Sadness of the Moon - Poem by Charles Baudelaire

This painting titled “Sadness of the Moon” was inspired via the poetry of Charles Baudelaire from his book of poems, Les Fleurs du mal, (The Flowers of Evil).

Medium used for this painting: Synthetic polymer and liquid wax on paper.

Size: 73cm x 106cm. Painted on Arches Aquarelle paper, 640 gsm. SOLD

“Sadness of the Moon” - SOLD

Below in English and French version of this poem.

Sadness of the Moon

Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence,
Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions
Who fondles with a light and listless hand
The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;

On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,
Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons
And casts her eyes over the white phantoms
That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.

When, in her lazy listlessness,
She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear,
With the iridescent reflections of opal,
And hides it in his heart afar from the sun's eyes.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil | Les Fleurs du mal (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

Tristesses de la lune

Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.

— Charles Baudelaire

Charles Pierre Baudelaire was a French poet, essayist, translator and art critic. His poems are described as exhibiting mastery of rhyme and rhythm, containing an exoticism inherited from the Romantics, and are based on observations of real life. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Baudelaire

"One O'Clock In The Morning" | Artwork and Poem by Baudelaire

The artwork below was inspired by the French poet Charles Baudelaire.

Medium used for this painting: Synthetic polymer and liquid wax on paper.

Size: 73cm x 106cm. Painted on Arches Aquarelle paper, 640 gsm. SOLD

"One O'Clock In The Morning" - SOLD

One O’Clock in the Morning

- (translation by: Ronald F. Sauer)

Alone! At last! One no longer hears but the rolling of some old carriages, belated and broken.

For a few hours we shall possess silence, if not rest.

At last! the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and I shall no longer suffer but through myself.

At last! it is therefore permitted me to unwind in a bath of shadows. First, a double turn of the lock. It seems to me this turn of the key will augment my solitude and fortify the barricades that now separate me, in fact, from the world.

Horrible life! Horrible city!

Let us recapitulate the day: having seen many men of letters, one of whom asked me if it were possible to travel overland to Russia (he taking, no doubt, Russia for an island); having argued magnanimously with the editor of a review, who says at each of my objections: "Honesty's the policy around here." this which implies that all the other reviews are directed by con-artists; having greeted some twenty people, among whom fifteen were unknown to me; having distributed handshakes in the same proportion, and this without having taken the precaution of buying gloves; having gone up, in order to kill time during a downpour, to the apartment of a local lady-loose, who begs me to design her a love costume of velvet; having paid my respects to the director of a theater, who says in dismissing me: "You would perhaps do well to address yourself to Monsieur Z~~: he's the heaviest, drunkest, most famous of all my authors; with him perhaps you can uncork something trendy. Go see him, and then we'll see."; having boasted (why?) of many villainous things that I had never actually done, and cowardly denied other misdeeds that I accomplished with joy, brassy dereliction, criminal disrespect; having refused a good friend a small service, and given a written recommendation to a perfect idiot; ugh! is it finally over and done with?

Discontent with everybody, as well as with myself, I would like very much to redeem my soul and pride myself a little in the silence and solitude of the night. Souls of those whom I have loved, souls of

those whom I have sung, fortify me, sustain me, keep me from the lying and corrupting vapors of the world; and you, Seigneur, my God! accord me the grace of producing some beautiful verses which prove to myself alone that I am not the last among men, that I am not inferior to those whom I despise!

Réversibilité (Reversibility) Art Inspired by Poet Baudelaire

Another black and white painting that was created thanks to the poem titled “Reversibility” by French poet, Charles Baudelaire.

Medium used for this painting: Synthetic polymer and liquid wax on paper.

Size: 73cm x 106cm. Painted on Arches Aquarelle paper, 640 gsm. SOLD

Below, English and French version of this poem Reversibility.

Reversibility

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish,
Shame, remorse, sobs, vexations,
And the vague terrors of those frightful nights
That compress the heart like a paper one crumples?
Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish?

Angel full of kindness, do you know hatred,
The clenched fists in the darkness and the tears of gall,
When Vengeance beats out his hellish call to arms,
And makes himself the captain of our faculties?
Angel full of kindness, do you know hatred?

Angel full of health, do you know Fever,
Walking like an exile, moving with dragging steps,
Along the high, wan walls of the charity ward,
And with muttering lips seeking the rare sunlight?
Angel full of health, do you know Fever?

