There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid.
I The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
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I read the 1909 Cyril Scott translation of Baudelaire’s poetry collection. It consists of 54 poems, including “Condemned Women” but not including others of the six poems that were banned in early editions and which only came to be included in later editions. (I did look up and read a couple translations each for the six poems — because censorship can’t be allowed to prevail. Not surprisingly, they are calm by today’s standards. It should be noted that Baudelaire played in symbolism, and so his poems – while ahead of their time in subject matter – didn’t tend toward explicit vulgarity in the first place.)
The Scott translation is all in rhymed verse, the largest share of it presented as sonnets — though there are some longer pieces (longer, but not long. It’s a quick read.) “The Broken Bell” and “Spleen” were highlights for me, but the whole collection is intriguing, evocative, and readable.
I enjoyed this collection tremendously, even with such an old translation. The hedonism, eroticism, and macabre of Baudelaire’s work creates an intense tone.
I’d highly recommend this collection for all poetry readers.
I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.
