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Charles Baudelaire

Discussion in 'Channel Zero' started by dik.n.ur.ear, Sep 7, 2003.

  1. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    Charles Baudelaire

    Discussion started by dik.n.ur.ear - Sep 7, 2003

    http://www.veinotte.com/baudelaire/baudeneyt.jpg'>


    Charles Baudelaire was a 19th century French poet, translator, and literary and art critic whose reputation rests primarily on Les Fleurs du mal; (1857;The Flowers of Evil) which was perhaps the most important and influential poetry collection published in Europe in the 19th century. Similarly, his Petits poèmes en prose (1868; "Little Prose Poems") was the most successful and innovative early experiment in prose poetry of the time.

    Known for his highly contraversial, and often dark poetry, as well as his translation of the tales of Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire's life was filled with drama and strife, from financial disaster to being prosecuted for obscenity and blasphemy. Long after his death many look upon his name as representing depravity and vice: Others see him as being the poet of modern civilization, seeming to speak directly to the 20th century.
     
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  2. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    dik.n.ur.ear - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    "To The Reader"

    Stupidity, delusion, selfishness and lust
    torment our bodies and possess our minds,
    and we sustain our affable remorse
    the way a beggar nourishes his lice
    Our sins are stubborn, our contrition lame;
    we want our scruples to be worth our while-
    how cheerfully we crawl back to the mire:
    with few cheap tears washing our stains away!
    Satan Trismegistus subtly rocks
    our ravished spirits on his wicked bed
    until the precious metal of our will
    is leached out by this cunning alchemist:
    the Devil's's hand directs our every move-
    the things we loathed become the things we love:
    day by day we drop though stinking shades
    quite undeterred on our descent to Hell!
    Like a poor profligate who sucks and bites
    the withered breasts of some well-seasoned trull,
    we snatch in passing at clandestine joys
    and squeeze the oldest orange harder yet.
    Wriggling in our brains like a million worms,
    a demon demos holds its revels there,
    and when we breathe, the Lethe in our lungs
    trickles sighing on its secret course.
    If rape and arson, poison and the knife
    have not yet stitched their ludicrous designs
    onto the banal buckram of our fates,
    it is because our souls lack enterprise!
    But here among the scorpions and the hounds,
    the jackals, apes and vultures, snakes and wolves,
    monsters that howl and growl and squeal and crawl,
    in all the squalid zoo of vices,
    one is even uglier and fouler than the rest,
    althoug the least flamboyant of the lot;
    this beast would gladly undermine the earth.
     
    dik.n.ur.ear - Rank: 12oz Senior Member - Messages:
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  3. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    dik.n.ur.ear - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    "EVEN WHEN SHE WALKS. . ."


    Even when she walks she seems to dance!
    Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes
    obedient to the rhythm of the wands
    by which a fakir wakens them to grace.

    Like both the desert and the desert sky
    insensible to human suffering,
    and like the ocean's endless labyrinth
    she shows her body with indifference.

    Precious minerals are her polished eyes,
    and in her strange symbolic nature
    angel and sphinx unite,
    where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light,
    shining forever, useless as a star,
    the sterile woman's icy majesty.
     
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  4. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    dik.n.ur.ear - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    "Afternoon Song"

    Though your wicked eyebrows call
    Your nature into question
    (Unangelic's their suggestion,
    Witch whose eyes enthrall)>

    I adore you still -
    O foolish terrible emotion -
    Kneeling in devotion
    As a priest to his idol will.

    Your undone braids conceal
    Desert, forest scents:
    In your exotic countenance
    Lie secrets unrevealed.

    Over your flesh perfume drifts
    Like incense 'round a censor:
    Tantalizing dispenser
    Of evening's ardent gifts.

    No Philtres could compete
    With your potent idleness:
    You've mastered the caress
    That raises dead me to their feet.

    Your hips themselves are romanced
    By your back and by your breasts:
    By your languid dalliance.

    Now and then, your appetite's
    Uncontrolled, unassuaged:
    Mysteriously enraged,
    You kiss me and you bite.

