Expect Saint Martins summer, halcyon days,
Since I have entered into these wars.
Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself
Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.
On The Menu:
Absinthe Posters from The Fin de siècle
A Saturday Edition… I must get everything done now, so I can relax, watch the sun go down and have a Drink!
Celebrate the Beauty…!
Instead of ice water, champagne can be used as the mixer (the slightly decadent option!). In Italy, Franciacorta or Prosecco are often used instead of champagne.
“After the first glass, you see things as you wish they were.
After the second, you see things as they are not.
Finally, you see things as they really are,
which is the most horrible thing in the world.”
“Let me be mad…
mad with the madness
of Absinthe, the wildest, most
luxurious madness in the world.”
“Art is the soul of life and the Old Absinthe House
is heart and soul of the old quarter of New Orleans.”
Absinthe – Glenn MacDonough
I will free you first from burning thirst
That is born of a night of the bowl,
Like a sun ’twill rise through the inky skies
That so heavily hang o’er your souls.
At the first cool sip on your fevered lip
You determine to live through the day,
Life’s again worth while as with a dawning smile
You imbibe your absinthe frappé.
Get Drunk! – by Charles-Pierre Baudelaire
One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters;
that’s our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time’s
horrible burden one which breaks your shoulders and bows
you down, you must get drunk without cease.
But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue
as you choose.
But get drunk.
And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:
“It is time to get drunk!
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!”
Even When She Walks…” – by Charles-Pierre Baudelaire
Even when she walks she seems to dance!
Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes
obedient to the rhythm of the wands
by which a fakir wakens them to grace.
Like both the desert and the desert sky
insensible to human suffering,
and like the ocean’s endless labyrinth
she shows her body with indifference.
Precious minerals are her polished eyes,
and in her strange symbolic nature
angel and sphinx unite,
where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light,
shining forever, useless as a star,
the sterile woman’s icy majesty.
Five oclock Absinthe – By Raoul Ponchon
When sundown spreads its hyacinth veil
Its surely time for an absinthe
Dont you think, my son?
Its especially in summer, when thirst wears you down
– Like a hundred Dreyfus gossips –
That its fitting to seek a fresh terrace
Along the boulevards
Where one finds the best absinthe
That of the sons of Pernod
Forget the rest! Theyre like a sharp by Gounod:
I say along the boulevards, and not in Rome,
Nor at the home of the Bonivards;
To be an absinthier is not to be any less a man.
And on our boulevards
One sees pass the sweetest creatures
With the gentlest manners:
Youre drinking, they rouse your nature,
They are exquisite… but let it pass.
You have your absinthe, its all about preparation
This is not, believe me,
As the cynics think, a small matter
Banal and without emotion
The heart should not be elsewhere
For the moment at least.
Absinthe wants first, beautiful ice water
The gods are my witness!
Tepid water, none of that: Jupiter condemns it.
Yourself, what say you?
Might as well, my faith, drink donkey piss
Or enema broth
And dont come on like a German,
And scare her,
With your carafe; she would think, poor dear!
That you want to drown her.
Always rouse her from the first drop
Like so … and so … very gently
Then behold her quiver, all vibrant
With an innocent smile;
Water must be for her like dew,
You must be certain about that:
Awaken the juices of which she is made
Only little by little.
Such as a young wife hesitates, startled
When, on her wedding night,
Her husband brusquely invades her bed
Thinking only of himself…
But wait: your absinthe has bloomed in the meantime,
See how she flowers,
Iridescent, passing through every shade of the opal
With a rare spirit.
You may sniff now, she is made;
And the beloved liquor
In the same instant brings joy to your head
And indulgence to your heart
Sonnet de l’Absinthe – by Raoul Ponchon
Absinthe, oh my lively liquor
It seems, when I drink you,
I inhale the young forest soul
During the beautiful green season.
Your perfume disconcerts me
Aand in your opalescence,
I see the heavens of yore
Aas through an open gate.
What matter, O refuge of the damned,
That you a vain paradise be,
If you appease my need;
And if, before I enter the gate,
You make me put up with life,
By accustoming me with death