Joyeux Anniversaire!

By far- and I mean by far!- the most coolest, the most darkest, and most kick ass French poet there is … Charles Baudelaire was born this day in 1821. He’s said to be the leading poet of the French Symbolist period (even though, as far as I know, he never actually hung out with the acknowledged circle of Symbolists: Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Valery, Paul Verlaine, and Stéphane Mallarmé).

There’s a bleak existential anxiety that’s woven throughout every one of his works- but it’s not too overwhelming or depressive (just close to it). He’s dark, make no mistakes about it; and his poems, when they appear lighthearted and upbeat, are really just delightful masks on the face of sarcasm. Baudelaire is a poet that every poet must know.

His poem, The Sky (which if you haven’t read you must), was the first poem of his that I read- I thought to myself, after that read: What a jerk! Then I continued to read everything else he ever wrote! He’s a good poet, really good. He writes good prose, as well.

I've said elsewhere of Baudelaire:

"Bleak and oblique are many of the poems that have emerged from the pen of this French writer, and in many ways Baudelaire reminds me of a hip, coffee-drinking existentialist just waiting for a reason to rebel. Make no mistakes, I respect Baudelaire as a man and as a poet, and think much of his poetry cleverly written and interesting ... I'm just saying, he's different- but perhaps that's where his poetic genius lies."

Joyeux Anniversaire à vous mon cher ami!

Verlaine, the Symbolist

Of the French symbolists, Paul Verlaine (1844 – 1896) is probably one of my least most studied and read of the poets … but what I have read, what I have studied and learned about him, is utterly inspiring- at times darkly inspiring. His poetry almost lends a sort of ‘blueprint’ on how a poet becomes poetic. He inspires on a practical level.

His poetry, like Baudelaire's who influenced him, takes on some of the most unnoticed aspects of common human experience and makes them poetically eloquent, endowing them with a sort of sacred superiority unseen by the blind masses.

Of the little I know about this poet and his turbulent existence, what I appreciate about him the most is that he has the poet’s eye: the thorough inability to see anything in reality superficially.

Here an example of Verlaine’s work (translated from French by Louis Simpson) …

The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.

Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

At the Water's Edge

I came across the name Sully Prudhomme after having studied French symbolism. The period of poetry within which he’s associated is the Parnassian period (a primarily French movement in poetry characterized by a departure from the sentimentalism of the Romantic poets, a return to traditional forms and meter, grand subjects, and an attitude of ‘art for art’s sake').

The first poem I read by Prudhomme is called, At the Water’s Edge. It consists of six quatrains with alternating lines of pentameter and dimeter (e.g. 10 syllables in the one, and four in the other). The rhyme scheme is simple: abab.

The poem itself is an empathetic reflection on life and all its different manifestations: watching waves within the water (lines 1 and 2), listening and enjoying the warbling of the wren (lines 11 and 12), knowing love (line 18 and line 24) … basically, enjoying the beauty of life.

Yeah, I like this Prudhomme dude (here’s that poem) …


At the Water's Edge

To sit and watch the wavelets as they flow
Two - side by side;
To see the gliding clouds that come and
And mark them glide;

If from low roofs the smoke is wreathing pale,
To watch it wreath;
If flowers around breathe perfume on the gale,
To feel them breathe;

If the bee sips the honeyed fruit that glistens,
To sip the dew;
If the bird warbles while the forest listens,
To listen too;

Beneath the willow where the brook is singing,
To hear its song;
Nor feel, while round us that sweet dream is clinging
The hours too long;

To know one only deep over mastering passion -
The love we share;
To let the world go worrying in its fashion
Without one care -

We only, while around all weary grow,
Unwearied stand,
And midst the fickle changes others knows,
Love - hand in hand