Don Juan Aux Enfers (Don Juan In Hell)
Quand Don Juan descendit vers l'onde souterraine
Et lorsqu'il eut donné son obole à Charon,
Un sombre mendiant, l'oeil fier comme Antisthène,
D'un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.
Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes,
Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament,
Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,
Derrière lui traînaient un long mugissement.
Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages,
Tandis que Don Luis avec un doigt tremblant
Montrait à tous les morts errant sur les rivages
Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.
Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre Elvire,
Près de l'époux perfide et qui fut son amant,
Semblait lui réclamer un suprême sourire
Où brillât la douceur de son premier serment.
Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre
Se tenait à la barre et coupait le flot noir;
Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapière,
Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.
Don Juan in Hades
When Don Juan descended to the underground sea,
And when he had given his obolus to Charon,
That gloomy mendicant, with Antisthenes' proud look,
Seized the two oars with strong, revengeful hands.
Showing their pendent breasts and their unfastened gowns
Women writhed and twisted under the black heavens,
And like a great flock of sacrificial victims,
A continuous groan trailed along in the wake.
Sganarelle with a laugh was demanding his wage,
While Don Luis with a trembling finger
Was showing to the dead, wandering along the shores,
The impudent son who had mocked his white brow.
Shuddering in her grief, Elvira, chaste and thin,
Near her treacherous spouse who was once her lover,
Seemed to implore of him a final, parting smile
That would shine with the sweetness of his first promises.
Erect in his armor, a tall man carved from stone
Was standing at the helm and cutting the black flood;
But the hero unmoved, leaning on his rapier,
Kept gazing at the wake and deigned not look aside.
— Translated by William Aggeler
Don Juan in Hell
When, having reached the subterranean wave,
Don Juan paid his passage from the shore,
Proud as Antisthenes, a surly knave
With vengeful arms laid hold of either oar.
With hanging breasts between their mantles showing
Sad women, writhing under the black sky,
Made, as they went, the sound of cattle lowing
As from a votive herd that's led to die.
Sganarelle for his wages seemed to linger,
And laughed; while to the dead assembled there,
Don Luis pointed out with trembling finger
The son who dared to flout his silver hair.
Chilled in her crepe, the chaste and thin Elvira,
Standing up close to her perfidious spouse,
Seemed to be pleading from her old admirer
For that which thrilled his first, unbroken vows.
A great stone man in armour leaped aboard;
Seizing the helm, the coal-black wave he cleft.
But the calm hero, leaning on his sword,
Had eyes for nothing but the wake they left.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Don Juan in Hades
He found the wide bark rocking in the Stygian breeze
And came aboard, having first paid Charon what he owed.
A beggar, somber and haughty as Antisthenes,
Seized the long oars with a revengeful gesture and rowed.
Writhing and tearing open their garments while he crossed,
A crowd of disappointed females, herded there
Along the bank like victims for a holocaust,
Filled with a soft and bestial moaning the dark air.
Sganarelle laughed triumphantly, demanding his wage;
Don Luis, still wrathful, pointed with a palsied hand
To the unruly son who mocked him in his old age,
Calling to witness the dead throngs upon that strand.
She whom he wed in church and loved a little while,
Elvira, thin and trembling in her black robes of grief,
Seemed to implore of her betrayer a last smile
In memory of his first ardor, noble and brief.
The knight he murdered and whose ghost he had rebuked
Stood now, a tall and cuirassed helmsman, at the stem;
But the calm hero, leaning upon his rapier, looked
Absently into the water, ignoring all of them.
— Translated by George Dillon
Don Juan in Hades
When the hidalgo reached the subterranean seas,
And, with an obol, paid Charon's accustomed score,
A gloomy beggarman, proud as Antisthenes,
With strong revengeful hands seized either trailing oar.
With sagging breasts and gray unfastened gowns, a crowd
Of women writhed in woe under a leaden sky,
In their grim wake a groan trailed, mournfully and loud,
Like flocks of sacrificial victims trudging by.
Sganarelle, grinning, claimed his wages; dour and lank,
Don Luis, with trembling finger, pointed at the prow,
To show the phantoms wandering on the river bank
That impious son who mocked his father's snow-white brow.
