Charles Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil

Charles Baudelaire was born April 21st in 1821 and was a fan of one of my favorite poets, Edgar Allen Poe. Mr. Baudelaire’s collection of poems, The Flowers of Evil, became infamous and banned by mainstream society when it was published in 1861 because his poems were thought to be gruesome and immoral in its depictions of humanity’s lesser, baser sides. I thought his poems would be a wonderful way to close out the month of October and a perfect accompaniment to all things related to Halloween so here are a few poems:


The Temptation

The Demon, in my chamber high,
This morning came to visit me,
And, thinking he would find some fault,
He whispered: “I would know of thee

Among the many lovely things
That make the magic of her face,
Among the beauties, black and rose,
That make her body’s charm and grace,

Which is most fair?” Thou didst reply
To the Abhorred, O soul of mine:
“No single beauty is the best
When she is all one flower divine.

When all things charm me I ignore
Which one brings most delight;
She shines before me like the dawn,
And she consoles me like the night.

The harmony is far too great,
That governs all her body fair.
For impotence to analyse
And say which note is sweetest there.

O mystic metamorphosis!
My sense into one sense flow—
Her voice makes perfume when she speaks,
Her breath is music faint and low!”



Reversibility

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?
Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite,
And the vague terrors of the fearful night
That crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf?
Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?
With hands clenched in the shade and tears of gall,
When Vengeance beats her hellish battle-call,
And makes herself the captain of our fate,
Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?

Angel of health, did ever you know pain,
Which like an exile trails his tired footfalls
The cold length of the white infirmary walls,
With lips compressed, seeking the sun in vain?
Angel of health, did ever you know pain?

Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?
Know you the fear of age, the torment vile
Of reading secret horror in the smile
Of eyes your eyes have loved since long ago?
Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?

Angel of happiness, and joy, and light,
Old David would have asked for youth afresh
From the pure touch of your enchanted flesh;
I but implore your prayers to aid my plight,
Angel of happiness, and joy, and light.



The Corpse

Remember, my Beloved, what thing we met
By the roadside on that sweet summer day;
There on a grassy couch with pebbles set,
A loathsome body lay.

The wanton limbs stiff-stretched into the air,
Steaming with exhalations vile and dank,
In ruthless cynic fashion had laid bare
The swollen side and flank.

On this decay the sun shone hot from heaven
As though with chemic heat to broil and burn,
And unto Nature all that she had given
A hundredfold return.

The sky smiled down upon the horror there
As on a flower that opens to the day;
So awful an infection smote the air,
Almost you swooned away.

The swarming flies hummed on the putrid side,
Whence poured the maggots in a darkling stream,
That ran along these tatters of life’s pride
With a liquescent gleam.

And like a wave the maggots rose and fell,
The murmuring flies swirled round in busy strife:
It seemed as though a vague breath came to swell
And multiply with life

The hideous corpse. From all his living world
A music as of wind and water ran,
Or as of grain in rhythmic motion swirled
By the swift winnower’s fan.

And then the vague forms like a dream died out,
Or like some distant scene that slowly falls
Upon the artist’s canvas, that with doubt
He only half recalls.

A homeless dog behind the boulders lay
And watched us both with angry eyes forlorn,
Waiting a chance to come and take away
The morsel she had torn.

And you, even you, will be like this drear thing,
A vile infection man may not endure;
Star that I yearn to! Sun that lights my spring!
O passionate and pure!

Yes, such will be you, Queen of every grace!
When the last sacramental words are said;
And beneath grass and flowers that lovely face
Moulders among the dead.

Then, O Beloved, whisper to the worm
That crawls up to devour you with a kiss,
That I still guard in memory the dear form
Of love that comes to this!



If you would like to devour the whole collection yourself, you can easily find Charles Baudelaire’s collection of poems in libraries, universities, book-stores, and on-line book-stores. For an on-line resource that is educational and thorough, I urge you to check out:

http://fleursdumal.org/

Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Poetry Translation Site

This is an incredible site with featured poems on the home page. You can also find live events, learn the process of translation, read poems from over 20 countries, and more at:

http://www.poetrytranslation.org/
Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…

Poetry Tips: The Supply Closet of Bad Poetry

This tip is thanks to a literal event in which I was cleaning out my office’s supply closet and found a box titled “Joey’s.” I looked inside to find all manner of crumpled up pieces of paper, various colors, and on a plain white piece was a carefully hand-written poem of love turned sour and bitter. I described my find to my father and he said “It’s like the Supply Closet of Bad Poetry!” Which, if you ask me, would be a fantastic titled to a collection of poems but I also loved the title so much I thought I would turn it into a poetry tip. I urge you to dig out your own bad poems, the poems you can’t bear to throw away but you also cannot bear the thought of others reading and face them in the light. I’ve dragged out some of my own, wincing or laughing, and I may actually get around to cleaning them up and dressing them anew with better flow, better words. I urge you to do the same.

