painter Edouard Manet, he is best known for his collection of poems, The Flowers of Evil.

Song of Autumn

 

(Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash)

Song of Autumn

I

Soon we shall plunge into cold darkness;

Farewell, strong light of our too brief summers!

I already hear falling, with funereal thuds,

The wood resounding on the pavement of the courtyards.

All of winter will gather in my being: anger,

Hate, chills, horror, hard and forced labor,

And, like the sun in its polar hell,

My heart will be only a red icy block.

I listen shuddering to each log that falls;

The scaffold which is being built has not a hollower echo.

My mind is like the tower which falls

Under the blows of the indefatigable heavy battering ram.

It seems to me, lulled by the monotonous thuds,

That somewhere a casket is being nailed in great haste.

For whom? Yesterday it was summer; here is autumn!

This mysterious noise sounds like a departure.

II

I love the green light of your long eyes,

Sweet beauty, but everything today is bitter for me,

And nothing, neither your love, nor the boudoir, nor the hearth,

Is worth as much to me as the sun shining over the sea.

But despite all that, love me, tender heart! be maternal,

Even for an ingrate, even for a wicked man;

Lover or sister, be the passing tenderness

Of a glorious autumn or of a setting sun.

A brief task! The grave is waiting; it is avid!

My head resting on your knees, let me

Enjoy, as I grieve for the white torrid summer,

The yellow gentle ray of the earlier season!

~Charles Baudelaire, translated by Wallace Fowlie, from The Flowers of Evil~

BIO: Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a French poet, art critic, essayist, and translator whose innovative style influenced such poets as Paul Verlaine, Stephane Mallarme, and Arthur Rimbaud. A close friend of painter Edouard Manet, he is best known for his collection The Flowers of Evil.

 

DEATH OF THE LOVERS

by Charles Baudelaire

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We shall have beds full of faint perfumes,

Divans as deep as tombs,

And strange flowers on shelves,

Opened for us under more beautiful skies.

 

Using their last warmth in emulation,

Our two hearts will be two vast torches,

Which will reflect their double lights

In our two spirits, those twin mirrors.

 

One evening, made of mystical rose and blue,

We will exchange one flash of light,

Like a long sob, laden with farewells;

 

And later an Angel, half opening the doors,

Will come, faithful and joyous, to reanimate

The tarnished mirrors and the dead flames.

 

BIO:  Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a French poet, art critic, essayist, and translator whose innovative style influenced such poets as Paul Verlaine, Stephane Mallarme, and Arthur Rimbaud. A close friend of painter Edouard Manet, he is best known for his collection "The Flowers of Evil."