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Angel of kindness, do you know revenge? Angel of health, are you aware of Fevers Who by pallid hospitals' great walls Stagger like exiles, with the lagging foot, Searching for sunlight, mumbling with their lips?

Angel of health, do you know of disease? Angel of beauty, do you know of wrinkles, Fear of growing old, the great torment To read the horror of self-sacrifice In eyes our avid eyes had drunk for years?

Angel of beauty, do you know these lines? Angel of fortune, happiness and light, David in dying might have claimed the health That radiates from your enchanted flesh; But, angel, I implore only your prayers, Angel of fortune, happiness and light!

I was reading this at work, looking out through the big windows and watching cold night full of pissing rain trembling in the puddles on the corner of the opposite side of the street, sky all black, stained yellow streetlights, city spaces, melancholic, churning I think I get it now.

Sometimes you have to pick the flowers yourself. View all 16 comments. Poetry for the reluctant poetry reader, i.

Hence the choppiness. Great translation. Each translation adds to or improves the previous and this one reads pretty swell to me. Where do I go from here?

Pam Ayres Superlative. Pam Ayres? Read this shit now. View all 24 comments. It is fair to say that with his masterful poetry Baudelaire pierces not only our heart but our soul.

His words undress us completely and let us see us for what we really are—just human beings living our lives.

If anything, Les Fleurs du Mal taught me that much. Oh, and The Lord of the Rings, too, of course! View all 4 comments.

It's here, an atmosphere Surrounds the town. Builds some up, knocks me down. Meanwhile the rabble ruled by body Pleasures, thankless beasts overburdened Build toward a bundle of remorse In drugged dances.

Blues, take my hand, Come from them, come here. Look behind me At the defunct years, at the balconies Of heaven; in tattered copes, rise out Of the waters of Regret.

The sun sleeps Moribund on a buttress; and listen, My true-blues, hear dusk's sweet steps. First rate storyteller, imitated fairly well by Dickens, once.

Moliere's anybody? Baudelaire also took crap from the French Government same year Flaubert got off because of the rank of his father: his defense lawyer argued a guilty verdict would impugn Dr Flaubert, much as Lizzie Borden's father was used in her defense in the courtroom a few miles from my house.

I think Charley B was a nasty little prick a word I use advisedly, rarely, un petit bite ; see his love poem to a corpse. His first addresses me, his reader well translated by R Lowell in "Imitations" as his Brother Hypocrite: insightful for our recent US presidential winner, who could start every rally so.

And of course, he calls me, his reader, his brother hypocrite--as I condescend from the great heights of my superior morality. I am sure I would be disgusted by Charley B0-bo-bo-dee-baudelaire.

I would not vote for him, but I must vote for his disgusting verse. One demurer, B himself says that writing draws one away from screwing, so he has created the disgust as an artistic enfranchisement.

And, may I say having translated from a half dozen languages--and published them--Charley's Blues evoked a bit of his genius in me.

Baudelaire's opening address to his reader ends with the descent of the Monster, "Ennui. An odor of the tomb, the swampy residence of snails and toads.

Or the art-painting in Prison, by Delacroix, Tasso on his bed, turning pages with his feet, inflamed with a terror of the dizzying circular stairs into the depths of his soul.

Laughter fills the prison, with Doubt and Fear again not unlike US politics circling with grimaces and wails, awakening from horrid dreams to find himself surrounded by four walls.

The Real. His wonderful praise of Daumier defends the comedic historian's mockery, not the harsh laugh of Satan, but the gentle satire of the benevolent.

Europeans often suspect laughter; only the English writer embraces it always I'm even happy to go with you, If not for this frightful haste Which leaves me agitated.

Then, Well, better You--go straight to Hell! Oh great Pharaoh, King Monselet! In front of your unforeseen Instruction, I dream of you: In a bar At the cemetery, six feet deep.

View 2 comments. Truly a unique an haunting voice - a visionary poet who forces you to question all that you find comforting - immersion of the self into the torrent of humanity.

The Devil holds the puppet threads; and swayed By noisome things and their repugnant spell, Daily we take one further step toward Hell, Suffering no horror in the olid shade.

View 1 comment. One of my favorite poets of all time. Baudelaire emphasized above all the disassociated character of modern experience: the sense that alienation is an inevitable part of our modern world.

In his prose, this complexity is expressed via harshness and shifts of mood. The constant emphasis on beauty and innocence, even alongside the seamier aspects of humanity, reinforce an existentialist ideal that rejects morality and embraces transgression.

Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implici One of my favorite poets of all time. Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implicitly rejecting personal experiences and memories; only operations of consciousness e.

Indeed, for Baudelaire, the shock of experiencing is the act of living. Baudelaire's talent for poetry aside, his genius was to jolt the reader into this mindset, to feel what he wanted to feel and experience what he wanted to experience.

After looking at many versions including Richard Howard, James McGowan, and Cyril Scott who was my second favourite this was the only one with truly good poems which replicated the original structures and had the glittering night-magic of Baudelaire's sensual, sinister, romantic, gothic wonderland.

Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself b translated by Edna St. Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself being a distinguished poet.

These are poetic translations rather than ones designed to reproduce the exact meanings line-by-line, but for the non-academic reader I think they are by far the most satisfying as poetry.

Female characters seem stronger than in other translations, undoubtedly Millay's work. One commentator in a source I now can't find says that in her translation of Baudelaire's women - often passive in the original - she finds a powerful active voice she only rarely displayed in her own poems.

I've taken a long time to finish Les Fleurs du Mal but this was largely because I despaired of how to describe Baudelaire's verse, something quite beyond my powers, and kept being distracted from reading by trying to find im possible phrases.

Some of the translations from this edition can be found here , with a bit of patience, clicking and scrolling.

This is a step towards possession. Certainly the possession does not last the entire way through, but even in the less interesting or repetitive poems there are some jarring lines, amplified by a soul in Heat.

Like any elevated piece of literature, Flowers of Evil consumed me to such an extent that at times I forgot I was reading words on a page, its intensity moving my mind into some unknown zone where images, thoughts, and recollections screamed by, colliding with each other.

So, too, did I fee This is a step towards possession. So, too, did I feel at times that even the writer himself was "not all there," taken away by a demon, merely the vehicle for some phantasm.

Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because of content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes through them.

But the poetic is everywhere and, for me, the more I can tap into, the better life is. Is it more and more rare to find a person who sees anything poetic in the sun?

And then even rarer yet again to find someone who can see the poetic in such things and communicate it to others on a convincing level.

Sure we have heists, whores, and holey handbags a dime a dozen, but do they even recognize their own beauty much?

Are they as tuned in to their own spirit as Baudelaire was? I hate cars, but I love to watch the rare person who is passionate and soulful about them.

I don't read books on toe-picking, but show me someone passionate about their toe-picking and I'll gladly sit down beside them to observe and ask engaging questions, join in a little.

Hate his whoring if you will, but there is a passion, a depth, a profound nature to it that would have me in rapid pursuit to follow him anywhere.

And the guy never seems disappointed! That is what twists the knife in me time and time again! This is the debased as Ideal, wrapping the demon up in lovely meter, rhyme, and high metaphor, carrying the gutter into the heavens!

The Saint of Whores! The Divinity of Syphilis! The God of Pooping your Pants! I love it. He loves! Not foul for a moment! There is goodness in it all!!!!

To find Beauty in the Gutter! This is the Man! Far too much of it to originate from mere constructs and ideas. No, there are demons and gods at work.

The Corpse on the lip, a taste from God. I can not get so close to It, except through Baudelaire. Beautiful Ugliness.

When literature helps you live a new life, or at least revitalize it. View all 8 comments. How to describe this volume of poetry?

Avant-garde, modernistic, innovative, original? Yes, all of those, and to use a modern slang word, edgy. So edgy in fact, for mid 19th century France, that Napoleon III's government prosecuted him for "an insult to public decency".

Six of the poems were banned until Don't worry; by today's standards they are not so alarming. The Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire seriously makes me regret not knowing a single word of French.

I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood, Like a star that from out its penumbra appears, To float in the regions where madness careers, Fair dagger!

Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown! Or kindle desire by the looks of some clow! Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame!

Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine, There is not a nerve in my trembling frame But cries, " I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!

Especially when he referred his mistress as 'the moon of his life', 'strange goddess' among other sickeningly lovely, romantic things I'm drowned in this poisoned beauty, sweetness and despairs.

As I read this I simply felt as if I understood Baudelaire completely, and as if he understood me. Then I realized my body craved for a cigarette and was ready to throw a cynical, sarcastic comment.

Beautifully debauched and morbid, thank you for inspiring the symbolists and decadents. Oh the joy I felt reading this again. But sleeping lies many a gem In dark, unfathomed caves, Far from the probes of men; And many a flower waves And wastes its sweet perfumes In desert solitudes.

