the flowers of evil

american hatred of the french is ubiquitous and absurd and dull. i think it springs from a deep jealously of rockin' poets and artists such as baudelaire - or, perhaps, from an ethnocentric abhorrence of escargot. in either case, i hope these poems will redeem some aspect of french culture to those of you who may be on the fence and just need a tiny shove toward embracing all that is lovely, dark and meaningful.

the flowers of evil is a wonderful collection of baudelaire's poetry that i recommend to anyone who claims to dislike poetry - or the french, for that matter. if you still hate poetry after reading baudelaire, i am sorry to say that there is simply no hope for you, my friend. it may be the my second most favorite collection (second only to tennyson, that is), and that alone should make you leap from your chair in a frenzy and rush to find your own copy. i like to think i have that kind of superpower over your mind. please to enjoy.

MUSIC
Music doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven's infinity
I lift my wandering sail.

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!

THE TEMPTATION
The Demon, in my chamber high,
This morning came to visit me,
And, thinking he would find some fault,
He whispered: "I would know of thee

Among the many lovely things
That make the magic of her face,
Among the beauties, black and rose,
That make her body's charm and grace,

Which is most fair?" Thou didst reply
To the Abhorred, O soul of mine:
"No single beauty is the best
When she is all one flower divine.

When all things charm me I ignore
Which one alone brings most delight;
She shines before me like the dawn,
And she consoles me like the night.

The harmony is far too great,
That governs all her body fair,
For impotence to analyse
And say which note is sweetest there.

O mystic metamorphosis!
My senses into one sense flow--
Her voice makes perfume when she speaks,
Her breath is music faint and low!"

BEAUTY
I am as lovely as a dream in stone,
And this my heart where each finds death in turn,
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As clay eternal and as taciturn.

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

Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into the 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.