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ШАЛР БОДЛЕР, френски поет,вдъхновил Диаманда
публикуване Nov 30 2006, 04:07 PM
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madonnabitches do it better

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Това е един от най-добрите френски поети,чиято книга „Цветя на злото”(аз я имам и съм я чел няколко пъти) е може би най-продаваната написана пре 19 век книга във Франция .
Нашата „любимка” Диаманда Галас,лично често използва части от стиховете или цели стихове за неините „песни”.Един от най-добрите примери е The Litanies Of Satan (Литаниите/Молитвите/ на Сатаната.)
„.....О,Сатана,смили се над мойта скръб безмерна...”
На 30 години е даден на съд заради въпросната книга.
„...тази книга е отворено свърталище на всички безумия н духа...Нищо не е в състояние да оправдае написването на подобна урудливост от страна на един 30 годишен мъж.
Роден е на 7-ми ии 9-ти април 1821г. във Париж,Франция.
.Умира на 31 август 1867 от сифилис

О,ти,Най-мъдрият и чист Господен войн,
Ти,ти бог извергнат,аз въсхвали недостоен
О,Сатана,смили се над мойта скръб безмерна!
Ти,принц-изгнанник,вечно неоправдан,търпял,
Но с двойна мощ въставал след всеки свой провал.
Велик,всезнаещ царна бездните на Ада,
ти,пръв лечител на човека,който страда.
Ти,учил прокълнати,презрени до сега,
Чрез любовта да вкуават от райските блага
Ти,който със Смъртта,любовницата властна,
Надеждата роди – безумна и прекрасна.
Ти,дал на всеки смъртник,качена на ешавод,
Смел поглед – да презира стълпеният народ.
Ти,със сияен взор съзрял подземни зали,
Където скрити спят камари от метали.
Хвала и слава тебе,о,Сатана – над нас,
Сред Рая, в който властва и в Ада с алчна паст,
Къдетопобеден бленуваш ти отвека.
О,под Дървото на Познанието нека
До теб духът ми седне,когато види сам
Как клоните разцъфват – един невиждан Храм



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the reader
публикуване Nov 30 2006, 10:40 PM
Коментар #2

само в оригинал

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супер! този пост го очаквам още от стария форум smile.gif. аз съм чел малко Бодлер, но винаги ме е впечатлявал. ако намеря онова стихотворение за мършата, ще го постна smile.gif.

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публикуване Dec 1 2006, 12:51 AM
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Human Nature

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Френските символисти са ми слабост.Освен Борлер други любимци са Пол Верлен и божественият Артюр Рембо.


by: Charles Baudelaire

OOR Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day?
Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,
Upon thy brow in alternation play,
Folly and Horror, cold and taciturn.

Have the green lemure and the goblin red,
Poured on thee love and terror from their urn?
Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread
Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne?

Would that the breast where so deep thoughts arise,
Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs;
Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave

In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave,
When Phoebus shared his alternating reign
With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.


by: Charles Baudelaire

ONG since, I lived beneath vast porticoes,
By many ocean-sunsets tinged and fired,
Where mighty pillars, in majestic rows,
Seemed like basaltic caves when day expired.

The rolling surge that mirrored all the skies
Mingled its music, turbulent and rich,
Solemn and mystic, with the colours which
The setting sun reflected in my eyes.

And there I lived amid voluptuous calms,
In splendours of blue sky and wandering wave,
Tended by many a naked, perfumed slave,

Who fanned my languid brow with waving palms.
They were my slaves--the only care they had
To know what secret grief had made me sad.


by: Charles Baudelaire

HE Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.

And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.


by: Charles Baudelaire

AN we suppress the old Remorse
Who bends our heart beneath his stroke,
Who feeds, as worms feed on the corse,
Or as the acorn on the oak?
Can we suppress the old Remorse?

Ah, in what philtre, wine, or spell,
May we drown this our ancient foe,
Destructive glutton, gorging well,
Patient as the ants, and slow?
What wine, what philtre, or what spell?

Tell it, enchantress, if you can,
Tell me, with anguish overcast,
Wounded, as a dying man,
Beneath the swift hoofs hurrying past.
Tell it, enchantress, if you can,

To him the wolf already tears
Who sees the carrion pinions wave,
This broken war rior who despairs
To have a cross above his grave--
This wretch the wolf already tears.

Can one illume a leaden sky,
Or tear apart the shadowy veil
Thicker than pitch, no star on high,
Not one funereal glimmer pale
Can one illume a leaden sky?

Hope lit the windows of the Inn,
But now that shining flame is dead;
And how shall martyred pilgrims win
Along the moonless road they tread?
Satan has darkened all the Inn!

Witch, do you love accursd hearts?
Say, do you know, the reprobate?
Know you Remorse, whose venomed darts
Make souls the targets of their hate?
Witch, do you know accursd hearts?

The Might-have-been with tooth accursed
Gnaws at the piteous souls of men,
The deep foundations suffer first,
And all the structure crumbles then
Beneath the bitter tooth accursed.


Often, when seated at the play,
And sonorous music lights the stage,
I see the frail hand of a Fay
With magic dawn illume the rage
Of the dark sky. Oft at the play

A being made of gauze and fire
Casts to the earth a Demon great.
And my heart, whence all hopes expire,
Is like a stage where I await,
In vain, the Fay with wings of fire!

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публикуване Dec 1 2006, 01:00 AM
Коментар #4

Human Nature

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Не мога да се въздържа и пускам малко Рембо:

On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.

The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.


O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.

It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;

It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees!

Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!
You melted to him as snow does to a fire;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!


- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

(или казано иначе: На 17 кой не е безумно млад? hihi.jpg )

When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
- One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
- You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.

The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odours of vines, and odours of beer...


- Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white...

June night! Seventeen! - You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head...
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive...


Your mad heart goes Crusoeing through all the romances,
- When, under the light of a pale street lamp,
Passes a young girl with charming little airs,
In the shadow of her father's terrifying stiff collar...

And because you strike her as absurdly naif,
As she trots along in her little ankle boots,
She turns, wide awake, with a brisk movement...
And then cavatinas die on your lips...


You're in love. Taken until the month of August.
You're in love - Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends disappear, you are not quite the thing.
- Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you...!

That evening,... - you go back again to the dazzling cafes,
You ask for beer or for lemonade...
- You are not really serious when you are seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade...

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публикуване Dec 1 2006, 04:16 AM
Коментар #5

madonnabitches do it better

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Влад,аз имам "Цветя на злото" от доста време,но може да я потърсиш по сергиите за стари книги - аз от такова място я купих


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