This one really had a profound effect on me when I read it way back in my internet infancy because I felt I had been treated this way and put an albatross on my first collection's cover. Add to list. English translation French. The Albatross Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds That indolently follow a ship As it glides over the deep, briny sea. Scarcely have they placed them on the deck Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed, Pathetically let their great white wings Drag beside them like oars.
That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is, So beautiful before, now comic and ugly! One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe; Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew! The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman; When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers, His giant wings prevent him from walking.
Scarce have they fished aboard these airy kings When helpless on such unaccustomed floors, They piteously droop their huge white wings And trail them at their sides like drifting oars. How comical, how ugly, and how meek Appears this soarer of celestial snows! One, with his pipe, teases the golden beak, One, limping, mocks the cripple as he goes. The Poet, like this monarch of the clouds, Despising archers, rides the storm elate.
But, stranded on the earth to jeering crowds, The great wings of the giant baulk his gait. No sooner have they disentangled him from their nets Than this aerial colossus, shorn of his pride, Goes hobbling pitiably across the planks and lets His great wings hang like heavy, useless oars at his side.
How droll is the poor floundering creature, how limp and weak — He, but a moment past so lordly, flying in state! They tease him: One of them tries to stick a pipe in his beak; Another mimics with laughter his odd lurching gait.
The Poet is like that wild inheritor of the cloud, A rider of storms, above the range of arrows and slings; Exiled on earth, at bay amid the jeering crowd, He cannot walk for his unmanageable wings. Scarce have these birds been set upon the poop, Than, awkward now, they, the sky's emperors, Piteous and shamed, let their great white wings droop Beside them like a pair of idle oars.
Once noble, now how ludicrous to view! One sailor bums them with his pipe, his mate Limps, mimicking these cripples who once flew. Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud, Who ride the storm and mock the bow's taut strings, Exiled on earth amid a jeering crowd, Prisoned and palsied by their giant wings.
Hardly have they put them on the deck, Than these kings of the skies, awkward and ashamed, Piteously let their great white wings Draggle like oars beside them. This winged traveler, how weak he becomes and slack! He who of late was so beautiful, how comical and ugly!
Someone teases his beak with a branding iron, Another mimics, limping, the crippled flyer! The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, Haunting the tempest and laughing at the archer; Exiled on earth amongst the shouting people, His giant's wings hinder him from walking.
Utha - Often, for fun, the crew Take albatrosses, vast sea birds, That follow, indolent fellow travelers, The ship gliding over the bitter depths. Hardly have they filed on stage, That these kings of the sky, awkward and ashamed, Piteously leave their great white wings Hanging like oars beside them. This winged traveler, it is clumsy and feeble! He, once so beautiful, it is comic and ugly! One teases his beak with a clay pipe, Another mimics, limping, the crippled flying!
The Poet is like the prince of the clouds Who haunts the storm and laughs at the archer; Exiled on earth amid boos, His giant wings prevent him from walking. It originally called to mind a young Lambadi Tribal gel I was trying to arrange an orthosis for.
She has the Orthosis now. Agace son bec has a sexual taunt to it. It's beautiful in the french. But worth having a go at translating baudelaire badly. A beautiful poem for all the sadness. Fallen angels. As she is beautiful, and if you don't love her then thank god she appears invisible. I have also felt this about true poets, who use their pen to give voice and freedom to those who are 'earthbound'. I so agree with Baudelaire here, a poet rides the wind with his songs and rhyme, but when forced to be small, as others often are, his movements are exaggerated and unweildy.
His gift is too big to remain 'earthbound', he must be free, wings outstretched, able to soar that others might look up and see and follow the song. Baudelaire compares the poor bird to a poet. Being a modestly talented poet and painter, he instilled an appreciation for the arts in his son. The younger Baudelaire would later refer to as "the cult of images. Share it with your friends:. Make comments, explore modern poetry. Join today for free! Sign up with Facebook.
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