  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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Beauty by Charles Baudelaire
I am as lovely as a dream in stone,
And this my heart where each finds death in turn,
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As clay eternal and as taciturn.
Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movements that disturb my pose,
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.
Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into the plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,
For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.
Charles Baudelaire was born on April 9, 1821 in Paris France. His father died when Baudelaire was only seven years old. He was raised by his mother and his stepfather Lieutenant Colonel Jacques Aupick. Aupick disliked his stepson’s creative side and sent him to boarding school after marrying his mother. He attended several schools and was expelled from Lycée Louis-le-Grand, Paris. It was while enrolled as a law student he became addicted to opium and contracted syphilis. He ended up dropping out of law school to write.
It was in the late 1840’s when Baudelaire became involved in politics, he fought at the barricades during the revolution of 1848. He also cofounded the journal Le Salut Public. Baudelaire published his first novel La Fanfario, in 1847. He spent most of the next decade in poor health and mounting debt, so he took a job translating Edgar Allan Poe's writings. In 1857 he published his first volume of poems, Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil). The book was met with great criticism. The publisher was brought up on charges and found guilty of obscenity and blasphemy. This sent Baudelaire in a downward spiral he began to withdrawal from his life.
Though Baudelaire continued writing and translating others works he struggled financially up until his death. His use of opium and alcohol helped him slowly slipped into a deep depression and he was admitted to a sanatorium in 1866. He died of aphasiac and hemiplegic, on August 31, 1867, with his mother by his side. His mother is said to have paid off all her sons’ debts and published his remaining works after his death.
The Sadness of The Moon by Charles Baudelaire
The Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.
Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.
And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,
Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.
The Living Flame by Charles Baudelaire
They pass before me, these Eyes full of light,
Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise;
The holy brothers pass before my sight,
And cast their diamond fires in my dim eyes.
They keep me from all sin and error grave,
They set me in the path whence Beauty came;
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
And all my soul obeys the living flame.
Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light
As candles lighted at full noon; the sun
Dims not your flame phantastical and bright.
You sing the dawn; they celebrate life done;
Marching you chaunt my soul's awakening hymn,
Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winners of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] are:
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#1519848 by Not Available. |
Blue Blood Black Tie Party
It was a black tie occasion, where every guest was primed
to garner and render favors with profit on each mind.
Smiles were sealed like wax on faces, put in place for this time;
hands feather-weight on shoulders, voices dripping velvet lies.
Blades were buried in well dressed backs, but no one saw them shine.
Blue blood like ink was flowing, though no papers would be signed.
Music played in the background giving rhythm to the rhyme
of pretentious phrases that kissed and sealed every dotted line.
‘Power Games” was entertainment, along with “Social Climb,”
as guests were taking chances with a crooked pair of dice.
When every hand was displayed, each was betting with his life.
But when the games were over, it was only truth that died.
Shiny limousines were waiting outside all in a line
as the party goers exited waving their host goodbye.
In the safety of darkened windows, there were many sighs;
and examining of bruises and the loosening of ties.
Second Place:
Only a paper moon to some,
I gaze at the black velvet sky
diamondized by a skirt of stars.
I linger on the inexorable joy of a deep sanctuary.
Voices echo through the splendid night
and fade into the ocean's rush. Had we
been there too often? Was it all just a dream?
Once, we glided
on the edge of time.
It was a placid place to be
where voices were at rest and silences
ruled our loving, perfect world.
No other man could rule my make-believe
canvas of ink
when I drew you in the sand,
with your fair hair and golden tan.
But the sound of angels in flight have come and gone,
and you hold my heart too close to speak above
a whisper, by now.
The dripping wax of the candle
that burns our memories down
hurries us to another decade of new voices.
I dream of a turquoise head-dress of fragile feathers,
the colour for the month I was born,
raise my hands up to heaven
furied at my fear of losing my way,
and think of how your affections are always
nestled in special thoughts.
Now, I am older.
Yet, you are the same.
Many miles far away keep my moons with just nostalgic seas.
The voices of quiet nights in quiet cafes along a secluded beach
hold fewer possibilities to stand solely on a coy fantasy.
We are only liquid light, thousands of fractured voices
interrupting the consequences of holding hands for
so, so long.
We are victims of our own solid love.
Third Place:
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#1519405 by Not Available. |
Muffled voices cross the hall,
so silent in their air.
The shadowed prince does write down all
within his ghastly lair.
Fair maiden knows not of his keep
where letters are, here, writ.
I listen past the walls so steep
'till feathered quills do quit.
Next, his prince will dry his ink
beside a golden flame,
with whitened sand from ocean's brink,
and then he signs a name.
The paper folds beneath his touch
then drips the blackened wax
and marks his seal with little much
more than his ring of pacts.
He calls me forth and tells me send
this letter out this hour.
His maiden, whom he will attend,
must read the words I'll scour.
At last he ties a velvet bow
around the paper's folds,
and hands it so that I can stow
and deliver to her holds.
I shudder as I take it out
and leave the prince's sight.
Without the smallest of a doubt,
he's darker than the night.
His motifs are not of the kind
to steal the nation's gold.
He has the power and the mind
to make all do as told.
I wonder as I walk these roads
if maiden knows his face.
If only she knew what such toads
these princes are she'll chase.
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Poetry: February 18, 2009 Issue [#2889]
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