Your eye contains the evening and the dawn; You pour out odours like an evening storm Your kiss is potion from an ancient jar, That can make heroes cold and children warm.

Are you of heaven or the nether world? The panting lover bending to his love Looks like a dying man who strokes his tomb When my lusts move towards you in caravan My ennuis drink from cisterns of your eyes.

From these black orbits where the soul breathes through, O heartless demon! But that is nothing to the poison flow Out of your eyes, those round Green lakes in which my soul turns upside-down … To these my dreams all go At these most bitter gulfs to drink or drown.

But all that is not worth the prodigy Of your saliva, girl That bites my soul, and dizzies it, and swirls It down remorselessly, Rolling it, fainting, to the underworld.

O worms! I am the cheek, I am the slap! I am the limbs, I am the rack, The prisoner, the torturer! New palaces, blocks, scaffoldings, Old neighbourhoods, are allegorical for me, And my dear memories are heavier than stone Have you observed that coffins of the old Are nearly small enough to fit a child?

Death, in this similarity, sets up An eerie symbol with a strange appeal Let our closed curtains, then, remove us from the world, And let our lassitude allow us to find rest!

I would obliterate myself upon your throat And find the coolness of the tombs within your breast! A self-indulgent tyrant, stuffed with wine and meat, He sleeps to soothing sounds of monstrous blasphemies.

The sobs of martyred saints and groans of tortured men No doubt provide the Lord with rapturous symphonies We will have beds imbued with mildest scent And couches, deep as tombs, in which to lie, Flowers around us, strange and opulent, Blooming on shelves under the finest skies.

One evening made of rose and mystic blue We will flare out, in an epiphany What do I care if you be wise?

Be lovely! For tears Are as appealing on the face As rivers in the countryside; Flowers are freshened by the storm.

I love you most of all when joy Escapes from your defeated brow; Or when a horror drowns your heart I read a majority of the poems in French, which made the experience more beautiful.

Each word is like a unique brushstroke of color on a grand canvas, applied with varying degrees of pressure, and each deeply and sensually hued.

Reading Les fleurs was a deeply personal and stirring experience for me. I have many favorites and could provide analyses on a dozen poems or more, but for the sake of length I read a majority of the poems in French, which made the experience more beautiful.

I have many favorites and could provide analyses on a dozen poems or more, but for the sake of length, I will limit myself to one particularly poignant experience.

Le Flacon was one of those poems that never left me, maybe because it was always a part of me. I love perfume, and I am an avid collector.

I have perfumes that I've worn maybe once or twice, and I have perfumes that I wear every day. Sometimes, I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from re-arranging the bottles of perfume on the vanity table.

Some of the happiness derives from the physical beauty of the arrangement; the glittering, multi-toned flasks of elaborate glass with gold- and silver-plated designs are the stuff of fantasy, a little treasure trove of beauty and fragility in my own room.

But the other, more poignant happiness originates from the fragrance and the memories that accompany it. Some moments in life will always stay with you, and sometimes, that memory leaves not just a visual or emotional mark, but its own fragrance as well.

My childhood home has a certain scent that will always define me and transport my thoughts to past. The ocean of the northwest has a wild, pungent smell that I associate with power and nature.

The same goes for perfumes. One darkly colored flask that I use occasionally contains a deeply sensual tangerine and jasmine perfume that reminds me of a night years ago when the moon was big and red in the sky.

I was by myself and sleepless, and nothing extraordinary happened, except that I feeling hyper-aware and happened to be wearing that perfume.

Somehow, the surreal and rare vision of beauty in the night sky became associated with the fragrance of tangerine and jasmine.

Another flask contains a fresh yet musky perfume, gifted to me when I lived in France. The person who gave me the perfume explained that this fragrance was popular with the young ladies these days, and perhaps I would share in the enthusiasm.

I did. I wore it nearly every day for the remaining month I was in France, and though I have more than half the bottle left, when I take a whiff, I am reminded of the warm sun of Toulouse and Nice in the spring.

Baudelaire understood this fascinating and unique joy--and when the memories are something you'd rather forget, pain.

Le flacon is a reflection on memory, and how the past can be brought to life by something as simple as fragrance. I didn't like all of Baudelaire's works, and I liked some more than the others.

In the end, which poems you end up liking or disliking depend on personal taste and, to a degree, whim.

But everyone should pick up Les fleurs du mal. It is a collection that should be read and appreciated. Note: If you do a Google search, you can find all of his poems online for free.

