Le Chat

Le Chat (which means "The Cat", surprisingly enough) is one of the lesser known poems of Charles Baudelaire, which is in my view, A BAD THING. It has a pleasant simplicity to it which makes it readily appreciable, and in comparing the stroking of a cat to a passionate relationship it makes a daring but realistic comparison. Best of all, it's appreciable even with quite basic French.

Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux;
Retiens les griffes de ta patte,
Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux,
Mêlés de métal et d’agate.

Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir
Ta tête et ton dos élastique,
Et que ma main s’enivre du plaisir
De palper ton corps électrique,

Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard,
Comme le tien, aimable bête,
Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,

Et, des pieds jusques à la tête,
Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum
Nagent autour de son corps brun.

And this, in my "Vache Espagnol" French, translates as:

Come, my handsome cat, to my amorous heart,
Keep your claws in your paw,
And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes,
A coalescence of metal and agate.

When my fingers caress at leisure
Your head and your elastic body,
And when my hand becomes drunk with pleasure
From feeling your electric body,

I see my love in my mind. Her regard
Like your own, lovely beast,
Is deep and cold, and it splits like a spear,

And, from her feet to her head,
A subtle air, a dangerous perfume,
Swims around her brown skin.

Character drawn by Belgian cartoonist Philippe Geluck, appearing in the Brussels paper Le Soir and syndicated across the francophone world. The eponymous raincoat-wearing cat is, basically, a fat idiot who you run across in a bar (which is run by a barman called Roger. He drinks port, mostly) who insists on telling you at length about his observations and his philosophy of life. The strips mainly hinge on (often visual) puns which are not easy to reproduce, with a tendency towards what might be regarded as surreal were it not Belgian. A couple of strips, to give the flavour (three frame format):

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La mort, c'est un peu comme la connérie.

Le mort, lui, il ne sait pas qu'il est mort ... ce sont les autres qui sont tristes.

Le con, c'est pareil ...

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Il y a des gens qui arrivent a écrire leurs noms dans la neige en faisant pipi ...

... parmi eux il ya cependant davantage de Luc et de Jo ...

... que de Jean-Sébastien

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Une bouteille à moitié vide est aussi à moitié plein ...

... par contre, un type à moitié intelligent ...

... est généralement complètement con.