مجموعه اشعار شارل بودلر

Charles Baudelaire Complete Poems

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Including all poems published in the previous three editions, this comprehensive new translation of Baudelaire’s poetry is both vivid and authoritative. This dual-language volume presents both the original French poems as well as their translations.

“A poet’s freedom lies precisely in the impossibility of worldly success. It is the freedom of one who knows he will never be anything but a failure in the world’s estimation, and may do as he pleases. The poet is a man on the sidelines of life, sidelined for life. He belongs to the aristocracy of the outcast, the lowest of the low, below the salt of the earth. A member of the most ancient regime in the world. One that cannot, it seems, be overthrown.”
― Walter Martin, Complete Poems: Charles Baudelaire

“Why did Baudelaire — why does anyone — write poetry, in the teeth of all the evidence that one wants you to do so? No one wants you to write it and having written it in spite of them, no one wants to read it. Above all, no one wants to pay for it. For better or worse, a poem has a hard time turning into a commodity.”
― Walter Martin, Complete Poems: Charles Baudelaire

نمونه اشعار شارل بودلر:

Charles Baudelaire Poems

Spleen:  When a Heavy Lid of Low Sky…

When a heavy lid of low sky
covers a soul moaning with ennui and fright,
and the whole horizon is rounded by
a black day pouring down, sadder than any night;

When the earth is turned to a muggy dungeon
where Hope is the shadow of a bat, feeling
with feeble, flapping wings along the grunge on
walls and bumping its head against a putrid ceiling;

When the crawling spiders of scattershot rains
drop cold bars that imprison us,
water trickles along the channels in our brains,
and the people around us feel poisonous—

the bells speak out suddenly with fury
and lance the sky with dreadful howls,
and frightened strays and exiles, sorry
and homeless, rage from deep within their bowels.

Long hearses roll, slow, silent, hypnotic,
through my soul. Hope, defeated, cries
out its atrocious anguish—despotic.
A black hood slides over my ferocious eyes.

Spleen:  I am like the King of a Rainy Country

I am like the King of a Rainy Country,
Rich, but powerless; young, yet feeling wintry;
no longer flattered by the obsequious bow;
Bored by my dogs and by every other creature now,
Nothing brightens my day, not the Hunt, not falconry,
Not the dying people below my balcony.
My fool’s grotesque ballading
does not distract me from my malady.
Carved with fleur-de-lys, my bed is a tomb
while sequestered ladies who think every prince a bloom
hope by their impudent dress to make me their own;
they will never coax a mouse out of this young skeleton.
Shall we turn to those who claim they turn lead
to gold though they and we remain the living dead?
I bathe in the baths of blood the Romans brought us
back in the days of great power and purpose.
Even they cannot warm this dazed cadaver
slipping into the place where the salt has lost its savor.

Landscape

I would be chaste as I compose my verses
so I sleep up high, near starry courses.
Bells sail through my dreams where they find
their solemn hymns singing in the wind.
From workshops below, I hear men’s jibes and banter.
The masts of the city—chimneys and steeples—splinter
the sky’s eternal immensity into streaming reveries.

How sweet to watch the night open its eyes—
first lamp light, first star born in the azure deep.
The dark river of coal smoke begins to creep
up, painting the moon with a sallow charm.
My head on my hands, I watch from my lofty home
spring, summer, autumn, and then, with winter’s monotone
of snow, I close my shutters—a time to be alone:
I dream my way into flowery, rural labyrinths
where jets of water weep on alabaster plinths—
a world all kisses, and birds singing above a brook,
or anything else you might discover in a children’s book.
No matter what storms in the street may command,
nothing draws me away from my homeland.
Plunging ever more deeply into winter and night,
I wander through my faery palaces of light.
Another sun rising in my heart, I awaken a spring within,
warming the world with the fires of imagination.

The Albatross

Often, to amuse themselves, sailors
snare that great seabird, the albatross,
that flies with these indolent companions as their ship
glides over the depths of boredom and despair.

Once they have set their captive on the deck,
the king of the sky, awkward and in shame,
piteously drags along his great white wings,
like idle oars bouncing useless on the foam.

The winged voyager looks foolish now and weak—
yesterday he was beautiful; today, ugly and ridiculous.
One tries to force a burning pipe into his beak.
Another mimes the limp of one that used to fly.

The Poet resembles this prince from the clouds:
Each hangs in the tempest and laughs at the archer,
and finds his exile in a circle of hooting humans
where his wide wings are impediments.

“Bloody the billows were boiling there,
turbid the tide of tumbling waves
horribly seething, with sword-blood hot,
by that doomed one dyed, who in den of the moor
laid forlorn his life adown,
his heathen soul,-and hell received it.
Home then rode the hoary clansmen
from that merry journey, and many a youth,
on horses white, the hardy warriors,
back from the mere. Then Beowulf’s glory
eager they echoed, and all averred
that from sea to sea, or south or north,
there was no other in earth’s domain,
under vault of heaven, more valiant found,
of warriors none more worthy to rule!”

“Everlasting love, how can I
Describe you truthfully?
Grain of musk that lies unseen
In the depths of my eternity!”

Have you too wondered how tempting pain can be,
And made men wonder what you were, and why?
My soul was filled with love, anxiety,
Dread and desire, I was about to die

“If rape or arson, poison or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life –
It is because we are not bold enough!”
― Charles Baudelaire

جملاتی از شارل بودلر:

Charles Baudelaire Quotes

“My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”
― Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

“I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.”
― Charles Baudelaire, Selected Poems

“To be away from home and yet find oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet remain hidden from the world.”
― Charles Baudelaire

“—Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
― Charles Baudelaire

“By a fatal law, a genius is always an idiot.”
― Charles Baudelaire

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it-it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

The devil’s finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.

What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?

A multitude of small delights constitute happiness

Strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty.
Charles Baudelaire

Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.

There are women who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and to take your pleasure of them; but this one fills you only with the desire to die slowly beneath her gaze.

To dream magnificently is not a gift given to all men, and even for those who possess it, it runs a strong risk of being progressively diminished by the ever-growing dissipation of modern life and by the restlessness engendered by material progress. The ability to dream is a divine and mysterious ability; because it is through dreams that man communicates with the shadowy world which surrounds him. But this power needs solitude to develop freely; the more one concentrates, the more one is likely to dream fully, deeply.

To dream magnificently is not a gift given to all men, and even for those who possess it, it runs a strong risk of being progressively diminished by the ever-growing dissipation of modern life and by the restlessness engendered by material progress. The ability to dream is a divine and mysterious ability; because it is through dreams that man communicates with the shadowy world which surrounds him. But this power needs solitude to develop freely; the more one concentrates, the more one is likely to dream fully, deeply.

Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.

Nothing can be done except little by little.
Charles Baudelaire

I am the wound and the knife!
I am the slap and the cheek!
I am the limbs and the rack,
And the victim and the executioner!
I am the vampire of my own heart.

Always be a poet, even in prose.
Charles Baudelaire

Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recaptured at will.
Charles Baudelaire

Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recaptured at will.
Charles Baudelaire

Life has but one true charm: the charm of the game. But what if we’re indifferent to whether we win or lose?
Charles Baudelaire

Perfumes, colours and sounds echo one another.
Charles Baudelaire

Through the Unknown, we’ll find the New

We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.
Charles Baudelaire

Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.
Charles Baudelaire

What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice.
Charles Baudelaire

Even as a child I felt in my heart two opposite emotions: the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.

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