The Flowers of Evil

WARNINGThe poetry in Charles Baudelaire’s 1857 book The Flowers of Evil contains sexuality, profanity, reference to drugs and alcohol, religious and sacrilegious imagery, immorality and sadism. An alternate text is available for any student who wishes not to read this material.

“Certain illustrious poets have long since divided among themselves the more flowery provinces of the realm of poetry. I have found it amusing, and the more pleasant because the task was more difficult, to extract beauty from Evil.”

— Charles Baudelaire

Poems included in this presentation

DuellumBeaconsThe Ideal

Sed Non SatiataReversibility

To a MadonnaAbel and Cain

The Gladly DeadThe Vampire

The Poems

Duellum

Two warriors engage, their weapons flash,Spill blood, splash glints of steel into the air,Such fracas, such encounters are the warOf puppy-love, the torment of young flesh.

Duellum

Dearest, our blades are broken, the fine fashionOf youth is gone, but teeth and fingernailsTake up where the outmoded weapon fails—Hearts ulcerated by a full-fledged passion.

In a deep gulley, lynx-haunted, forlorn,Roll our own champions, locked in brute embrace,Tearing their bloody flesh among the thorns.

That is the pit of Hell, filled with our kind.Let's roll in it ourselves, with no remorse,To keep alive our hatred without end.

-Anthony Hecht

Two warriors engage, their weapons flash,Spill blood, splash glints of steel into the air,Such fracas, such encounters are the warOf puppy-love, the torment of young flesh.

Dearest, our blades are broken, the fine fashionOf youth is gone, but teeth and fingernailsTake up where the outmoded weapon fails—Hearts ulcerated by a full-fledged passion.

In a deep gulley, lynx-haunted, forlorn,Roll our own champions, locked in brute embrace,Tearing their bloody flesh among the thorns.

That is the pit of Hell, filled with our kind.Let's roll in it ourselves, with no remorse,To keep alive our hatred without end.

-Anthony Hecht

Duellum

Translated by David Paul

beacons

beacons

SED NON SATIATABizarre deity, as dark as night,Scented with musky perfume and Havana,Work of some obi, the Faust of the savanna,Witch with ebony flanks, child of black midnight,

Rather than constance, le nuits, opium,The elixir of your mouth where love pavanes;Your eyes are wells where my desires comeAnd my ennuis drink in thirsty caravans.

From those black eyes, your soul's smoke-vents, I pray,Pitiless demon, pour on me less flame;I am not the Styx to encompass you nine times,

Alas ! I can't, Megaerian libertine,Break your spirit and bring you to bay,Transformed in your bed's hell to Proserpine!

- C. F. MacIntyre trans.

THE IDEALNever those beauties in old prints vignetted,Those shopworn products of a worthless age,With slippered feet and fingers castanetted,The thirst of hearts like my heart can assuage.

To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses,I leave his troupe of beauties sick and wan;I cannot find among those pale, pale roses,The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon.

You, Lady Macbeth, a soul strong in crime,Aeschylus' dream born in a northern clime-Ah, you could quench my dark heart's deep desiring;

Or you, Michelangelo's daughter, Night,In a strange posture dreamily admiringYour beauty fashioned for a giant's delight!

-Trans. F. P. Sturm

THE IDEALNever those beauties in old prints vignetted,Those shopworn products of a worthless age,With slippered feet and fingers castanetted,The thirst of hearts like my heart can assuage.

To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses,I leave his troupe of beauties sick and wan;I cannot find among those pale, pale roses,The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon.

You, Lady Macbeth, a soul strong in crime,Aeschylus' dream born in a northern clime-Ah, you could quench my dark heart's deep desiring;

Or you, Michelangelo's daughter, Night,In a strange posture dreamily admiringYour beauty fashioned for a giant's delight!

-Trans. F. P. Sturm

Or you, Michelangelo's daughter, Night,In a strange posture dreamily admiringYour beauty fashioned for a giant's delight!

REVERSIBILITY

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite,And the vague terrors of the fearful nightThat crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf ?Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate ?With hands clenched in the dark, and tears of gall,When Vengeance beats her hellish battle--call,And makes herself the captain of our fate,Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?

Angel of health, did ever you know pain,Which like an exile trails his tired footfallsThe cold length of the white infirmary walls,With lips compressed, seeking the sun in vain?Angel of health, did ever you know pain ?

Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?Know you the fear of age, the torment vileOf reading secret horror in the smileOf eyes your eyes have loved since long ago?Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?

Angel of happiness, and joy, and light,Old David would have asked for youth afreshFrom the pure touch of your enchanted flesh;I but implore your prayers to aid my plight,Angel of happiness, and joy, and light.

-F. P. Sturm trans.

THE GLADLY DEAD

In a soil thick with snails and rich as greaseI've longed to dig myself a good deep grave,There to stretch my oId bones at easeAnd sleep in oblivion, like a shark in a wave

Wills I detest, and tombstones set in rows;Before I'd beg a tear of anyone,I'd rather go alive and let the crowsBleed the last scrap of this old carrion.

O worms! Black comrades without eye or ear,Here comes a dead man for you, willing and gay;Feasting philosophers, sons born of decay,

Come burrow through my ruins, shed not a tear;But tell me if any torture is left to dreadFor this old soulless body, dead as the dead?

— Jackson Mathews, trans.

THE GLADLY DEADIn a soil thick with snails and rich as greaseI've longed to dig myself a good deep grave,There to stretch my oId bones at easeAnd sleep in oblivion, like a shark in a wave

Wills I detest, and tombstones set in rows;Before I'd beg a tear of anyone,I'd rather go alive and let the crowsBleed the last scrap of this old carrion.

O worms! Black comrades without eye or ear,Here comes a dead man for you, willing and gay;Feasting philosophers, sons born of decay,

Come burrow through my ruins, shed not a tear;But tell me if any torture is left to dreadFor this old soulless body, dead as the dead?

— Jackson Mathews, trans.

To a Madonna

Madonna, mistress, I shall build for youAn altar of my misery, and hewOut of my heart's remote and midnight pitch,Far from all worldly lusts and sneers, a nicheEnameled totally in gold and blueWhere I shall set you up, and worship you.And of my verse, like hammered silver laceStudded with amethysts of rhyme, I'll placeA hand-wrought crown upon your head, and I'llMake you a coat in the barbaric style,Picked out in seedling tears instead of pearl,That you shall wear like mail, my mortal girl,Lined with suspicion, made of jealousy,Encasing all your charms, that none may see.

And if I fail, for all my proffered boon,To make a silver footstool of the moon,Victorious queen, I place beneath your heelThe head of this black serpent that I feelGnawing at my intestines all the time,Swollen with hate and venomous with crime.You shall behold my thoughts like tapers litBefore your flowered shrine, and brightening it,Reflected in the semi-dome's clear skiesLike so many fierce stars or fiery eyes.And I shall be as myrrh and frankincense,Rising forever in a smokey trance,And the dark cloud of my tormented hopesShall lift in yearning toward your snowy slopes.

And finally, to render you more real,I shall make seven blades of Spanish steelOut of the Seven Deadly Sins, and IShall mix my love with murderous savagery,And like a circus knife-thrower, I'll aimAt the pure center of your gentle frame,And plunge those blades into your beating heart,Your bleeding, suffering, palpitating heart.

-Anthony Hecht trans.

As for the intimate part of your attire,Your dress shall be composed of my desire,Rising and falling, swirling from your kneesTo your round hills and deep declivities.Of the respect I owe you I shall makeA pair of satin shoes that they may take—Though most unworthily prepared to do it—The authentic shape and imprint of your foot.

To a Madonna

ABEL AND CAINRace of Abel, eat, sleep and drink;God smiles on you approvingly.

Race of Cain, in filth and stinkGrovel and die, miserably.

ABEL AND CAINRace of Abel, eat, sleep and drink;God smiles on you approvingly.

Race of Cain, in filth and stinkGrovel and die, miserably.

Race of Abel, your offeringFlatters the angelic nose!

Race of Cain, what time will bringThe end of your torment and woes?

Race of Abel, your seeds take root,And see how all your cattle prosper;

Race of Cain, within your gutHowls hunger like an ancient cur.

Race of Abel, your innards takeWarmth from the patriarchal hearth;

Race of Cain, poor jackal, shakeWith cold, crouched in the hollowed earth!

Race of Abel, make love and spawn!Your gold spawns also in its right.

Race of Cain, you hearts that burn,Beware of such great appetite.

Race of Abel, you browse and breedAs wanton as an orchard pest.

Race of Cain, along the roadsideDrag your family, hard pressed!