Elvira, chaste and gaunt, shuddered in sorrow, while
Beside her traitorous spouse (her lover, once) she seemed
To crave the favor of an ultimate bright smile,
Sweet as his first-made vows and as the dream she dreamed.
Erect in coat-of-mail, a tall man, hewn of stone,
Stood at the helm, cleaving the flood. But in mute pride,
Leaning upon his sword, impassive and alone,
The hero watched the wave nor deigned to look aside.
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Related quotes
Arbusto Hotel (a song parody)
tune Elvis' Heartbreak hotel (Chorus 1) [Chorus 2]
Now since Juan left the Pueblo,
He’s found a new place to dwell-
An S.R.O.* in Farmingdale
The Arbusto Hotel
(And Juan is so lonely
Juan is so lonely
He’s missing Juanita
Juan is so lonely, he could cry)
Now Juan waits on the Corner
He’s waiting for a van
They drive away, he mows all day
He’s working for the man.
(And Juan is so lonely
Juan is so lonely
He’s missing Juanita
Juan is so lonely, he could cry)
Since Bush came into office
Immigration laws- a laugh
The rich get their cheap labor
While the Union gets the shaft
(And Juan is so lonely
Juan is so lonely
He’s missing Juanita
Juan is so lonely, he could cry)
Now Juan waits at the Border
Across the Rio Grand [sic]
Juanita wades toward him
With a baby in each hand
[Now Juan isn’t lonely
Juan’s got Juanita
That girl’s Muy Bonita&
Juan’s not so lonely anymore
Now Juan is fat and happy
His life now has a plan
He’s living in Corona
With his large extended Clan
[Repeat 2nd Chorus]
Now Juan is quite unhappy
His futures looking grim
Some Guatemalan immigrant
Just stole his job from him!
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Piel Canela
Skin like cinnamon,
Hair raven black.
Softly purring,
And arching her back.
Laying on sheets,
So sparkling white,
Writhing in ecstasy,
And her own delight.
My dusky sorceress,
I'm enchanted it seems,
Every night just past Midnight,
I love you in my dreams.
Don Juan Tenorio
poem by Don Juan Tenorio
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Elvira
Elvira, Elvira
My hear's on fire for Elvira
We look like dought, lips like sherry wine
She can sure enough make my little light shine
I get a funny feelin' up and down my spine
'Cause I know that my Elvira's mine
Giddy up oom poppa omm poppa mow mow
Giddy up oom poppa omm poppa mow mow
Heigh-ho silver, away
Elvira, Elvira
My hear's on fire for Elvira
Tonight I'm gonna meet her to hungry house cafe
And I'm gonna give her all the love I can
She's gonna jump and holler
'Cause I saved up two dollars
She's gonna search and find that preacher man
Elvira, Elvira
My hear's on fire for Elvira
Elvira, Elvira
Elvira, na, na, na, na, na, na, na
Elvira, na, na, na, na, na, na, na
Elvira, na, na, na, na, na, na, na
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tour
Thirteen as twelve my Murray always took--
He was a publisher. The new Police
Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
So Juan found himself before J.P.'s
Accused of storming through that placed nook
At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile--five pounds. And Juan paid!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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All Women Are Beautiful
All women are beautiful,
I can attest to that.
There are no skinny women,
And none that are fat.
No matter what color,
They are gorgeous to me.
Just like a rainbow,
That beckons to me.
Men certainly are fools,
To pass women by.
They're so stuck on themselves,
That you can't deny.
And I look, at every single one,
And see what they need.
All women like fun,
You just meet their needs.
Don Juan Tenorio
poem by Don Juan Tenorio
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Under The Banana Tree
under the banana tree
juan
waited for the
magic pebble
to fall
for him to swallow
on the belief
that
he will turn
into
an invisible
juan
the whole
night
he dreamt
that the
magic pebble
landed
on his mouth
wide open
by an unknown
spell
juan
turned into
a banana
tree
and all
the neighbors
his parents
mourned
for him
at least
one thing
sure
happened
he floated
turned
himself
an
invisible
juan
and he
looks
at all of
them
somewhere
from the
top
they call
it
heaven
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Juan Hernandez was an actor out of New York, but what made Juan so great and what made Omar so great was that they both already knew how to box, so we didn't have to take them into a gym and teach them how to throw a left jab.
quote by Charles S. Dutton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Le Mort Joyeux (The Joyful Corpse)
Dans une terre grasse et pleine d'escargots
Je veux creuser moi-même une fosse profonde,
Où je puisse à loisir étaler mes vieux os
Et dormir dans l'oubli comme un requin dans l'onde.