Have fun, thanks for stopping by and please drop in next week for another featured site…

Blue Collar Review Open Submissions

You may mail up to five poems (no simultaneous submissions) in a regular #10 envelope with a Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope enclosed (cover letter optional) to:
Blue Collar Review
PO Box 11417
Norfolk, VA 23157

For more details please visit:
http://www.angelfire.com/va/bcr/Guidelines.html
http://www.angelfire.com/va/bcr/

Good luck to all who submit, please check in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=178046#
Philip Larkin, Days

http://www.versedaily.org/2009/killingsworthandalbina.shtml
Sid Miller, Around Killingsworth and Albina

Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions...

Poeisis Number Three

Alternating Current presents a new collection of poems by various poets in a wave of enlightening, brazen, and lyrical forms. Below are some of my favorites of the collection:

Roses
By Tim Scannell

Sent a bushel of
Autumn leaves to her
(UPS: $10.50);
A box of wooden matches
(Safeway $1.19), and
Enclosed the best love note
Ever penned:

“Ignore the city ordinance!”

What a fun and mischievous little poem, don’t you think? This is a perfect opening poem for the journal, and I love that instead of a bouquet of roses, as the title presents, it is a bushel of autumn leaves. Beautiful!



Dancing With Words
By A.D. Winans

There are poets who like
To dance with words
But dancing for an audience
Isn’t like moving to the
Music on your own
Stirring the notes of the soul

Fame kills
Billie Holiday’s ghost attests
To this
Money pigeonholes
Power corrupts
The spiritual truth
The scriptures tell us this

The true poet knows this
Stands tall above the
Dancing with word poets
Who are little more than
Instruments of a poem greater
Than themselves

Be like Li Po and sail your poems
On streams and puddles written on leaves
Be like the anonymous poets of Poland
During the height of martial law
Dropping their poems into the public square
For the people to read
Giving them hope courage and peace
Risk your life your literary life
Especially for the people who need
Something to cling to in desperate times

Telling people how cruel
Their tormentors are won’t inspire them
To go on living and to overcome oppression
Loving them becoming one with them
Standing fearless in their midst
This is the mark of the true poet

Walt Whitman was the John Wayne of poetry
Standing tall and fearless against the enemy
Which is never really man but the
Poison in his soul, pride envy and lust
How can those afflicted with the disease of egomania
Jealousy and desire for fame and fortune
Write about and from the heart?
Gone is the fire of Keats Shelley Byron
Whitman and Baudelaire
One column of media praise is of less value
Than a single teardrop on a poem
From a waitress in a greasy spoon diner
These people know nothing of genius
How can cockroaches evaluate eagles?
The true poet’s topic is people
Not the poet

Well said, Mr. Winans. I find this poem inspiring in its speech to call poets to write about hope instead of cruelty, about others instead of themselves. I can’t say it any better than he can.




Contagious
By Stephanie Hiteshew

They all
call me ugly
I tell them,
“If that’s true,
I hope it’s contagious.”
And they scatter
like the days
I wasn’t this smart.

Where was Ms. Hiteshew when I was an awkward teenager? This is a perfect little poem with sass and wit, don’t you think?



The End
By Michael Kriesel

The man
who is writing
the end of the world
began like this

he sat down
in a chair
beside a window
closed his eyes
& waited for the steam
to finish rising from
a cup of coffee

pen & paper resting
on the windowsill

darkness spreading
from behind some trees
outside the window

the trees are an aquamarine

what kind of trees they are is unimportant

what’s important
is the way already it’s begun

how every night
behind his eyes
a few less stars come out.

Mr. Kriesel lends this unknown man, who is writing the end of the world, an air of the supernatural with the “closing his eyes” and while pen and paper rests on the windowsill darkness spreads until “every night/behind his eyes/a few less stars come out.” As though the unknown man in the poem is controlling the end of the world. I also like the seemingly random reference to what color the trees are, as though the darkness that spreads is swallowing color before the poet has time to notice them fully. It is a surreal and enjoyable poem.