II

Ah ! race of Abel, your fat carcassWill enrich the reeking soil !

Race of Cain, your hard work isNot finished yet in spite of all;

Race of Abel, here your shame lies:The sword lost to the hunter's rod!

Race of Cain, mount to the skiesAnd down upon the earth cast God!

— Kenneth O. Hanson, trans.

The VampireThou who, like a dagger-thrust, Entered my complaining soul; Thou who, potent as a host Of demons, came, wild, beautiful, To make my heart cast on the ground Into your bed and your domain; Wretch infamous to whom I'm bound Like the convict to the chain,The stubborn gambler to his dice, The drunkard to his revelry, The carrion to worms and lice, Cursed, cursed may thou be!I implored the rapid sword To secure my liberty, I asked the poison I abhorred To succour my timidity. Alas! the poison and the sword Only showed contempt for me; "You deserve not the reward Of freedom from your slavery,Fool! - If our resolution Saved you from its sovereignty, You would kiss alive again The vampire's tenement of clay!"

— George Dillon

analysis

Structure

Two warriors engage, their weapons flash,Spill blood, splash glints of steel into the air,Such fracas, such encounters are the warOf puppy-love, the torment of young flesh.

Dearest, our blades are broken, the fine fashionOf youth is gone, but teeth and fingernailsTake up where the outmoded weapon fails—Hearts ulcerated by a full-fledged passion.

In a deep gulley, lynx-haunted, forlorn,Roll our own champions, locked in brute embrace,Tearing their bloody flesh among the thorns.

That is the pit of Hell, filled with our kind.Let's roll in it ourselves, with no remorse,To keep alive our hatred without end.

-Anthony Hecht

Duellum

Two warriors engage, their weapons flash,Spill blood, splash glints of steel into the air,Such fracas, such encounters are the warOf puppy-love, the torment of young flesh.

Dearest, our blades are broken, the fine fashionOf youth is gone, but teeth and fingernailsTake up where the outmoded weapon fails—Hearts ulcerated by a full-fledged passion.

In a deep gulley, lynx-haunted, forlorn,Roll our own champions, locked in brute embrace,Tearing their bloody flesh among the thorns.

That is the pit of Hell, filled with our kind.Let's roll in it ourselves, with no remorse,To keep alive our hatred without end.

-Anthony Hecht

Duellum

Youth

Age

Nature

Eternity

ambivalence(love/hate)

war/love-making

life/death

sound

“The intense colorations of rhyme [are] lanterns lighting up the route of the idea.”

– Baudelaire

SED NON SATIATABizarre deity, as dark as night,Scented with musky perfume and Havana,Work of some obi, the Faust of the savanna,Witch with ebony flanks, child of black midnight,

Rather than constance, le nuits, opium,The elixir of your mouth where love pavanes;Your eyes are wells where my desires comeAnd my ennuis drink in thirsty caravans.

From those black eyes, your soul's smoke-vents, I pray,Pitiless demon, pour on me less flame;I am not the Styx to encompass you nine times,

Alas ! I can't, Megaerian libertine,Break your spirit and bring you to bay,Transformed in your bed's hell to Proserpine!

- C. F. MacIntyre trans.

“‘Sed non satiata’ is a particularly striking example in which Baudelaire intensifies the repetitive nature of sonnets by exaggerating the demands of ‘regular’ sonnet rhyme. The first rhyme ‘nuits’ has three matching phonetic elements [n], [u], [i] and, in addition, exploits the density of homonym: ‘nuits’ means both ’night’ and also refers to a kind of wine. The second rhyme raises this richness to a new level. Each of the rhyme words ‘havane’, ‘savane’, ‘pavane’, ‘caravane’, already incorporates a r e p e t i t i o n o f s o u n d [ a ] , a n d furthermore have matching consonants also. [a-v-a-n]. The tercets provide a brief pause with two unremarkable rhymes which serve to set off the phonetic richness of the final rhyme (‘libertine’/’Proserpine’) and also its quality as a ‘rare’ rhyme involving, in this case, a proper name. The overall effect is the re-creation, stylistically, as incantation, of the mesmeric fascination exercised by the insatiable mistress over her poet/lover.”

-- Rachel Killick, “Baudelaire’s versification”

more sound

REVERSIBILITY

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite,And the vague terrors of the fearful nightThat crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf ?Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate ?With hands clenched in the dark, and tears of gall,When Vengeance beats her hellish battle--call,And makes herself the captain of our fate,Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?