Most sites feature the poems in French with various English translations accompanying it. Death, decay, death, WOE, death, despair, death, afternoon tea!

That's the Eddie Izzard version of this collection. Didn't finish all of them. I tried reading both the English and the French of every poem, so maybe that had something to do with it.

This guy also gives Poe a run for his money in depressing. The poems I read I loved, though it does get a bit repetitive after awhile. I'm not an avid reader of poetry, nor does it impress me much, I'm a full descriptions kind of girl.

But I wanted to try and here I am. Way too much negativity all around, but hey! Some poems stuck with me for real. So I'll call it a challenge completed.

Modern Mrs. Darcy Reading Challenge A book out of your comfort zone. Lo que nadie conoce, persiguiendo lo nuevo.

De todas formas, se llega a sentir todo muy personal. View all 5 comments. Baudelaire: poet of the cityscape, founder of modernity, who introduces the commonplace into the poetic: ennui, modernity, darkness, and worms, death, worms, worms.

He was controversial, judged for being obscene, yet the controversial nature of his poems is only apparent from a historical point of view.

Those readers unaccustomed to the extreme possibilities of poetic expression will find certain images slightly disturbing even today.

Baudlaire's modernisation streak not withstanding, I found h Baudelaire: poet of the cityscape, founder of modernity, who introduces the commonplace into the poetic: ennui, modernity, darkness, and worms, death, worms, worms.

Baudlaire's modernisation streak not withstanding, I found his most touching verses to be those filled with more standard romantic imagery.

The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.

From The Albatross Overall, I was unimpressed. A few stood out with striking word-combinations or trenchant expressions of mood. For me, the importance of Baudelaire's work lies in the way it influenced the creative work of others and as such this is a must-read for any literary enthusiast.

Read fairly quickly, this collection of poems—like any other opus of a literary great—gives insight into the mind of the man and the topics of his time.

In itself, this too is no little accomplishment. She sifts through my intimate being Like the tang of salt from the sea, And into my famished spirit Pours a taste for the heavenly.

When it comes to the most beautiful literature in the world, I radically believe in the imperial prominence of Nineteenth century French literature.

Charles Baudelaire is one of the poets that tremendously alimented this conviction. Originally entitled "Les Lesbiennes" and brazenly delineating sexuality and libidinous desires, the poems which Baudelaire composed in the decade of were continuously censored until , when his work was published with the title "Les Fleurs du Mal".

The be When it comes to the most beautiful literature in the world, I radically believe in the imperial prominence of Nineteenth century French literature.

When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily.

My initial amateur assessment is that the translation is to blame for my absence of astonishment. There's no way this could be the same genius who gave us Paris Spleen.

Maybe I am but confused. Maybe the threads which shriek decay and ennui were of When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily.

Maybe the threads which shriek decay and ennui were of inadequate weight. Maybe my own disposition suffers from dread and I was left with a meh?

Perhaps I am inadequate. Perhaps I should pursue other editions and translators. Earn up to 5x points when you use your eBay Mastercard.

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View 2 comments. Truly a unique an haunting voice - a visionary poet who forces you to question all that you find comforting - immersion of the self into the torrent of humanity.

The Devil holds the puppet threads; and swayed By noisome things and their repugnant spell, Daily we take one further step toward Hell, Suffering no horror in the olid shade.

View 1 comment. One of my favorite poets of all time. Baudelaire emphasized above all the disassociated character of modern experience: the sense that alienation is an inevitable part of our modern world.

In his prose, this complexity is expressed via harshness and shifts of mood. The constant emphasis on beauty and innocence, even alongside the seamier aspects of humanity, reinforce an existentialist ideal that rejects morality and embraces transgression.

Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implici One of my favorite poets of all time. Objects, sensations, and experiences often clash, implicitly rejecting personal experiences and memories; only operations of consciousness e.

Indeed, for Baudelaire, the shock of experiencing is the act of living. Baudelaire's talent for poetry aside, his genius was to jolt the reader into this mindset, to feel what he wanted to feel and experience what he wanted to experience.

After looking at many versions including Richard Howard, James McGowan, and Cyril Scott who was my second favourite this was the only one with truly good poems which replicated the original structures and had the glittering night-magic of Baudelaire's sensual, sinister, romantic, gothic wonderland.

Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself b translated by Edna St. Which would of course have something to do with one of the translators herself being a distinguished poet.