Angel full of beauty, do you know wrinkles,
The fear of growing old, and the hideous torment
Of reading in the eyes of her he once adored
Horror at seeing love turning to devotion?
Angel full of beauty, do you know wrinkles?

Angel full of happiness, of joy and of light,
David on his death-bed would have appealed for health
To the emanations of your enchanted flesh;
But of you, angel, I beg only prayers,
Angel full of happiness, of joy and of light!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

Réversibilité

Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse,
La honte, les remords, les sanglots, les ennuis,
Et les vagues terreurs de ces affreuses nuits
Qui compriment le coeur comme un papier qu'on froisse?
Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse?

Ange plein de bonté, connaissez-vous la haine,
Les poings crispés dans l'ombre et les larmes de fiel,
Quand la Vengeance bat son infernal rappel,
Et de nos facultés se fait le capitaine?
Ange plein de bonté connaissez-vous la haine?

Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres,
Qui, le long des grands murs de l'hospice blafard,
Comme des exilés, s'en vont d'un pied traînard,
Cherchant le soleil rare et remuant les lèvres?
Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres?

Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides,
Et la peur de vieillir, et ce hideux tourment
De lire la secrète horreur du dévouement
Dans des yeux où longtemps burent nos yeux avide!
Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides?

Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières,
David mourant aurait demandé la santé
Aux émanations de ton corps enchanté;
Mais de toi je n'implore, ange, que tes prières,
Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières!

— Charles Baudelaire

COMES THE CHARMING EVENING

I have read many versions of this poem “Comes The Charming Evening” by French poet Charles Baudelaire from his book of poems titled Flowers of Evil. Not hundred percent sure that I chose the right interpretation here as it was difficult picking my favorite version.

Medium used for this painting: Synthetic polymer and liquid wax on paper.

Size: 73cm x 106cm. Painted on Arches Aquarelle paper, 640 gsm. SOLD

“Comes The Charming Evening” - SOLD

Below, English and French version of this poem.

Evening Twilight

Now is the graceful evening, friend of the criminal;
Now it comes like an accomplice, stealthily; the sky
Closes slowly like a gigantic bedroom,
And Man, impatient, changes to wild beast.

O evening, lovable evening-time, longed for by him
Whose arms can truthfully say: Today
We have worked! — It is evening that lightens
Spirits consumed by a fierce sorrow,
The stubborn savant whose forehead grows heavy,
And the bent laborer gaining again his bed.

Meanwhile unhealthy demons heavily awake,
Like business men, in the atmosphere,
And fly and strike the shutters and the awning.
Across those lights the wind tortures
Prostitution is ignited in the streets;
Like an ant-hill she opens her escapes,
Spawning all over a secret path,
Like an enemy's sudden attack;
She stirs on the breast of the city of dung
Like a worm that steals his meals from Man.
Here and there one hears kitchens hissing,
The screaming of theaters and orchestras roaring;
The plain tables, where gambling throws its pleasures,
Fill up with bawds and cheats, accomplices,
And thieves, who know no truce nor grace,
Soon go to get to work, they also,
Depart to force gently safes and doors
For a few days' living and to clothe their mistresses.

Reflect, O my soul, in this most solemn time,
And close your ears to this roar.
It is the hour when the sorrows of the ill are sharpened.
Dark Night grips them by the throat; they fulfill

Their fate and move into the common whirlpool;
The hospitals are full of their sighing. — More than one
Will no more come back to seek the perfumed soup,
Beside the fire, at night, by a beloved soul.

Still most, most of them have never known
Home's sweetness nor have they really lived.

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)

Le Crépuscule du soir

Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;
II vient comme un complice, à pas de loup; le ciel
Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,
Et l'homme impatient se change en bête fauve.

Ô soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui
Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd'hui
Nous avons travaillé! — C'est le soir qui soulage
Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,
Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,
Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.
Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphère
S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,
Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.
À travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent
La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues;
Comme une fourmilière elle ouvre ses issues;
Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,
Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main;
Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange
Comme un ver qui dérobe à l'Homme ce qu'il mange.
On entend çà et là les cuisines siffler,
Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler;
Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,
S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,
Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni trêve ni merci,
Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,
Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses
Pour vivre quelques jours et vêtir leurs maîtresses.

Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,
Et ferme ton oreille à ce rugissement.
C'est l'heure où les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent!
La sombre Nuit les prend à la gorge; ils finissent
Leur destinée et vont vers le gouffre commun;
L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. — Plus d'un
Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,
Au coin du feu, le soir, auprès d'une âme aimée.

Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu
La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu!

— Charles Baudelaire