poet Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire

#91 on top 500 poets

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  • Heather Marie Mortimer (10/1/2019 8:53:00 PM)

    Sadly, I do not see any of my favorite versions of my favorite poet posted here, from:
    'The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire. Ed. James Huneker. New York: Brentano's,1919'
    I would encourage Baudelaire fans to read those particular translations as well! And I hope this is remedied here in the future.

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  • bellyvankelly (10/27/2018 3:42:00 PM)

    les fleur du mal- -dam near flawless- depending on which translation u get

    rest in poetry my gentle fellow mad poet

    i heart u (an it would b ah black heart, u know dat...)

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  • Ray Burleigh (5/2/2018 9:22:00 AM)

    Dear poem hunter creators. My long overdue message to you. Wow. Great gaudy generous gratitude. Finding
    Baudelaire reminded me of all the thanks you deserve for this website. Bless you all. I turn to you so often for
    Respite and hope.

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  • A disinterested bystander (11/24/2017 1:15:00 PM)

    Baudelaire's great talent I suppose was distilling sour grapes into eloquence.

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  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (6/9/2016 1:03:00 PM)

    '' Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness. This obsessive idea is above all a child of giant cities, of the intersecting of their myriad relations. ''

    (from:  Dedication of 'Le Spleen de Paris' *

    * also known as 'Paris Spleen' or 'Petits Poèmes en prose'

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Best Poem of Charles Baudelaire

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 ...

Read the full of Be Drunk

Autumn

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.