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To the Reader
by Charles Baudelaire - Translated by C. S. Thompson
Stupidity and error, sin and lies,
These occupy our souls and work our limbs.
We cultivate remorse for all our sins
Like loving beggars nourishing their lice.
In stubborn evil, cowards, we confess.
We make our payment, playing for the show
But happily, back to the world we go
Thinking that tears will make our guilt be less.
Three-powered Satan, in his bed of ill
Enchants our spirit, lulling us to rest,
To use his cunning as an alchemist
To vaporize the metal of our will.
It is the Devil who shall lead us hence!
Repugnant objects meet us on the way.
More close to Hell with every passing day
We walk unhorrified, despite the stench.
A tired playboy, kissing as he chews
The martyred breast of a defeated whore.
Trying to find the road to joy before
We learn the fruit we're pressing has no juice.
In millions they are living in our brains,
The drunken Demons who cavort in gangs.
And when we breathe, Death enters in our lungs-
Descends invisibly to join with pain.
If rape and poison, blades and burning ware
Do not embellish your pathetic fate
The boring canvas of the life you hate-
Your soul just wasn't strong enough to dare.
But in the zoo of jackals, panthers, lice,
Of apes and scorpions, of bugs and snakes
Of monsters who will grovel, grunt and shake,
In this, our damned menagerie of vice,
There still is one more ugly, evil one!
He'd never make a noise or make a scene
And yet he'd ruin all the world in dream-
He'd swallow up the Earth, then give a yawn,
His name is Boredom. Lids stuck to each other
Crying, dreaming opium as well.
You know him, reader, gentle king of Hell,
Hypocrite reader, you-my double-my brother!
IX. The Evil Monk
by Charles Baudelaire - Translated by C. S. Thompson
The ancient cloisters on their mighty walls
Displayed the face of Truth upon their stones
In paintings which inspired the pious monks
And warmed the austere coldness of their bones.
Many a noble monk, now long obscure,
In times when Christ was stronger than today,
By painting in the graveyard of the church,
Glorified Death in his own simple way.
My soul's a crypt, where, evil cenobite,
I pace forever with my odious blight,
From wall to wall, and every wall is bare.
Oh, lazy monk, when will I understand,
How to create the labor of my hands,
Out of the spectacle of my long despair?
LXXXIII. The Appetite for Oblivion
by Charles Baudelaire - Translated by C. S. Thompson
Sad creature, once enamored of the fight,
That Hope of yours, whose spurs were sharp and deep,
No longer rides your back! So go to sleep,
Old horse who trips on everything in sight.
Give up, my heart, and go to sleep tonight.
Exhausted, conquered spirit! Old and dim,
Love has no flavor, neither does dispute.
Farewell, therefore, to songs of brass and flute-
No pleasures tempt this heart, severe and grim,
For Spring is gone, and everything is dim.
Now Time engulfs me more with every day,
Like snow that settles on me quietly.
I think about the Earth's immensity
And don't attempt to find a place to stay.
Oh avalanche, come carry me away!
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