(no subject)
La Mort des Amants
Nous aurons des lits pleins d'odeurs légères,
Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,
Et d'étranges fleurs sur des étagères,
Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux.
Usant à l'envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux coeurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.
Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,
Nous échangerons un éclair unique,
Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d'adieux;
Et plus tard un Ange, entr'ouvrant les portes,
Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,
Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes.
- Charles Baudelaire
The Death of Lovers
We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes,
Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves
Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us
Under more beautiful heavens.
Using their dying flames emulously,
Our two hearts will be two immense torches
Which will reflect their double light
In our two souls, those twin mirrors.
Some evening made of rose and of mystical blue
A single flash will pass between us
Like a long sob, charged with farewells;
And later an Angel, setting the doors ajar,
Faithful and joyous, will come to revive
The tarnished mirrors, the extinguished flames.
(William Aggeler's translation)
I don't know what it is about that particular poem that makes my heart skip a beat and makes me stop breathing. Maybe it's the flash. And the imagery of the flame. I swear I can *hear* the sound of a flame coming to life when I imagine the flash, the sort of a... well, voomphing sound a large, sudden flame would make, especially a gas flame. Sounds stupid now that I've written it down, but damn. It's a fucking beautiful poem, nevertheless. Baudelaire was such a tosser, but some of his poetry just makes me ache. The Gifts of the Moon is another one of my all-time favourites--the imagery of the things the moon-touched ones would love... wonderful.
Hrm. Seems Spleen de Paris, along with half my Angela Carters, is another one of those books I've left at the folks. Bugger. Typical.
Nous aurons des lits pleins d'odeurs légères,
Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,
Et d'étranges fleurs sur des étagères,
Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux.
Usant à l'envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux coeurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.
Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,
Nous échangerons un éclair unique,
Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d'adieux;
Et plus tard un Ange, entr'ouvrant les portes,
Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,
Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes.
- Charles Baudelaire
The Death of Lovers
We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes,
Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves
Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us
Under more beautiful heavens.
Using their dying flames emulously,
Our two hearts will be two immense torches
Which will reflect their double light
In our two souls, those twin mirrors.
Some evening made of rose and of mystical blue
A single flash will pass between us
Like a long sob, charged with farewells;
And later an Angel, setting the doors ajar,
Faithful and joyous, will come to revive
The tarnished mirrors, the extinguished flames.
(William Aggeler's translation)
I don't know what it is about that particular poem that makes my heart skip a beat and makes me stop breathing. Maybe it's the flash. And the imagery of the flame. I swear I can *hear* the sound of a flame coming to life when I imagine the flash, the sort of a... well, voomphing sound a large, sudden flame would make, especially a gas flame. Sounds stupid now that I've written it down, but damn. It's a fucking beautiful poem, nevertheless. Baudelaire was such a tosser, but some of his poetry just makes me ache. The Gifts of the Moon is another one of my all-time favourites--the imagery of the things the moon-touched ones would love... wonderful.
Hrm. Seems Spleen de Paris, along with half my Angela Carters, is another one of those books I've left at the folks. Bugger. Typical.