Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire HOME
Charles Baudelaire Selected poems Get drunk Always be drunk. That's it! The great imperative! In order not to feel Time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, Get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk. And if you sometimes happen to wake up on the porches of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the dismal loneliness of your own room, your drunkenness gone or disappearing, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, ask everything that flees, everything that groans or rolls or sings, everything that speaks, ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: "Time to get drunk! Don't be martyred slaves of Time, Get drunk! Stay drunk! On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!" Meditation Wise up, Sorrow. Calm down. You always lay claim to twilight. Well, here it is, brother, It descends. Obscurity settles over the town, bringing peace to one, worry to another. The restless crowd, whipped on by pleasure— our dogged torturer—carry their hearts’ raw remorse with them as they serve their vapid leisure, while you, my Sorrow, drop by here, take my hand, and draw me apart from them. We watch the dying years in faded gowns lean out from heaven’s balconies, as Regret rears, smiling, out of the deep dark where the dead ones march. Dragging its long train—now a shroud—from its early light in the East, the sun goes to sleep under an arch. Listen, Sorrow, beloved, to the soft approach of Night. Anywhere Out Of The World This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window. It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not, and this question of removal is one which I discuss incessantly with my soul. 'Tell me, my soul, poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and there you would invigorate yourself like a lizard. This city is on the sea-shore; they say that it is built of marble and that the people there have such a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all the trees. There you have a landscape that corresponds to your taste! a landscape made of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!' My soul does not reply. 'Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of movement, would you like to settle in Holland, that beatifying country? Perhaps you would find some diversion in that land whose image you have so often admired in the art galleries. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships moored at the foot of houses?' My soul remains silent. 'Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find, amongst other things, the spirit of Europe married to tropical beauty.' Not a word. Could my soul be dead? 'Is it then that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that you acquiesce in your sickness? If so, let us flee to lands that are analogues of death. I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our trunks for Tornio. Let us go farther still to the extreme end of the Baltic; or farther still from life, if that is possible; let us settle at the Pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and increases monotony, that half-nothingness. There we shall be able to take long baths of darkness, while for our amusement the aurora borealis shall send us its rose-coloured

Selected poems

Get drunk

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

Meditation

Wise up, Sorrow. Calm down.
You always lay claim to twilight. Well, here it is, brother,
It descends. Obscurity settles over the town,
bringing peace to one, worry to another.
The restless crowd, whipped on by pleasure—
our dogged torturer—carry their hearts’ raw
remorse with them as they serve their vapid leisure,
while you, my Sorrow, drop by here, take my hand, and draw
me apart from them. We watch the dying years
in faded gowns lean out from heaven’s balconies, as Regret rears,
smiling, out of the deep dark where the dead ones march.
Dragging its long train—now a shroud—from its early light
in the East, the sun goes to sleep under an arch.
Listen, Sorrow, beloved, to the soft approach of Night.

Anywhere Out Of The World

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the
desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of
the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health
beside the window.
It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I
am not, and this question of removal is one which I discuss
incessantly with my soul.
'Tell me, my soul, poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to
live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and there you would
invigorate yourself like a lizard. This city is on the sea-shore; they
say that it is built of marble and that the people there have such
a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all the trees. There you
have a landscape that corresponds to your taste! a landscape
made of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!'
My soul does not reply.
'Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of
movement, would you like to settle in Holland,
that beatifying country? Perhaps you would find some diversion
in that land whose image you have so often admired
in the art galleries. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who
love forests of masts, and ships moored at the foot of
houses?'
My soul remains silent.
'Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find,
amongst other things, the spirit of Europe married to tropical
beauty.'
Not a word. Could my soul be dead?
'Is it then that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that
you acquiesce in your sickness? If so, let us flee to lands that are
analogues of death. I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our
trunks for Tornio. Let us go farther still to the extreme end of the
Baltic; or farther still from life, if that is possible; let us settle at
the Pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the
slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and
increases monotony, that half-nothingness. There we shall be
able to take long baths of darkness, while for our amusement the
aurora borealis shall send us its rose-coloured