Angel of health, did ever you know pain,Which like an exile trails his tired footfallsThe cold length of the white infirmary walls,With lips compressed, seeking the sun in vain?Angel of health, did ever you know pain ?

Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?Know you the fear of age, the torment vileOf reading secret horror in the smileOf eyes your eyes have loved since long ago?Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?

Angel of happiness, and joy, and light,Old David would have asked for youth afreshFrom the pure touch of your enchanted flesh;I but implore your prayers to aid my plight,Angel of happiness, and joy, and light.

-F. P. Sturm trans.

Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse,La honte, les remords, les sanglots, les ennuis,Et les vagues terreurs de ces affreuses nuitsQui compriment le coeur comme un papier qu'on froisse?Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse?

Ange plein de bonté, connaissez-vous la haine,Les poings crispés dans l'ombre et les larmes de fiel,Quand la Vengeance bat son infernal rappel,Et de nos facultés se fait le capitaine?Ange plein de bonté connaissez-vous la haine?

Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres,Qui, le long des grands murs de l'hospice blafard,Comme des exilés, s'en vont d'un pied traînard,Cherchant le soleil rare et remuant les lèvres?Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres?

Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides,Et la peur de vieillir, et ce hideux tourmentDe lire la secrète horreur du dévouementDans des yeux où longtemps burent nos yeux avide!Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides?

Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières,David mourant aurait demandé la santéAux émanations de ton corps enchanté;Mais de toi je n'implore, ange, que tes prières,Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières!

— Charles Baudelaire

RÉVERSIBILITÉ

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite,

And the vague terrors of the fearful night

That crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf ?

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse,

La honte, les remords, les sanglots, les ennuis,

Et les vagues terreurs de ces affreuses nuits

Qui compriment le coeur comme un papier qu'on froisse?

Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse?

A

B

B

A

A

A

B

B

A

A

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish,

Shame, remorse, sobs, vexations,

And the vague terrors of those frightful nights

That compress the heart like a paper one crumples?

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish?

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

/ / / /

“In ‘Réversibilité’ the prayer-like chanting of ‘Ange, plein de . . . ‘ begins in line 1, repeating both [a] and [g] sounds: ‘[a] Ange . . . [g] gaiété . . . [ag] angoisse’. But the repetitive effect is then subverted by the thematic contrast between the Angel’s casual well-being (lines 1, 5) and the speaker’s mental and physical torment (lines 2-4), a pattern that will be repeated in the following stanzas.”

-- Rachel Killick, “Baudelaire’s versification”

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite,

And the vague terrors of the fearful night

That crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf ?

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish,

Shame, remorse, sobs, vexations,

And the vague terrors of those frightful nights

That compress the heart like a paper one crumples?

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish?

A

B

B

A

A

A

B

B

A

A

still more sound

And like a circus knife-thrower, I'll aimAt the pure center of your gentle frame,And plunge those blades into your beating heart,Your bleeding, suffering, palpitating heart.

"The very sadistic pleasure taken in the murder of this Madonna can be felt in the final triple present participle whose trisyllabic regularity rhythmically mimics a male orgasm."

-- John E. Jackson

allusion

tercet(3-line stanza)

quatrain(4-line stanza)

couplet(2-line stanza)

Charles Baudelare 1821-1867THE IDEALNever those beauties in old prints vignetted,Those shopworn products of a worthless age,With slippered feet and fingers castanetted,The thirst of hearts like my heart can assuage.

To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses,I leave his troupe of beauties sick and wan;I cannot find among those pale, pale roses,The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon.

You, Lady Macbeth, a soul strong in crime,Aeschylus' dream born in a northern clime-Ah, you could quench my dark heart's deep desiring;

Or you, Michelangelo's daughter, Night,In a strange posture dreamily admiringYour beauty fashioned for a giant's delight!

-

william shakespeare 1564-1616Sonnet 130My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips' red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Both poems are sonnets of 14 lines total.Both poems are about ideals of beauty.Both poems seem to lament the lack of a “dark ideal” in the arts (poetry for Shakespeare, visual arts for Baudelaire) to match the dark lady or dark ideals of the speaker.But they were written 300 years apart and in different countries--- surely they are not the same poem! How are they different?

BothBut

beacons