 Various Poetic Artists Hello, and welcome to the chucktrevino.com Poetry Page! This is a poem by Charles Baudelaire, the greatest french poet of the nineteen century, a writer extraordinaire whose works have been translated into every major language on the planet. 
I talked about Baudelaire in my previous poetry page, mentioning briefly that he was the poet that got me started
reading poetry, something that I still like to do off and on... time permitting. What I didn't mention is that
I have read something like 10 or 12 biographies of this beautiful, ill-fated (if you can call achieving immortality
on Earth an ill fate) person, as well as autobiographies of other connected artists such as Richard Wagner (whom
Baudelaire befriended when he was being attacked in France, to Wagner's immense gratitude and pleasure)
that give little-known details of his life, and in light of such assiduity, I feel that I actually know more
about Baudelaire than several of his biographers! I have a burning desire to
write my own biography of Baudelaire, giving my opinions of the man and the people who loved and hated him (most
of all the jerks that held him down and robbed him of his much-deserved monetary rewards [Baudelaire died in an abject state of
poverty]); I may actually get around to that project, one fine day (please don't sit around waiting!).
Baudelaire had an enormous influence on other great poets of his time, including the not too easily impressed Arthur Rimbaud, who considered him to be a God. If you've ever read about Rimbaud, you know that he didn't say things like that about people everyday (in fact Rimbaud, like me myself, didn't have anything very nice to say about anyone!) Interestingly, both Baudelaire and Rimbaud had a profound contempt for exceedingly shallow philistines of the middle class, whom they referred to as the bourgeois; I guess some things never change. I don't consider myself to be like Baudelaire and Rimbaud in that regard, since I despise philistines of all classes! 
Baudelaire's works, both poetry and prose, mean quite a lot to me; after reading the slightly caustic "Three Drafts of a Preface"
which he wrote and later abandoned (purportedly on the advice of his publisher, probably due to their, well... slightly caustic
essentiality), I began to identify with Baudelaire to an extremely scary extent; I even actually started to imagine, as Arthur
Rimbaud also did, that I was Baudelaire reincarnated! It was at that time I began to devour his biographies,
and each reading only intensified that feeling. The similarities were numerous; both Baudelaire and myself started
out loving life, he because of his youthful attractiveness and optimism, which was combined with a fairly large inheritance he came into when he was
still able to enjoy it to the utmost, and I because I was a young and healthy (physically, that is) enthusiastic surf addict who was
able to obtain rides in friends' cars to some of the best breaks in California, for very little gas money (which was extremely
fortunate, as I had neither a car nor very much gas money). Further on down the road things started to go very wrong,
for both of us it seemed; Baudelaire ran through his money at a frightening rate and was placed on a humiliating conservatorship by
his parents, which caused him much embarrassment but also saved him from complete financial ruin, allowing him to complete his
splendid masterpiece "Flowers of Evil" for which he shamefully received a mere pittance (he died at age 47 from
a venereal disease contracted when he was very young); and I, well... that will be related in minute detail in my upcoming
autobiography, "Witness to a Tragedy," which I intend to publish on this website (not kidding this time). More on that later.
This is a translation of "L'IMPREVU" (which in English means something like "The Unforeseen") by Roy Campbell and Charles Adrian Trevino, taken from a selection of Baudelaire's magnificent 1857 publication Flowers of Evil. I have humbly taken the liberty of modifying Campbell's translation in an attempt to edify people's comprehension of what I feel Baudelaire is trying to impart to us. However, before I present this very personal joint effort I would like to humbly submit the first stanza of a little piece that I wrote (Charles is an aspiring unpublished poet himself), which I call "Eat Merde and Go Straight To Hell, Thou Despicable Scum!" It goes something like this: Ok, alright already, I didn't really write those beautiful lines myself; I stole them from some other great poet whose name I forget (or never actually knew), who has been sadly lost to history. But I changed a few words, so it's actually my stanza too! Now here's another fine poem, the aforementioned L'Imprevu by Charles Baudelaire. 
by Charles Baudelaire Translation by Roy Campbell and Charles Adrian Trevino Jacob watched his father slowly dying And musing on his gasping lips as they shrunk, Said, "There are old records in the garage there lying It would seem: old songs and junk." Madonna cooed: "How good I am! And of course, God made my looks excel." - Her callous heart, thrice smoked like ham, And cooked in the fiery pits of Hell! A smoky scribbler, to himself a beacon, Says to the wretch whom he has plunged in shade - "Where's the Creator you so loved to speak on, The righter of wrongs whom you portrayed?" But worst of all I know a certain cat Who yawns and weeps, lamenting day and night, (that fatuous dummy) in the same old tongue, "I will be good soon... when the time is right!" The clock says in a whisper, "He is ready The damned one, whom I warned of his disaster. He's blind and deaf, a fragile wall unsteady, Where ravenous insects undermine the plaster." Then one appeared whom all of them had denied, jeering, with mocking laughing: "To my manger You have all come; to my Black Mass Not one of you serpents is a stranger. You've built me temples in your hearts of sin. You've kissed my ass in your secret mirth. Know me for Satan by this conquering grin, enormous as the monstrous Earth. Do you think, poor hypocrites caught red-handed, That you can trick your lord without a hitch; And by your tricks two prizes can be landed - Heaven, and also being rich? The wages of the hunter is his quarry, rewarding him for the chill he gets while stalking. Comrades of my revels unholy and sorry: I am going to take you walking... Down through the denseness of the soil and rock, Down through the dust you leave behind, Into a palace, built in one solid block, Of stone that is exceedingly unkind; For it is built of Universal Sin And holds of me all that is proud and glorious." - Meanwhile an angel, far above the din, Sends forth a joyous peal victorious For all who still say, "I praise thy rod; And blessed be the griefs that on us fall. My soul is not a plaything, God, Thy infinite wisdom is all in all!" So, deliciously that noble trumpet blows On those evenings of celestial harvesting, making a rapture in the hearts of those Whose love and praises it continues to sing. ********** Click Here To Go To "The Drunken Boat" page Click Here To Go Back To Index All text and photos Copyright 2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino. Translation of Charles Baudelaire's poem "L'Imprevu" copyright 2018 by Roy Campbell and Charles Adrian Trevino. If any person should find him or herself becoming scared after reading this, that's good! You might come out better for it! This is chucktrevino.com. |