I go through periodic enthusiasms for the poetry of Charles Baudelaire. There are many poets I love, but I always come back to the evil old Decadent. . .
I sometimes feel that my blood is flowing in waves,
like a fountain with its rhythmical sobs.
I can hear it clearly, flowing with a long, murmuring sound,
but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.
Through the city, as if in an enclosed arena,
it goes, turning the pavingstones into islets,
slaking the thirst of every creature,
and everywhere coloring nature red.
I have often asked heady wines
to numb for a day the terror which eats at me;
wine makes the eye clearer and the ears sharper!
I have sought forgetful sleep in love;
but love is nothing but a mattress of needles,
made to give those cruel girls something to drink!
Ick!
What is it that these sorts suffer from? I have a pretty good idea what it is, but I won't stand looking at their discomfort with life because they most likely know what the problems are too.
Besides, for every woe they see I can find a dozen joys to appreciate and thousands of marvelous wonders to raise spirits high.
Posted by: Ron C at janvier 13, 2005 03:05 AM