Je hais les testaments et je hais les tombeaux;
Plutôt que d'implorer une larme du monde,
Vivant, j'aimerais mieux inviter les corbeaux
À saigner tous les bouts de ma carcasse immonde.
Ô vers! noirs compagnons sans oreille et sans yeux,
Voyez venir à vous un mort libre et joyeux;
Philosophes viveurs, fils de la pourriture,
À travers ma ruine allez donc sans remords,
Et dites-moi s'il est encor quelque torture
Pour ce vieux corps sans âme et mort parmi les morts!
The Joyful Corpse
In a rich, heavy soil, infested with snails,
I wish to dig my own grave, wide and deep,
Where I can at leisure stretch out my old bones
And sleep in oblivion like a shark in the wave.
I have a hatred for testaments and for tombs;
Rather than implore a tear of the world,
I'd sooner, while alive, invite the crows
To drain the blood from my filthy carcass.
O worms! black companions with neither eyes nor ears,
See a dead man, joyous and free, approaching you;
Wanton philosophers, children of putrescence,
Go through my ruin then, without remorse,
And tell me if there still remains any torture
For this old soulless body, dead among the dead!
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Joyous Dead
In a fat, greasy soil, that's full of snails,
I'll dig a grave deep down, where I may sleep
Spreading my bones at ease, to drowse in deep
Oblivion, as a shark within the wave.
I hate all tombs, and testaments, and wills:
I want no human tears; I'd like it more,
That ravens could attack me with their bills,
To broach my carcase of its living gore.
O worms! black friends, who cannot hear or see,
A free and joyous corpse behold in me!
You philosophic souls, corruption-bred,
Plough through my ruins! eat your merry way!
And if there are yet further torments, say,
For this old soulless corpse among the dead.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
The Happy Dead Man
Slowly, luxuriously, I will hollow a deep grave,
With my own hands, in rich black snail-frequented soil,
And lay me down, forspent with that voluptuous toil,
And go to sleep, as happy as a shark in the wave.
No funeral for me, no sepulcher, no hymns;
Rather than beg for pity when alive, God knows,
I have lain sick and shelterless, and let the crows
Stab to their hearts' content at my lean festering limbs.
O worms! my small black comrades without ears or eyes,
Taste now for once a mortal who lies down in bliss.
O blithe materialists! O vermin of my last bed!
Come, march remorselessly through me. Come, and devise
Some curious new torment, if you can, for this
Old body without soul and deader than the dead.
— Translated by George Dillon
Joyful Corpse
In a rich fertile loam where snails recess,
I wish to dig my own deep roomy grave,
There to stretch out my old bones, motionless,
Snug in death's sleep as sharks are in the wave.
Men's testaments and tombs spell queasiness,
The world's laments are not a boon I crave,
Sooner, while yet I live, let the crows press
My carrion blood from out my skull and nave.
O worms, black comrades without eyes or ears,
Behold, a dead man, glad and free, appears!
Lecher philosophers, spawn of decay,
Rummage remorseless through my crumbling head
To tell what torture may remain today
For this my soulless body which is dead.
