Searching for Baudelaire…
Posted on October 10th, 2004 in of interest and
I came across this very fine website devoted to the work of the poet: fleursdumal.org. For anyone interested in Baudelaire, poetry, and language in general, this site offers the original French poems contained in Les Fleurs du Mal as well as several subsequent English translations. Another very cool feature of the site is a comprehensive search function which allows you to easily located specific poems, key words, motifs, etc. This evening, I’m particularly fond of La Fontaine de Sang (The Fountain of Blood).
It seems to me at times my blood flows out in waves
Like a fountain that gushes in rhythmical sobs.
I hear it clearly, escaping with long murmurs,
But I feel my body in vain to find the wound.Across the city, as in a tournament field,
It courses, making islands of the paving stones,
Satisfying the thirst of every creature
And turning the color of all nature to red.I have often asked insidious wines
To lull to sleep for a day my wasting terror;
Wine makes the eye sharper, the ear more sensitive!I have sought in love a forgetful sleep;
But love is to me only a bed of needles
Made to slake the thirst of those cruel prostitutes! from William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Jeremy, I’d much rather subscribe to William Cowper’s “Fountain filled with blood” which offers the unconditional love of Jesus Christ to the hopelessness of Baudelaire. That may not be cool or intellectual, but it’s what keeps me going! Love you! Mom
There is a fountain filled with blood
drawn from Immanuel’s veins;
and sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
lose all their guilty stains.
The dying thief rejoiced to see
that fountain in his day;
and there may I, though vile as he,
wash all my sins away.
O dying Lamb, thy precious blood
shall never lose its power,
till all the ransomed church of God
be saved to sin no more.
E’er since, by faith, I saw the stream
thy flowing wounds supply,
redeeming love has been my theme
and shall be till I die.
Then in a nobler, sweeter song
I’ll sing thy power to save,
when this poor lisping, stammering tongue
lies silent in the grave.
Words: William Cowper (1731-1800), 1771
MIDI: Martyrdom (Robert Archibald Smith, 1780-1829)