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Charles Baudelaire

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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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"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.

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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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"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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"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


But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be


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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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.




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.






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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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.






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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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.





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.



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Guest imported_El Mamerro
Originally posted by robotripp

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.




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


Wait, aren't you Blink ATX?

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Guest imported_Tesseract
Originally posted by scallawag

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



heh...no offence and all but poetry is like sex....nothing to do with the internet.

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