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Hey Soos
In a black and white
1960's television episode of
the western 'Rawhide'
was hidden
a small scene
in which a
young Mexican cowboy
from Austin, Texas
named Jesus
and a saddleboy
from Chihuahua, Mexico
named Juan
who was rescued
from the Camancheros Indians
when he was seven years old
and both Juan and Jesus
are standing together
posted as lookouts
in an abandoned fort
comparing notes
on their lives
and the three surprising things are
they both get along
and both get to stay alive
by the end of the episode
(even with Clint Eastwood in the script..,)
and the only problem
I have
with this historical portrait
is that they spell the cowboys names
as
Hey Soos
poem by Oscar Mireles
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Charity Concert/The Art Of Possible
Magaldi: On this night
On this night
On this night of a thousand stars
Let me take you to Heaven's door
Where the music of love's guitars
Plays forevermore
Eva: Magaldi
Magaldi: Eva Duarte
Eva: Your act hasn't changed much
Magaldi: Neither has yours
Peron: I stand here as a servant of the people
As we come together for a marvelous cause
You've shown by your presence your deeds and applause
What the people can do true power is yours
Not the government's unless it represents the people
Che: Juan always picks the easy fight
Juan praises fools Juan smothers light
Juan shifts from left to right
Politics the art of the possible
song performed by by Madonna from Evita Soundtrack (Part 1)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Making Love In A Parked Car
Making love in a parked car,
Out under the stars.
Fogging up the windows,
Is the best by far.
Always the chance,
That your gonna get caught.
As passers by glance,
Whether they see you or naught.
Rocking the car,
Till people think it's possessed.
Till they hear the moans,
And they smile cause they guessed.
Don Juan Tenorio
poem by Don Juan Tenorio
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Poncé De Léon
By a black wharf I stood lately,
When the night was at its noon;
Keen, malicious stars were shining,
And a wicked, white-faced moon.
And I saw a stately vessel,
Built in fashion quaint and old;
From her masthead, in the moonlight,
Hung a flag of faded gold.
Black with age her masts and spars were,
Black with age her ropes and rails;
Like a ghost through cere-cloths gazing
Shone the white moon through her sails.
Not a movement stirred the stillness,
Not a sound the silence broke,
Save alone the livid water
Lapping round her sides of oak.
Then to her unseen commander
Spake I, as to one I knew—
“Don Juan Poncé de Léon,
I have waited long for you.
“Take me with you, I implore you!
Take me with you on your quest
For the Fount of Youth Eternal,
For the Islands of the Blest.”
Then above the bulwarks ancient
I beheld a head arise;
And the moon with ghastly glimmer
Lit its sad and hollow eyes.
“Grieved am I, señor, and sorry,”
Very courteously it said,
“That I may not take you with me—
But I only take the Dead.
“These alone may dare the voyage,
These alone sail on the quest
For the Fount of Youth Eternal,
For the Islands of the Blest.”
poem by Victor James Daley
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Kiss of the Damned
Josephine de La Baume, Roxane Mesquida, Milo Ventimiglia, Anna Mouglalis, Michael Rapaport, Riley Keough, Juan Luis Acevedo
by Xan Cassavetes from Kiss of the Damned (2012)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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We Dream In Color
Dream sequence
(wake up, wake up, wake up, time to dream)
(wake up, time to dream)
We dream, we dream, we dream in color
Wake me up in the middle of the night, tell me what youve seen
Ivory clouds in a sea of blue, fields of endless green
But we lie here and we search for stars
Or big bad letters all the way from mars
The sky is black and the moon is pale, and we cry for this world of ours
In the dark we still believe (oh you know that we still believe)
In the dark we see
Chorus:
We dream in color - but we live in black and white
We dream in color - like a rainbow in the night
We dream of peace, we dream of love, but still the dream is not enough
We dream in color
Oh yes we dream
I wake up in the middle of the day, locked within this cell
The sun is weak on the gun gray street, a cold and concrete hell
So I close my eyes and remember the days
Of a blood red sky and a purple haze
The flag was yours and the flag was mine, but we let it fade away
In the dark we still believe (oh you know that we still believe)
In the dark we see
We dream in color - but we live in black and white
We dream in color - like a rainbow in the night
We dream of peace, we dream of love, but still the dream is not enough
We dream in color
(guitar solo)
This is where it all comes down, this is where the truth is found
Someones gotta keep this dream alive
We dream in color - but we live in black and white
We dream in color - like a rainbow in the night
We dream of peace, we dream of love, we dream of life!
We dream in color
We dream in color - we dream, yes we dream
We dream in color - but we live in black and white
We dream in color - and hold on to each other
We dream in color - lover to lover, sister to brother, we hold on
We dream in color
We dream in color - we dream
We dream in color - we dream...
song performed by by Starship
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Hero?