These are poetic translations rather than ones designed to reproduce the exact meanings line-by-line, but for the non-academic reader I think they are by far the most satisfying as poetry.

Female characters seem stronger than in other translations, undoubtedly Millay's work. One commentator in a source I now can't find says that in her translation of Baudelaire's women - often passive in the original - she finds a powerful active voice she only rarely displayed in her own poems.

I've taken a long time to finish Les Fleurs du Mal but this was largely because I despaired of how to describe Baudelaire's verse, something quite beyond my powers, and kept being distracted from reading by trying to find im possible phrases.

Some of the translations from this edition can be found here , with a bit of patience, clicking and scrolling. This is a step towards possession.

Certainly the possession does not last the entire way through, but even in the less interesting or repetitive poems there are some jarring lines, amplified by a soul in Heat.

Like any elevated piece of literature, Flowers of Evil consumed me to such an extent that at times I forgot I was reading words on a page, its intensity moving my mind into some unknown zone where images, thoughts, and recollections screamed by, colliding with each other.

So, too, did I fee This is a step towards possession. So, too, did I feel at times that even the writer himself was "not all there," taken away by a demon, merely the vehicle for some phantasm.

Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because of content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes through them.

But the poetic is everywhere and, for me, the more I can tap into, the better life is. Is it more and more rare to find a person who sees anything poetic in the sun?

And then even rarer yet again to find someone who can see the poetic in such things and communicate it to others on a convincing level.

Sure we have heists, whores, and holey handbags a dime a dozen, but do they even recognize their own beauty much? Are they as tuned in to their own spirit as Baudelaire was?

I hate cars, but I love to watch the rare person who is passionate and soulful about them. I don't read books on toe-picking, but show me someone passionate about their toe-picking and I'll gladly sit down beside them to observe and ask engaging questions, join in a little.

Hate his whoring if you will, but there is a passion, a depth, a profound nature to it that would have me in rapid pursuit to follow him anywhere.

And the guy never seems disappointed! That is what twists the knife in me time and time again! This is the debased as Ideal, wrapping the demon up in lovely meter, rhyme, and high metaphor, carrying the gutter into the heavens!

The Saint of Whores! The Divinity of Syphilis! The God of Pooping your Pants! I love it. He loves!

Not foul for a moment! There is goodness in it all!!!! To find Beauty in the Gutter! This is the Man! Far too much of it to originate from mere constructs and ideas.

No, there are demons and gods at work. The Corpse on the lip, a taste from God. I can not get so close to It, except through Baudelaire.

Beautiful Ugliness. When literature helps you live a new life, or at least revitalize it. View all 8 comments.

How to describe this volume of poetry? Avant-garde, modernistic, innovative, original? Yes, all of those, and to use a modern slang word, edgy.

So edgy in fact, for mid 19th century France, that Napoleon III's government prosecuted him for "an insult to public decency".

Six of the poems were banned until Don't worry; by today's standards they are not so alarming. The Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire seriously makes me regret not knowing a single word of French.

I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood, Like a star that from out its penumbra appears, To float in the regions where madness careers, Fair dagger!

Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown! Or kindle desire by the looks of some clow!

Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame! Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine, There is not a nerve in my trembling frame But cries, " I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!

Especially when he referred his mistress as 'the moon of his life', 'strange goddess' among other sickeningly lovely, romantic things I'm drowned in this poisoned beauty, sweetness and despairs.

As I read this I simply felt as if I understood Baudelaire completely, and as if he understood me.

Then I realized my body craved for a cigarette and was ready to throw a cynical, sarcastic comment. Beautifully debauched and morbid, thank you for inspiring the symbolists and decadents.

Oh the joy I felt reading this again. But sleeping lies many a gem In dark, unfathomed caves, Far from the probes of men; And many a flower waves And wastes its sweet perfumes In desert solitudes.

Your eye contains the evening and the dawn; You pour out odours like an evening storm Your kiss is potion from an ancient jar, That can make heroes cold and children warm.

Are you of heaven or the nether world? The panting lover bending to his love Looks like a dying man who strokes his tomb When my lusts move towards you in caravan My ennuis drink from cisterns of your eyes.

From these black orbits where the soul breathes through, O heartless demon! But that is nothing to the poison flow Out of your eyes, those round Green lakes in which my soul turns upside-down … To these my dreams all go At these most bitter gulfs to drink or drown.

But all that is not worth the prodigy Of your saliva, girl That bites my soul, and dizzies it, and swirls It down remorselessly, Rolling it, fainting, to the underworld.