If you enjoyed this sample of poems, you may purchase a copy for a mere $4 (plus $2 US or $3 out-of-US shipping) at alt-current.com, or address payment to Alternating Current with a check, well-concealed cash, or money order (and indicate that you’d like a copy of Poiesis 3) to:

Alternating Current
PO Box 398058
Cambridge, MA 02139 USA

Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found By Poet Hound…

Juked Open Submissions

Juked is a quirky journal that accepts poetry and non-fiction, I’m a fan of what they publish on their web-site as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now in the Poems Found by Poet Hound features.
While they accept on-line e-mailed submissions they do ask that it be as a .rtf or .doc and to address your e-mail heading according to genre (Poetry). The Poetry Editor is Lindsay Walker, you may send up to five poems, simultaneous submissions are acceptable as long as you notify the editor if your poems are accepted elsewhere so you may e-mail your submissions and include a brief bio to:
submissionsATjukedDOTcom

For more details, go to:
http://www.juked.com/info/

Good luck to all who submit!

I will be out of town Friday and Monday attending a family reunion in Santa Fe, New Mexico so please drop by again next Tuesday when I return!

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.sundress.net/wickedalice/nissalee.html
The Rule of Three by Nissa Lee


http://www.juked.com/2009/09/sha-zam.asp
Sha-Zam by Luke Deegan


Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions...

Adrian Manning's All This I See Before Me, All This I Cannot Resist

Adrian Manning’s chapbook, All This I See Before Me, All This I Cannot Resist, is published by Alternating Current’s press. Adrian Manning is on my list of poets I always enjoy reading for being straightforward and visually appealing in his imagery. His poems can be lively or melancholy in this collection which provides an ebb and flow in its intensity. Below I will share a few poems:


Night music

On the rooftop
rain drums wildly
like some crazy
ornette coleman
freeform rhythm
dark shadows
dance like mad
jazz women
around tiny cigarette
flashes of light
trying to break
the dense darkness
it is a murderous and
suicidal night
a cop car wails its
saxophone
accompaniment
someone has gone
with the flow
let loose their mind
danced to the beat
of a wild abandoned score
written in
rain soaked streets
bringing it all to an
eventual climactic
crescendo

Don’t you love the visuals of “tiny cigarette/flashes of light/trying to break/the dense darkness” and “suicidal night/a cop car wails its/saxophone?” The reference to jazz and the words “jazz women,” “cop car wails” and “danced to the beat” lend me to believe he is either reminiscing the roaring 1920’s jazz movement or a wild city night. If only he could include which city he is referring to, New York comes to my mind right away. I like the short lines that lend the air of quick movements of dancing women in a smoky bar.



Sunlight in motion

sunlight is your motif
you pour it over m
you are sunlight in motion

you are so good for me
you don’t know how this feels
you kick away my darkness
make me shine again

I breathe in your black hair
the raven’s splintered wings
my fingers run through
your voracious rivers

you move around me
engulfing and swallowing
my being

you have moved from the edges
into the center of me
become the very core
the beating heart
of me

that once was stilled
and closed down to a
bloodless drip.

This poem is a nice contrast to the one above, the poet refers himself as being lifeless and finds someone who pours life back into him. The stanza of “I breathe in your black hair/the raven’s splintered wings” are lovely in their lines. We can all relate to finding someone whose energy picks us up out of our “funk” and Manning does a wonderful job of portraying happiness and hope without ever using the actual words.



This beautiful line

many years ago
I read a book of
leonard cohen poems,
and I have been
fascinated ever since
by the line
‘let us compare mythologies’

I’ve wanted to drop
this beautiful line
into many a conversation

just as it gets
monotonous
tiresome
or dull

I long to say
“let us compare mythologies”
and watch the response

I know it would work
like a stun gun
stemming the flow
immediately

I would get many strange looks
an uncomfortable silence
and confusion would reign

they may assume
I am crazy
they may not understand
what I mean
and I may not, either,
for we have nothing to
compare

but at least
despite the rest of it
the end of the conversation
would be memorable
and that would be something
worth holding onto

This is one of my favorite poems simply because I think all of us want to write at least one great line to be remembered by and Manning has found one in Leonard Cohen’s poems and expounded on what it means to him. I love that he would like to use the line as a way to “stun gun” conversations that have turned drab. What more could a poet ask like Leonard Cohen ask for as a compliment in his work? What does a great line in a poem do for you?



If you enjoyed this short sample of poems, you may purchase a copy of All This I See Before Me, All This I Cannot Resist for your very own for $6.00 (plus $2 US or $3 out-of-US shipping) at:
http://alt-current.com
and you may also e-mail for more details at:
alt.currentATgmailDOTcom

Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Instant Books

I found this linked on Ron Silliman’s blog and while it isn’t a poetry site I thought it was interesting, so I urge you to take a look if you haven’t already:

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2009/09/espresso.html

My crafty side wishes I had one of my very own to make up all kinds of weird instant books that no one could possibly be interested in except me, this could be a dangerous machine for certain people. What do you think?