Her hero is pretty and thin
Her hero is a hero to many
A hero of fame and a hero of fortune
A role model, a hero of glamour
Her hero is a hero to many
His hero is fit and fast
His hero is a hero to many
A hero of sport, a hero of games
A role model, a hero of victory
His hero is a hero to many
Her hero is clever yet plane
Her hero is a hero to few
A hero of science, a hero of logic
A role model, a hero of knowledge
Her hero is a hero to few
His hero is a hero of art but he is poor
His hero is a hero to few
A hero of word a hero of writings
A role model, a hero of language
His hero is a hero to few
But that’s the thing with your heros....
Hero worship is only skin deep.
poem by Timothy Venard
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Girl in the Green Raincoat
Each evening she got
off the bus and crossed
the forecourt of the gas
station where you worked
wearing her knee length
raincoat and made her way
into the small shop inside
and you stood there open
mouthed gazing at her hot
beauty at her black hair and
dark eyes and she said I want
20 of those cigarettes and
she pointed with her thin
finger and red nail to cigarettes
behind you and you turned
around and took down the
cigarettes pack and put them
on the counter and she took
coins out of her black purse
and placed them one by one
on the counter top and said
There that's just right and then
off she went no more words
just a wiggle of her ass and you
watched her go out of the door
and along by the forecourt of
the gas station and you sighed
and sniffed the air to capture her
perfume and held on to the sight
of her and placed it in your memory
like some rich guy putting some
precious gem in his vault and you
would sense that memory of her
wiggling ass like some fresh fish caught.
poem by Terry Collett
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La Beauté (Beauty)
Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.
Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris;
J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études;
Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!
Beauty
I am fair, O mortals! like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where each one in turn has bruised himself
Is made to inspire in the poet a love
As eternal and silent as matter.
On a throne in the sky, a mysterious sphinx,
I join a heart of snow to the whiteness of swans;
I hate movement for it displaces lines,
And never do I weep and never do I laugh.
Poets, before my grandiose poses,
Which I seem to assume from the proudest statues,
Will consume their lives in austere study;
For I have, to enchant those submissive lovers,
Pure mirrors that make all things more beautiful:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal brightness!
— Translated by William Aggeler
Beauty
I'm fair, O mortals, as a dream of stone;
My breasts whereon, in turn, your wrecks you shatter,
Were made to wake in poets' hearts alone
A love as indestructible as matter.
A sky-throned sphinx, unknown yet, I combine
The cygnet's whiteness with a heart of snow.
I loathe all movement that displaces line,
And neither tears nor laughter do I know.
Poets before my postures, which I seem
To learn from masterpieces, love to dream
And there in austere thought consume their days.
I have, these docile lovers to subject,
Mirrors that glorify all they reflect —
These eyes, great eyes, eternal in their blaze!
— Translated by Roy Campbell
La Beauté
fair as a dream in stone I loom afar
— mortals! — with dazzling breast where, bruised in turn
all poets fall in silence, doomed to burn
with love eternal as the atoms are.
white as a swan I throne with heart of snow
in azure space, a sphynx that none divine,
no hateful motion mars my lovely line,
nor tears nor laughter shall I ever know.
and poets, lured by this magnificence
— this grandeur proud as Parian monuments —
toil all their days like martyrs in a spell;
lovers bewitched are they, for I possess
pure mirrors harbouring worlds of loveliness:
my wide, wide eyes where fires eternal dwell!
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
Beauty
Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets' love,
mute and noble as matter itself.
With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.
In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:
The timeless light of my wide eyes.
William A. Sigler
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Le Léthé (Lethe)
Viens sur mon coeur, âme cruelle et sourde,
Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents;
Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants
Dans l'épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;
Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum
Ensevelir ma tête endolorie,
Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie,
Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.
Je veux dormir! dormir plutôt que vivre!
Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort,
J'étalerai mes baisers sans remords
Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.
Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés
Rien ne me vaut l'abîme de ta couche;
L'oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,
Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.
À mon destin, désormais mon délice,
J'obéirai comme un prédestiné;
Martyr docile, innocent condamné,
Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,
Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancoeur,
Le népenthès et la bonne ciguë
Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aiguë
Qui n'a jamais emprisonné de coeur.