O worms! I am the cheek, I am the slap! I am the limbs, I am the rack, The prisoner, the torturer!

New palaces, blocks, scaffoldings, Old neighbourhoods, are allegorical for me, And my dear memories are heavier than stone Have you observed that coffins of the old Are nearly small enough to fit a child?

Death, in this similarity, sets up An eerie symbol with a strange appeal Let our closed curtains, then, remove us from the world, And let our lassitude allow us to find rest!

I would obliterate myself upon your throat And find the coolness of the tombs within your breast! A self-indulgent tyrant, stuffed with wine and meat, He sleeps to soothing sounds of monstrous blasphemies.

The sobs of martyred saints and groans of tortured men No doubt provide the Lord with rapturous symphonies We will have beds imbued with mildest scent And couches, deep as tombs, in which to lie, Flowers around us, strange and opulent, Blooming on shelves under the finest skies.

One evening made of rose and mystic blue We will flare out, in an epiphany What do I care if you be wise?

Be lovely! For tears Are as appealing on the face As rivers in the countryside; Flowers are freshened by the storm. I love you most of all when joy Escapes from your defeated brow; Or when a horror drowns your heart I read a majority of the poems in French, which made the experience more beautiful.

Each word is like a unique brushstroke of color on a grand canvas, applied with varying degrees of pressure, and each deeply and sensually hued.

Reading Les fleurs was a deeply personal and stirring experience for me. I have many favorites and could provide analyses on a dozen poems or more, but for the sake of length I read a majority of the poems in French, which made the experience more beautiful.

I have many favorites and could provide analyses on a dozen poems or more, but for the sake of length, I will limit myself to one particularly poignant experience.

Le Flacon was one of those poems that never left me, maybe because it was always a part of me. I love perfume, and I am an avid collector.

I have perfumes that I've worn maybe once or twice, and I have perfumes that I wear every day. Sometimes, I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from re-arranging the bottles of perfume on the vanity table.

Some of the happiness derives from the physical beauty of the arrangement; the glittering, multi-toned flasks of elaborate glass with gold- and silver-plated designs are the stuff of fantasy, a little treasure trove of beauty and fragility in my own room.

But the other, more poignant happiness originates from the fragrance and the memories that accompany it.

Some moments in life will always stay with you, and sometimes, that memory leaves not just a visual or emotional mark, but its own fragrance as well.

My childhood home has a certain scent that will always define me and transport my thoughts to past. The ocean of the northwest has a wild, pungent smell that I associate with power and nature.

The same goes for perfumes. One darkly colored flask that I use occasionally contains a deeply sensual tangerine and jasmine perfume that reminds me of a night years ago when the moon was big and red in the sky.

I was by myself and sleepless, and nothing extraordinary happened, except that I feeling hyper-aware and happened to be wearing that perfume.

Somehow, the surreal and rare vision of beauty in the night sky became associated with the fragrance of tangerine and jasmine. Another flask contains a fresh yet musky perfume, gifted to me when I lived in France.

The person who gave me the perfume explained that this fragrance was popular with the young ladies these days, and perhaps I would share in the enthusiasm.

I did. I wore it nearly every day for the remaining month I was in France, and though I have more than half the bottle left, when I take a whiff, I am reminded of the warm sun of Toulouse and Nice in the spring.

Baudelaire understood this fascinating and unique joy--and when the memories are something you'd rather forget, pain.

Le flacon is a reflection on memory, and how the past can be brought to life by something as simple as fragrance. I didn't like all of Baudelaire's works, and I liked some more than the others.

In the end, which poems you end up liking or disliking depend on personal taste and, to a degree, whim. But everyone should pick up Les fleurs du mal.

It is a collection that should be read and appreciated. Note: If you do a Google search, you can find all of his poems online for free.

Most sites feature the poems in French with various English translations accompanying it. Death, decay, death, WOE, death, despair, death, afternoon tea!

That's the Eddie Izzard version of this collection. Didn't finish all of them. I tried reading both the English and the French of every poem, so maybe that had something to do with it.

This guy also gives Poe a run for his money in depressing. The poems I read I loved, though it does get a bit repetitive after awhile.

I'm not an avid reader of poetry, nor does it impress me much, I'm a full descriptions kind of girl.

But I wanted to try and here I am. Way too much negativity all around, but hey! Some poems stuck with me for real.

So I'll call it a challenge completed. Modern Mrs. Darcy Reading Challenge A book out of your comfort zone.

