Hello Guest!Join NowLogin
LOVE POEMS & QUOTES
  Latest Posts   Live Tracker   Popular Posts   All Blogs   Drilldown   Tags   My Favorite Blogs   My Blog

LoveLandia Archive

 

Famous Poets: Charles Baudelaire

Charles BaudelaireCharles Pierre Baudelaire is rightly considered to have been one of the greatest poets of the nineteenth century. A radical, revolutionary in his own time, Baudelaire led a tempestuous, often despairing lifestyle. He's still renowned today, not only as a poet but also as an art critic and translator. Baudelaire was born on the ninth of April 1821, the only child of Francois Baudelaire (a sixty-one year old ex-priest, turned civil servant) and Caroline Defayis (twenty-seven years old). Francois, being a modestly talented poet and painter himself, installed an appreciation of the arts in his son. Charles later referred to this as 'the cult of images'. Baudelaire's father died in the February of 1827. His mother remarried in the November of 1828, to Jacques Aupick a career soldier who quickly rose through the ranks to the rank of general and later served as French ambassador to the Ottoman Empire and Spain. In 1836, at the age of fifteen, Baudelaire began studying at the Lacee Louis-le-Grand a prestigious Paris school. It was here that he began to write poetry, his poems were dismissed by his tutors as examples of precocious depravity. It was also at this time that he began to experience his 'moods of spleen' deep melancholy and despair, becoming an ever more isolated figure. After being expelled from the school in 1839 for his growing insolence he went on to study at the Ecole de Droit, a Paris law college. Living at the infamous Pension Bailly boarding house, it was here that he began living the excessive lifestyle of the Bohemian, whilst falling deeper and deeper into debt and becoming ever more radical. It was also during this period that he contracted syphilis. He left Paris bound for India (a trip made at his parents bequest) on the ninth of June 1841. Throughout the trip Baudelaire remained in foul mood, expressing his dislike for the voyage. A few months after departing the ship was forced to stop of at Mauritius for repairs, there Baudelaire jumped ship and took the next boat back to Paris. Although he disliked this enforced voyage there is no question that it had a deep and profound influence on his writings. In April 1842 Baudelaire received his inheritance of 100,000 francs, with this small fortune he moved to the island of Saint Louis, spending freely on art, entertaining, and, not least, hashish and opium. It was during this year that he met the actress Jeanne Duval who became his mistress, her dark beauty being the inspiration for many of his poems. Baudelaire was becoming more despondent by lack of success and growing debts, in 1845 he attempted to commit suicide. 1847 saw the publication of his autobiographical novel 'La farlo'. Then he began work on translating the works of Edgar Allan Poe into French publishing five volumes, complete with introductory essays between 1856 and 1865. In 1857 his own poetry collection 'Les Fleurs du mal' however this was not well-received by either the public, critics or indeed the law, both Baudelaire and his publisher were prosecuted for offending public morality and six of the poems were banned. In 1861 Baudelaire found his mistress having an affair with the man she claimed was her brother. In April 1863 Baudelaire left Paris for Brussels in the hope of finding a publisher. While there he suffered a series of strokes which left him with aphasia and partial paralysis. He returned to Paris on the second July 1867. On August 31 1867 he died quietly in his mother's arms, leaving behind (unpublished) the work that would form his masterpiece, 'Paris Spleen.'

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Beauty

I am as lovely as a dream in stone;
My breast on which each finds his death in turn
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As everlasting clay, and as taciturn.

Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movement that disturbs my pose;
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.

Before my monumental attitudes,
Taken from the proudest plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,

For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.


The Stranger

Tell me, enigmatical man, whom do you love best, your father,
Your mother, your sister, or your brother?
I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.
Your friends?
Now you use a word whose meaning I have never known.
Your country?
I do not know in what latitude it lies.
Beauty?
I could indeed love her, Goddess and Immortal.
Gold?
I hate it as you hate God.
Then, what do you love, extraordinary stranger?
I love the clouds the clouds that pass up there
Up there the wonderful clouds!


Invitation to the Voyage

Mt child, my sister, dream
How sweet all things would seem
Were we in that kind land to live together,
And there love slow and long,
There love and die among
Those scenes that image you, that sumptuous weather.

Drowned suns that glimmer there
Through cloud-dishevelled air
Move me with such a mystery as appears
Within those other skies
Of your treacherous eyes
When I behold them shining through their tears.

There, there is nothing else but grace and measure,
Richness, quietness, and pleasure.

Furniture that wears
The lustre of the years
Softly would glow within our glowing chamber,
Flowers of rarest bloom
Proffering their perfume
Mixed with the vague fragrances of amber;
Gold ceilings would there be,
Mirrors deep as the sea,
The walls all in an Eastern splendour hung -
Nothing but should address
The soul's loneliness,
Speaking her sweet and secret native tongue.

There, there is nothing else but grace and measure,
Richness, quietness, and pleasure.

See, sheltered from the swells
There in the still canals
Those drowsy ships that dream of sailing forth;
It is to satisfy
Your least desire, they ply
Hither through all the waters of the earth.

The sun at close of day
Clothes the fields of hay,
Then the canals, at last the town entire
In hyacinth and gold:
Slowly the land is rolled
Sleepward under a sea of gentle fire.

There, there is nothing else but grace and measure,
Richness, quietness, and pleasure.


To submit more poems of Charles Baudelaire, please click here.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
bad
0
good
 
 

Comments

No comments so far.

Post a Comment

Please login to post a comment.

 
 
LoveLandia site is in BETA mode. Email us your reports & suggestions.
 
About | FAQ | Terms | Privacy | ContactCopyright © 2007 BoonEx. Powered by Shark 2.0b.
LOADING
PET:0.183754920959