Lethe
Come, lie upon my breast, cruel, insensitive soul,
Adored tigress, monster with the indolent air;
I want to plunge trembling fingers for a long time
In the thickness of your heavy mane,
To bury my head, full of pain
In your skirts redolent of your perfume,
To inhale, as from a withered flower,
The moldy sweetness of my defunct love.
I wish to sleep! to sleep rather than live!
In a slumber doubtful as death,
I shall remorselessly cover with my kisses
Your lovely body polished like copper.
To bury my subdued sobbing
Nothing equals the abyss of your bed,
Potent oblivion dwells upon your lips
And Lethe flows in your kisses.
My fate, hereafter my delight,
I'll obey like one predestined;
Docile martyr, innocent man condemned,
Whose fervor aggravates the punishment.
I shall suck, to drown my rancor,
Nepenthe and the good hemlock
From the charming tips of those pointed breasts
That have never guarded a heart.
— Translated by William Aggeler
Lethe
Rest on my heart, deaf, cruel soul, adored
Tigress, and monster with the lazy air.
I long, in the black jungles of your hair,
To force each finger thrilling like a sword:
Within wide skirts, filled with your scent, to hide
My bruised and battered forehead hour by hour,
And breathe, like dampness from a withered flower,
The pleasant mildew of a love that died.
Rather than live, I wish to sleep, alas!
Lulled in a slumber soft and dark as death,
In ruthless kisses lavishing my breath
Upon your body smooth as burnished brass.
To swallow up my sorrows in eclipse,
Nothing can match your couch's deep abysses;
The stream of Lethe issues from your kisses
And powerful oblivion from your lips.
Like a predestined victim I submit:
My doom, to me, henceforth, is my delight,
A willing martyr in my own despite
Whose fervour fans the faggots it has lit.
To drown my rancour and to heal its smart,
Nepenthe and sweet hemlock, peace and rest,
I'll drink from the twin summits of a breast
That never lodged the semblance of a heart.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Lethe
Come to my arms, cruel and sullen thing;
Indolent beast, come to my arms again,
For I would plunge my fingers in your mane
And be a long time unremembering —
And bury myself in you, and breathe your wild
Perfume remorselessly for one more hour:
And breathe again, as of a ruined flower,
The fragrance of the love you have defiled.
I long to sleep; I think that from a stark
Slumber like death I could awake the same
As I was once, and lavish without shame
Caresses upon your body, glowing and dark.
To drown my sorrow there is no abyss,
However deep, that can compare with your bed.
Forgetfulness has made its country your red
Mouth, and the flowing of Lethe is in your kiss.
My doom, henceforward, is my sole desire:
As martyrs, being demented in their zeal,
Shake with delightful spasms upon the wheel,
Implore the whip, or puff upon the fire,
So I implore you, fervently resigned!
Come; I would drink nepenthe and long rest
At the sweet points of this entrancing breast
Wherein no heart has ever been confined.
— Translated by George Dillon
Lethe
Tigress adored, indolent fiend, lie there,
There on my heart now, merciless and strong,
I wish to run my trembling fingers long
Through the black tangles of your heavy hair,
To plunge my aching head amorous of
Your skirts as into secret, perfumed bowers,
To breathe your scent as from pale withered flowers
The after-flavor of my defunct love.
I wish to sleep rather than live, alas!
In slumber deep and sweet as death, O lover,
As my fierce and remorseless kisses cover
Your lovely body, bright as burnished brass,
To bury my stilled sobs in the abysses
Of your anodyne bed, to feast upon
Your lips that shed potent oblivion,
To drink the Lethe flowing in your kisses.
I shall delight in following my fate,
Obeying it gladly as a man contemned,
O docile martyr, innocent condemned
To tortures that his fervors aggravate.
With suckling lips to quell my spleen and rancor,
Nepenthe I shall drain, and hemlock's sweets,
Out of the magic tips of pointed teats
That never served a human heart for anchor.
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
Le Léthé
come to my heart, cold viper-soul malign,
beloved tiger, hydra indolent;
long will I drag my hands incontinent
and quivering, through this vast loosed mane of thine;
long will I bury throbbing brow and head
among thy skirts all redolent of thee,
and breathe — a blighted flower of perfidy —
the fading odour of my passion dead.