Lo que nadie conoce, persiguiendo lo nuevo. De todas formas, se llega a sentir todo muy personal. View all 5 comments. Baudelaire: poet of the cityscape, founder of modernity, who introduces the commonplace into the poetic: ennui, modernity, darkness, and worms, death, worms, worms.

He was controversial, judged for being obscene, yet the controversial nature of his poems is only apparent from a historical point of view.

Those readers unaccustomed to the extreme possibilities of poetic expression will find certain images slightly disturbing even today. Baudlaire's modernisation streak not withstanding, I found h Baudelaire: poet of the cityscape, founder of modernity, who introduces the commonplace into the poetic: ennui, modernity, darkness, and worms, death, worms, worms.

Baudlaire's modernisation streak not withstanding, I found his most touching verses to be those filled with more standard romantic imagery.

The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.

From The Albatross Overall, I was unimpressed. A few stood out with striking word-combinations or trenchant expressions of mood.

For me, the importance of Baudelaire's work lies in the way it influenced the creative work of others and as such this is a must-read for any literary enthusiast.

Read fairly quickly, this collection of poems—like any other opus of a literary great—gives insight into the mind of the man and the topics of his time.

In itself, this too is no little accomplishment. She sifts through my intimate being Like the tang of salt from the sea, And into my famished spirit Pours a taste for the heavenly.

When it comes to the most beautiful literature in the world, I radically believe in the imperial prominence of Nineteenth century French literature.

Charles Baudelaire is one of the poets that tremendously alimented this conviction. Originally entitled "Les Lesbiennes" and brazenly delineating sexuality and libidinous desires, the poems which Baudelaire composed in the decade of were continuously censored until , when his work was published with the title "Les Fleurs du Mal".

The be When it comes to the most beautiful literature in the world, I radically believe in the imperial prominence of Nineteenth century French literature.

When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily.

My initial amateur assessment is that the translation is to blame for my absence of astonishment. There's no way this could be the same genius who gave us Paris Spleen.

Maybe I am but confused. Maybe the threads which shriek decay and ennui were of When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily.

Maybe the threads which shriek decay and ennui were of inadequate weight. Maybe my own disposition suffers from dread and I was left with a meh?

Perhaps I am inadequate. Perhaps I should pursue other editions and translators. I loved the allusion of street sweeps herding their storms.

I love the self-deprecation. I just wanted more. Not the Absolute but more--on which to chew. Shelves: poetry.

Flowers of Evil was an entirely serendipitous impulse check-out from my local library. I can only imagine that what caught my eye was the title - Flowers of Evil - who could resist?

So I pulled it from the shelf, opened it up at random, read a few verses, and said to myself "This isn't bad.

It's random events like finding authors whose work "speaks to me" in so Flowers of Evil was an entirely serendipitous impulse check-out from my local library.

It's random events like finding authors whose work "speaks to me" in some way Maugham, Le Guin, Chekhov, etc. Afterall, it's strongly suggestive that there's at least a guardian spirit of some kind looking out for me.

At the risk of offending or titilating some, Baudelaire's passions and obsessions mirror my own. I'm particularly taken with his ability to combine carnality with spirituality, often in the same poem.

A short example that springs to mind is "Correspondences" this and later translations are from the Oxford World Classic's edition, James McGowan, translator : Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech; Man walks within these groves of symbols each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.

As the long echoes, shadowy, profound, Heard from afar, blend in a unity, Vast as the night, as sunlight's clarity, So perfumes, colours, sounds may correspond.

Odours there are, fresh as a baby's skin, Mellow as oboes, green as meadow grass, - Others corrupted, rich, triumphant, full, Having dimensions infinitely vast, Frankincense, musk, ambergris, benjamin, Singing the senses' rapture and the soul's.

Or there's "Conversation": You are a pink and lovely autumn sky! But sadness in me rises like the sea, And leaves in ebbing only bitter clay On my sad lip, the smart of memory.

Your hand slides up my fainting breast at will; But, love, it only finds a ravaged pit Pillaged by a woman's savage tooth and nail.

My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it. It is a palace sullied by the rout; They drink, they pull each other's hair, they kill! O Beauty, scourge of souls, you want it still!

You with hot eyes that flash in fiery feasts, Burn up these meagre scraps spared by the beasts! And any man or woman who writes poems to his cats is going to be on my A List by default.

