#a carcass

[charnel-grounds]

Gustav Adolf Mossa (1883–1971)

“Une charogne” (The Corpse), 1906

“Then, O Belovèd, 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!”

— Charles Baudelaire

[land-of-reads]

Well I see Charles Baudelaire is having a normal one… (cw slurs and morbidity)

From “The Flowers of Evil”

[seasons-in-hell]

A Carcass

Gustave Adolphe Mossa (1883-1971)

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Gustav Adolf Mossa - A Carcass, 1906.

[vangoghs-other-ear]

Words from Baudelaire’s “a carcass”

Link to the poem

une Charogne- corpse, carcass

une carcasse- carcass

un centuple- a hundred times, a hundredfold 

un sentier- trail

un pourriture- rot, rottenness, thing that is rotting

une puanteur- stench

un haillon- rag 

une ordure- garbage, filth

un rocher- boulder

une floraison- bloom

s'élancer- to make one’s move, to get started

semer- to sow, to seed

évanouir- to faint, to pass out

batailler- to battle, to fight

achever- to complete

moisir- to rot

infâme- infamous, vile

lubrique- lewd

suant- sweaty

épais- thick

[mojamars]

A Carcass by Charles Baudelaire

Remember, my love, the object we saw

That beautiful morning in June:

By a bend in the path a carcass reclined

On a bed sown with pebbles and stones;

Her legs were spread out like a lecherous whore,

Sweating out poisonous fumes,

Who opened in slick invitational style

Her stinking and festering womb.

The sun on this rottenness focused its rays

To cook the cadaver till done,

And render to Nature a hundredfold gift

Of all she'd united in one.

And the sky cast an eye on this marvellous meat

As over the flowers in bloom.

The stench was so wretched that there on the grass

You nearly collapsed in a swoon.

The flies buzzed and droned on these bowels of filth

Where an army of maggots arose,

Which flowed with a liquid and thickening stream

On the animate rags of her clothes.

And it rose and it fell, and pulsed like a wave,

Rushing and bubbling with health.

One could say that this carcass, blown with vague breath,

Lived in increasing itself.

And this whole teeming world made a musical sound

Like babbling brooks and the breeze,

Or the grain that a man with a winnowing-fan

Turns with a rhythmical ease.

The shapes wore away as if only a dream

Like a sketch that is left on the page

Which the artist forgot and can only complete

On the canvas, with memory's aid.

From back in the rocks, a pitiful bitch

Eyed us with angry distaste,

Awaiting the moment to snatch from the bones

The morsel she'd dropped in her haste.

And you, in your turn, will be rotten as this:

Horrible, filthy, undone,

O sun of my nature and star of my eyes,

My passion, my angel in one!

Yes, such will you be, o regent of grace,

After the rites have been read,

Under the weeds, under blossoming grass

As you moulder with bones of the dead.

Ah then, o my beauty, explain to the worms

Who cherish your body so tine,

That I am the keeper for corpses of love

Of the form, and the essence divine!

[musicofthe-ainur]

My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases. The sun shone down upon that putrescence, As if to roast it to a turn, And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature The elements she had combined; And the sky was watching that superb cadaver Blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed You’d faint away upon the grass. The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly, From which came forth black battalions Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid All along those living tatters. All this was descending and rising like a wave, Or poured out with a crackling sound; One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath, Lived by multiplication. And this world gave forth singular music, Like running water or the wind, Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion Shake in their winnowing baskets. The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream, A sketch that slowly falls Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist Completes from memory alone. Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog Watched us with angry eye, Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass The morsel he had left. — And yet you will be like this corruption, Like this horrible infection, Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being, You, my angel and my passion! Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces, After the last sacraments, When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers, To molder among the bones of the dead. Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will Devour you with kisses, That I have kept the form and the divine essence Of my decomposed love!

A Carcass, Charles Baudelaire, from Flowers of Evil

[thelasttimeforeverything]

Recall to mind the sight we saw, my soul, That soft, sweet summer day: Upon a bed of flints a carrion foul, Just as we turn'd the way, Its legs erected, wanton-like, in air, Burning and sweating pest, In unconcern'd and cynic sort laid bare To view its noisome breast. The sun lit up the rottenness with gold, To bake it well inclined, And give great Nature back a hundredfold All she together join'd. The sky regarded as the carcass proud Oped flower-like to the day; So strong the odour, on the grass you vow'd You thought to faint away. The flies the putrid belly buzz'd about, Whence black battalions throng Of maggots, like thick liquid flowing out The living rags along. And as a wave they mounted and went down, Or darted sparkling wide; As if the body, by a wild breath blown, Lived as it multiplied. From all this life a music strange there ran, Like wind and running burns; Or like the wheat a winnower in his fan With rhythmic movement turns. The forms wore off, and as a dream grew faint, An outline dimly shown, And which the artist finishes to paint From memory alone. Behind the rocks watch'd us with angry eye A bitch disturb'd in theft, Waiting to take, till we had pass'd her by, The morsel she had left. Yet you will be like that corruption too, Like that infection prove — Star of my eyes, sun of my nature, you, My angel and my love! Queen of the graces, you will even be so, When, the last ritual said, Beneath the grass and the fat flowers you go, To mould among the dead. Then, O my beauty, tell the insatiate worm Who wastes you with his kiss, I have kept the godlike essence and the form Of perishable bliss!

"A Carcass" by Charles Baudelaire