I'll sleep, not live! I'll lose myself in sleep!
in slumber soft as Death's uncertain shore,
I'll sleep and sow my drowsy kisses o'er
thy polished coppery arms and bosom deep.
to drown my sobs and still my spirit — o!
no boon but thine abysmal bed avails;
poppied oblivion from thy mouth exhales
and through thy kisses floods of Lethe flow.
so to my doom, henceforward my desire,
I shall submit as one predestinate;
and like a martyr, calm, immaculate,
whose fervour prods again his flickering pyre,
I'll suck, to drown my hate's eternal smart,
Nepenthe, and good bitter hemlock brew,
from the sharp rose-buds of thy breast, anew,
thy breast that never did contain a heart.
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
Lethe
Come on my heart, cruel and insensible soul,
My darling tiger, beast with indolent airs;
I want to plunge for hours my trembling fingers
In your thick and heavy mane;
In your petticoats filled with your perfume
To bury my aching head,
And breathe, like a faded flower,
The sweet taste of my dead love.
I want to sleep, to sleep and not to live,
In a sleep as soft as death,
I shall cover with remorseless kisses
Your body beautifully polished as copper.
To swallow my appeased sobbing
I need only the abyss of your bed;
A powerful oblivion lives on your lips,
And all Lethe flows in your kisses.
I shall obey, as though predestined,
My destiny, that is now my delight;
Submissive martyr, innocent damned one,
My ardor inflames my torture,
And I shall suck, to drown my bitterness
The nepenthe and the good hemlock,
On the lovely tips of those jutting breasts
Which have never imprisoned love.
— TRanslated by Geoffrey Wagner
Lethe
Come to my heart, cruel, insensible one,
Adored tiger, monster with the indolent air;
I would for a long time plunge my trembling fingers
Into the heavy tresses of your hair;
And in your garments that exhale your perfume
I would bury my aching head,
And breathe, like a withered flower,
The sweet, stale reek of my love that is dead.
I want to sleep! sleep rather than live!
And in a slumber, dubious as the tomb's,
I would lavish my kisses without remorse
Upon the burnished copper of your limbs.
To swallow my abated sobs
Nothing equals your bed's abyss;
Forgetfulness dwells in your mouth,
And Lethe flows from your kiss.
My destiny, henceforth my pleasure,
I shall obey, predestined instrument,
Docile martyr, condemned innocent,
Whose fervour but augments his torment.
I shall suck, to drown my rancour,
Nepenthe, hemlock, an opiate,
At the charming tips of this pointed breast
That has never imprisoned a heart.
Translated by Anonymous
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hero Entering The Beast's Lair
Standing outside the door,
the hero hears the sound of a monstrous creature taking massive breaths.
But he,
in white robes,
hesitates only to draw his sword.
Onward he marches.
The White Sword shining, almost glowing in his hand,
the breathing now nearly crushing the hero's heart and soul,
yet he continues.
Onward he marches.
The cold stone of the beast's lair slithering with water,
the door opening before him,
the thought of the beast that breathed those breathes plagues the hero's mind.
Still, he presses on.
Onward he marches.
The icy air penetrating his garments,
the door now closing behind him,
the creature,
a dragon,
now emerges from the fog.
Fiery Red eyes scorch everything they touch.
Yet, despite the horror before him,
the hero continues on.
