Charles Baudelaire

(9 April 1821 – 31 August 1867 / Paris)

Charles Baudelaire Poems

121. Beowulf 3/31/2010
122. To The Reader 1/3/2003
123. Far Away From Here 3/31/2010
124. À Une Dame Créole (To A Creole Lady) 3/31/2010
125. Bertha’s Eyes 3/31/2010
126. Lethe 1/3/2003
127. Voyage To Cythera 1/20/2003
128. Le Gout Du Néant 1/1/2004
129. Even When She Walks 3/31/2010
130. The Bad Monk 1/13/2003
131. Spleen (Iv) 1/13/2003
132. Une Charogne 1/13/2003
133. Travelling Bohemians 1/13/2003
134. My Earlier Life 1/13/2003
135. Ill-Starred 1/13/2003
136. Alchimie De La Douleur (The Alchemy Of Sorrow) 3/31/2010
137. Calm 3/31/2010
138. The Blessing 1/3/2003
139. The Balcony 1/21/2003
140. The Living Torch 1/3/2003
141. Overcast 1/1/2004
142. Spleen 1/20/2003
143. The Possessed 1/3/2003
144. L'Invitation Au Voyage 1/13/2003
145. One O'Clock In The Morning 1/1/2004
146. Music 3/31/2010
147. The End Of The Day 1/3/2003
148. For Madame Sabatier 1/21/2003
149. The Sick Muse 1/13/2003
150. De Profundis Clamavi 1/3/2003
151. The Enemy 1/13/2003
152. Sorrows Of The Moon 1/3/2003
153. The Fountain Of Blood 1/20/2003
154. The Vampire 1/3/2003
155. Composure 1/3/2003
156. Elevation 1/13/2003
157. The Albatross 1/3/2003
158. Evening Harmony 1/3/2003
159. Correspondences 1/3/2003
160. Invitation To The Voyage 1/3/2003

Comments about Charles Baudelaire

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

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

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • 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'

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (6/9/2016 1:02:00 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'

  • Shobana Gomes Shobana Gomes (4/28/2014 5:54:00 AM)

    His poems tread on the catchy-ness of his phrases. Love it.

  • Lucianne Fasolo (9/26/2007 8:54:00 AM)

    Ah, Baudelaire. The forefather of modern poetry, and also of the French Symbolism. He had a unique style, his poems were flawless and beautiful. And he's one of my favorite poets ever, :)

  • ari anna arena (1/17/2007 1:30:00 AM)

    Why no 'Le Balcon'? A bella poesia.

  • Geneva Henderson (1/30/2006 12:53:00 PM)

    This is one of those cool poems. It makes you think. Personally I love Baudelaire. He has a beautiful rythem and sound that enchants me and inspires me.

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.

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