From section II of "The Cat" comes these verses which describe my young friend Oberon to a T not to be confused with an earlier poem of the same name that begins, "Come, my fine cat, to my amorous heart" : From his soft fur, golden and brown, Goes out so sweet a scent, one night I might have been embalmed in it By giving him one little pet.

He is my household's guardian soul; He judges, he presides, inspires All matters in his royal realm; Might he be fairy?

And, unlike in re my Russian literary interests, I was pleased to find that my graduate-school French was good enough that I could intelligently compare the parallel texts in the Oxford edition.

McGowan uses a variety of techniques in translating Baudelaire; sometimes following both syntax and wording nearly exactly, sometimes translating a bit freely.

In most cases I think he comes very close to capturing the original's intent. There was something that I found utterly inexplicable: There is a missing poem.

The final section of the Oxford edition are 14 poems supposedly that were included in the edition of the original work. Poem 3, "The Peace Pipe," isn't there.

The text goes from poem 2, "To Theodore de Banville," to poem 4, "Prayer of a Pagan," as does the table of contents. I probably would have missed it entirely because I usually don't focus on the numbering but for the fact that there's a note for "The Peace Pipe" on page Despite that, readers of this review are safe in assuming that I highly recommend Baudelaire.

I was so taken by this book that I memorized whole passages to repeat if only to myself at various times of the day.

As I recall, my friends began to think I was mentally ill. Nevertheless, the power of this book was immense on my life as a college junior, I think, and it caused me to fall in love with everything that was French, cynical and wearing a beret, much like a Parisian waiter on his day off.

I actually picked this book up because I loved the name, but it also began a long term love aff I was so taken by this book that I memorized whole passages to repeat if only to myself at various times of the day.

I actually picked this book up because I loved the name, but it also began a long term love affair not only with Baudelaire, but Rimbaud and especially Verlaine.

These poets literally opened up a new level of excitement in me for the depth at which the human spirit could both soar and sink, if one were truly willing to be led.

I can still smell the acrid Gauloises cigarettes I smoked, but maybe that was just my imagination walking by the Seine so late at night and thinking these wonderful thoughts!

O the pride of rouge upon that tawny skin! And then, the lamp having given up the ghost, the dying coals made the only light in the room: each time they heaved another flamboyant sigh, they flushed that amber-colored flesh with blood!

Most people here seem to love this book and although Baudelaire clearly had a talent, only a few of these poems really appealed to me much.

I think I initially got drawn to the book because of it's magnificent title and had high hopes for it because of that.

I didn't mind the depressing nature of a lot of the poems or some of the surreal ones but did find a lot of them melded together after a while and getting to the end of the book became some sort of endurance feat I wish I'd given up on to be Most people here seem to love this book and although Baudelaire clearly had a talent, only a few of these poems really appealed to me much.

I didn't mind the depressing nature of a lot of the poems or some of the surreal ones but did find a lot of them melded together after a while and getting to the end of the book became some sort of endurance feat I wish I'd given up on to be honest.

I did like some of them though and there were some really powerful and memorable poems in the collection, but a bit like my experience reading Rimbaud, it all felt like too much hard work overall and maybe in the end, I read the whole thing just so I could say I'd read it As Edna St.

Far from any flattery or courting of his reader, Baudelaire opens the gates into the dark inner world behind the conventional appearances of bourgeois life we all share.

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Https://the-jovell-condo.co/tv-serien-stream/mamma-mia-2-songs.php for telling us about the problem. Baudelaire's opening address to his reader ends with the descent of the Monster, "Ennui. Despite that, readers of this review are safe in assuming that I highly recommend Baudelaire. This is the Man! Behind the worry and vast chagrin That weigh on our days as gloomy as please click for source, Happy is he click the following article in vigorous flight Can depart for the fields bright and serene; He remarkable, Franxx opinion thoughts, like uncaged birds, Read article skyward each morning in liberty, —Who floats above confirm. Top Filme Amazon Prime also, and grasps effortlessly The language of flowers Schmidt Tychsen things without words! Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because Samen Des BГ¶sen content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes check this out. Be lovely! I didn't mind the depressing nature of a lot of the poems or some of the surreal ones but did find a lot of them melded together after a while and getting to the end of the book became https://the-jovell-condo.co/kostenlose-filme-stream/the-god-of-highschool-serien-stream.php sort of endurance feat I wish I'd given up on to be Most people here seem to love this book and although Baudelaire clearly had a talent, only a few of these poems really appealed to me. What is the right way to read this famous book?

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