poem by Jon McIntosh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Quintet of Revelations
Part 1: The Mystic Man
In the beginning
The world was a dark colorless wasteland
Lightning littered the sky in dark clouds
A mystical being creates life surrounded by shroud
The Mystic Man makes light
The Mystic Man makes night
The Mystic Man makes wrong
The Mystic Man makes right
The world is now surrounded by light and night
Lightning strikes fertile soil creating plants
Green is the first color created by the Mystic Man
Drawing a bone from his ribs he makes man
The world is growing surrounded by light and night
The Mystic Man commands the man
Showing him how to use the land
Which was made by the Mystic Man
The Mystic Man lets the man understand
How to use his holy land
Finally the man understands
And is granted a woman by the Mystic Man
A woman to help him take care of the land
The land that was shaped by the Mystic Man
Together the woman and the man
Take care of the Mystic Man’s holy land
In peace and prosperity they use the land
To make a great family
The beginning of man
For two hundred years
They farmed that land
The land formed by the Mystic Man
They found the first civilization of man
Part 2: The Man of Darkness
Ten thousand years
After the first woman and man
And the making of the land by the Mystic Man
A Man of Darkness rises from the depths
To spread terror and fear to mortal man
This Man of Darkness has no mercy
This Man of Darkness has no love
This Man of Darkness has no heart
This Man of Darkness did not come from above
Coming forth in devilish black armor
That was covered in spikes he is a marderer
With elongated blade that has two sides
All together he was black, as black as night
To many he is a demon
A burning devil from the flames of Hell
He’ll fight until you break the spell
Break the spell of Hell itself
With red burning eyes
And acid breath
His pointed yellow teeth will ensure death
And when you die he’ll show no regret
A spawn of Satan is what he appears to be
He’ll kill everyone, even in his own country
Made of pure evil
This Man of Darkness is a great mystery
Bearing his sword of certain death
With burning red eyes
Looking over his lands
He watches people pass
Waiting to spread his wrath
Soon that time will come to pass
Part 3: The Battle
A sickly death passes o’er the mountainside
The moon rises darkly o’er the valley of shadow
A chilling scream fills the gaunt air
See the shadowed evil rising where
The chilling scream filled the gaunt air
Dark hellish beasts stand by this evil man
Following his lead and killing all with claw and hand
Together they spread his malice and evil across the land
Making sure no living man will stand
Ruthlessly killing, slaying, murdering
Destroying, marring, and scarring
Bringing all of his foes to their untimely death
This Man of Darkness does not know the meaning of rest
Screams of death shower the valley like rain
Bodies litter the ground and stain
The once holy land has been brought to shame
The shadowed man of evil laughs
He laughs a laugh— an evil laugh
A laugh of dementia
A laugh of hate
A laugh that makes the demons rise again
Overcome the good men fight
This evil shadowed man that hides no might
Swinging his sword of death he kills
All who stand before him, they shrill
They fill the gaunt airs with their shrills
As they are killed
Blood and guts spray the plains
All good life folds to the evil that slays
The evil shadowed man has finally won
He treads across the land looking for more blood
Part 4: The Hero of Man
As the battle took place
And the Man of Darkness killed
The Hero of Man stood on a hill
Looking o’er the battle
He readies his sword
Spewing over the hills
His holy might pours over the land
Cleansing the battle grounds of the evil ones that surround
The good men that are fighting now
The evil ones can’t stand
Against the hero’s cleansing of the land
Yet the Man of Darkness stands
Against the hero’s cleansing of the land
As forces of the Hero of Man
And the Man of Darkness stand and—
Fight for the land of the Hero of Man
Tainted by human and inhuman hand
The Hero of Man rallies his men
To fight the evil ones once again
Brandishing his golden sword that shines like the blazing sun
Garbed in his blood red armor
And wearing his spiked dragon helm
He charges valiantly through the ranks
Of the dark beasts from Hell
With the hero’s great might
The forces of good overcome the forces of night
They are filled with renewed hope and delight
The forces of evil fall
Against the forces of good and all
The Hero of Man who is so tall
Now the battle is done, won for all
Yet the Man of Darkness still stands
To fight the Hero of Man
To the very bitter end
Part 5: The Final Battle
Staring deep into his opponents eyes
The Man of Darkness stares with burning red eyes
He readies his blade
And gets into his stance
To end this battle once and for all
And slay the Hero of Man
Fearlessly he stands, the Hero of Man
Standing tall and proud looking at this evil man
Holding his golden glowing sword
He readies to strike down this man
Ready to kill the man who tainted
The Mystic Man’s holy land
The Man of Darkness strikes
Moving quickly like a breeze
His cold malice would offset any man
But not the Hero you see
The Hero repels with a might strike
The Man of Darkness evades into the night
Abandoning this world
And going into the next
The Man of Darkness fades away
His journey is at an end
The good men cheer for the Hero of Man
As his holy might reshapes the land
And cleanses the tainted land
Back to the way it was
When it was made by the Mystic Man
poem by Alex Fischer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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