    Dark one, I am torn
    By your savage ways,
    Then, soft as the moon, your gaze
    Sees my tortured heart reborn.

    Beneath your satin shoe,
    Beneath your charming silken foot.
    My greatest joy I put
    My genius and destiny, too.

    You bring my spirit back,
    Bringer of the light.
    Exploding color in the night
    Of my Siberia so black.
     
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  5. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    dik.n.ur.ear - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    "Be Drunk"

    You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the
    only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
    your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
    drunk.
    But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
    drunk.
    And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
    a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
    drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
    the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
    that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is
    singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and
    wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be
    drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
    continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
     
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  6. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    dik.n.ur.ear - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    i doubt the majority of you internet brawlers give a fuck about poetry, but please contribute and prove me wrong....
     
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  7. l0rdka0s

    l0rdka0s Banned

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    l0rdka0s - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    Of all the things i could repect you for, I didnt think it would ever be your intrest in poetry. I myself am a writer, i own claim to hundreds of poems but i reufse to post that shit on here. hit me on aim(lordkaotical) if you wanna talk, and until then enjoy the stars that i look to at night and hope to one day be in midst of.

    BECAUSE YOUR VOICE WAS AT MY SIDE

    by: James Joyce (1882-1941)

    ECAUSE your voice was at my side
    I gave him pain,
    Because within my hand I held
    Your hand again.

    There is no word nor any sign
    Can make amend--
    He is a stranger to me now
    Who was my friend.



    I HEAR AN ARMY CHARGING UPON THE LAND

    by: James Joyce (1882-1941)

    HEAR an army charging upon the land,
    And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
    Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
    Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.

    They cry unto the night their battle-name:
    I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
    They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
    Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

    They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
    They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
    My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
    My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
     
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  8. l0rdka0s

    l0rdka0s Banned

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    l0rdka0s - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    FIRE AND ICE

    by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

    OME say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I’ve tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To know that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice.



    THE LOCKLESS DOOR

    by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

    T went many years,
    But at last came a knock,
    And I thought of the door
    With no lock to lock.

    I blew out the light,
    I tip-toed the floor,
    And raised both hands
    In prayer to the door.

    But the knock came again
    My window was wide;
    I climbed on the sill
    And descended outside.

    Back over the sill
    I bade a “Come in”
    To whoever the knock
    At the door may have been.

    So at a knock
    I emptied my cage
    To hide in the world
    And alter with age.
     
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  9. l0rdka0s

    l0rdka0s Banned

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    l0rdka0s - Replied Sep 7, 2003

    thsione is my favorite frost poem, all the moronic idiot rich kids who are unapreciative of literature in my senior english class had nofucking idead as to what this shit meant until i screamed and yelled the explination to them, i yelled because it was so blatantly obvious and they took me from my black book to explain it to them. dumbfucks.


    THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

    by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

    WO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.


    WEll i wanted to post some Poems by Samuel Beckett but apparently no one has taken the time to tpye them up soill get some for yas later on down the road after i do it. heres a link to the entire play En Attendant Godot (waiting for godot), which in my opinion is poetry, just a really really long one.

    http://samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html
     
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  10. Spoter

    Spoter 12oz Senior Member

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    Spoter - Replied Sep 8, 2003

    poetry?......damn.i didn't know you would take this far.
     
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  11. imported_El Mamerro - Replied Sep 8, 2003

    http://www.montana-cabins.com/image/big-horse.jpg'>

    Careful getting off, it's a long way down.

    Wait, aren't you Blink ATX?
     
  12. imported_Tesseract - Replied Sep 8, 2003


    heh...no offence and all but poetry is like sex....nothing to do with the internet.
     
  13. dik.n.ur.ear

    dik.n.ur.ear 12oz Senior Member

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    dik.n.ur.ear - Replied Sep 8, 2003

    that didnt make any sense to me
     
    dik.n.ur.ear - Rank: 12oz Senior Member - Messages:
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