Thanks for dropping in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…

Poetry Tips: Memorization

Memorize a new poem. Find a poem you enjoy by a poet that is new to you and memorize it until you can recite it with ease, even if it is a short haiku. This will give you practice in reading poetry aloud as well as practicing rhythm and perhaps even influencing your own writing technique if you are a writer.

Good luck to all who try it, please drop in next week for another featured site…

Lilliput Review's Basho Haiku Challenge

I have copy-and-pasted and linked the guidelines below:

http://lilliputreview.blogspot.com/
Basho Haiku Challenge

“So, here's the deal: for the next four weeks, send along up to
5 haiku to lilliput review at gmail dot com (spelled out
to fend off pesky bots) and the best haiku wins a copy of
Bashō and His Interpreters: Selected Hokku with
Commentary, edited by Makoto Ueda. Minimally, I will
need your name and email to contact you with the
results. In the subject line of your email, please put
"2nd Annual Bashō Haiku Challenge" so I can easily
differentiate it from the scads of other things that come my
way. The final date for submissions will be October 31st and
the winner will be announced in either November 18th or
December 2nd postings. My definition of haiku is about as
liberal as you can get: I follow no one particular method,
school or theory and there is no seasonal requirement.
Your haiku can be 1, 2, or 3 lines (over 5 would be a bit
much, folks, but I will keep an open mind for
experimenters). The one restriction would be that it be
in the spirit of haiku (I've always liked the definition of
English haiku as lasting the length of one breath, in and
out and pause, but that's just me - and, oh yeah, I'm the
judge, but, again, it's the spirit of the thing that counts)
and that the haiku be previously unpublished in either
paper or electronic form (ok, that's two requirements).

In addition, the winning poet will receive a 15 issue
subscription to Lilliput Review (or have their current
subscription extended by 15 issues), plus two copies of
the 2nd Annual chapbook, to be published sometime in
2010. Other poets whose work is selected for inclusion
will receive 2 copies of the chapbook plus a 6 issue
subscription.”

You have until the end of October! Good luck to all who submit and please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=175991#
“Just Think!” by Robert Service


http://arseniclobster.magere.com/200101.html
“A Tiger Lurks in the Night Forest” byLouis Daniel Brodsky

Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…

Howie Good's Still Life With Firearms

http://www.righthandpointing.com/firearms/

Right Hand Pointing Press has e-chapbooks and I have provided the link above for quick and easy access to Howie Good’s collection of poems in Still Life With Firearms. You are greeted immediately with pictures of soldiers in uniform in training with firearms provided by Dale Wisely, then taken to the table of contents where the titles of the poems are interesting and enticing to the reader while clicking through. The poems themselves are snapshots of tragedy, the absurd, tender moments, and the luck-of-the-draw in life. I will happily share a sample of the poems with you and hope that you will use the link above to read for yourself:


The Doctrine of Insufficient Adulation

I stop looking up
words I don't know.
You stop sympathizing
with the televised apologies
of disgraced celebrities.
The small white dog
we named for John Dewey
sleeps between us.

I like that this poem brings to light the indifference taking over the couple in the poem in regards to their surroundings. Have you also stopped “sympathizing/with the televised apologies/of disgraced celebrities?”


Heartsick

The evening light always
seems to me peculiarly sad.
My heart holds its hands
out toward the fire.
I visit the doctor,
afraid to upset the silence
following upon the collapse
of the great newspapers.
He decides to give me a shot.
He says it’s to numb me.
It doesn’t. Although spring,
I can see the system of roads
built to carry away the days.

You wonder what sort of ailment or wound requires a shot that doesn’t numb the feelings of the poet. You also feel the sad dreariness of life, particularly in the ending lines: “Although spring,/I can see the system of roads/built to carry away the days.,” as though the concrete of the roads annihilates the ability of natural, green growth to show through to prove the season. The whole poem leaves me with the feeling of being weighed down, which gives light to the title, Heartsick.


That Summer
The roof burned continuously.
I passed long hours learning

the names of various shades of blue –
Air Force Blue, cornflower blue,

Persian blue, periwinkle.
Night came early where I lived

with my mother and three brothers
and no one to read me to sleep,

though the herd of clouds grazing
at the end of the street would always

lift their big, shaggy heads to listen.

I love the imagery in this poem. I think of the roof burning blue in the summer heat, and I especially love the idea of clouds grazing at the end of the street in various animal shapes, lifting their heads to listen to a young boy. Very imaginative and whimsical.


This is just a small sample of the poems in the chapbook by Howie Good.
Be sure to visit Right Hand Pointing to learn more about Mr. Good and to read his entire chapbook of poems available on-line at:
http://www.righthandpointing.com/

Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

The Gettysburg Review

Find poetry links, current issues, submissions criteria and more at:

http://www.gettysburgreview.com/

Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for another featured poet…