Le Couvercle
En quelque lieu qu'il aille, ou sur mer ou sur terre,
Sous un climat de flamme ou sous un soleil blanc,
Serviteur de Jésus, courtisan de Cythère,
Mendiant ténébreux ou Crésus rutilant,
Citadin, campagnard, vagabond, sédentaire,
Que son petit cerveau soit actif ou soit lent,
Partout l'homme subit la terreur du mystère,
Et ne regarde en haut qu'avec un oeil tremblant.
En haut, le Ciel! Ce mur de caveau qui l'étouffe,
Plafond illuminé par un opéra bouffe
Où chaque histrion foule un sol ensanglanté;
Terreur du libertin, espoir du fol ermite;
Le Ciel! Couvercle noir de la grande marmite
Où bout l'imperceptible et vaste Humanité.
— Charles Baudelaire
The Cover
Wherever he may go, on land or sea,
Under a blazing sky or a pale sun,
Servant of Jesus, courtier of Cythera,
Somber beggar or glittering Croesus,
City-dweller, rustic, vagabond, stay-at-home,
Whether his little brain be sluggish or alert,
Everywhere man feels the terror of mystery
And looks up at heaven only with frightened eyes
Above, the Sky! that cavern wall that stifles him,
That ceiling lighted by a comic opera
Where every player treads on blood-stained soil;
Terror of the lecher, hope of the mad recluse:
The Sky! black cover of the great cauldron
In which boils vast, imperceptible Humanity.
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
The Lid
Wherever Man may go, by earth or ocean,
Beneath a sky of fire, or sun snow-cold,
Whether to Christ or Venus his devotion,
In gloomy want, or glittering with gold;
Citizen, vagabond, stamplicker, farmer,
Be his small brain slow-witted, quick, or sly,
For this strange terror he can find no armour
Nor look to heaven save with trembling eye.
Above, the Sky, that cellar-ceiling, stifles,
Lit up for comic farce, where struts and trifles
Each mummer on a floor of blood and mire.
Terror of rakes, the crazy hermits' hope —
Beneath its cauldron-lid mankind must grope,
Never above its margin to aspire.
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
The Lid
Wherever they go
Under a sky aflame
A slave of Christ
Vitamin deficient beggar
Townie, queen, or clod
Dull or sharp
The kind is apprehensive.
Above is heaven
A ceiling lit
By an operatically
Suffocating wall
Under which many of the actors
Still have a fear of the libertine.
Heaven. You
Black lidded
Cauldron
Boiling our dreams.
— Will Schmitz
URL to article: http://flowersofevil.org/poem/304/print/
Fleursdumal.org is a Supervert production • © 2012 • All rights reserved.