The HyperTexts

Ranald Barnicot

Ranald Barnicot (born 1948) has a BA in Classics from Balliol College, Oxford and an MA in Applied Linguistics from Birkbeck College, London. He is a retired teacher of EFL/ESOL who has worked in Spain, Portugal, Italy and the UK. He has published or is due to publish original poems and translations from Ancient Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian—of Anacreon, Catullus, Horace, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Mallarmé, Lorca, Hernandez, Vallejo, Alfonso X (El Sabio) of Castile, Violante do Céu, D’annunzio and La Compiuta Donzella—in various journals, including The French Literary Review, Stand, Priapus, Acumen, Poetry Strasbourg Review, Transference, In Translation Brooklyn Rail, Ezra, The Rotary Dial, Meniscus, Sentinel, Poetry Salzburg Review, Better Than Starbucks, Orbis, The Dark Horse and Metamorphoses. A Greek Verse for Ophelia and Other Poems by Giovanni Quessep (Out-spoken Press), co-translated from Spanish with Felipe Botero Quintana, came out in November 2018. By Me, Through Me, a collection of original poems and translations, was published by Alba Publications in December of the same year.



Castelvieilh (near Luchon)

From the slit stone no arrowheads glint askance,
only the fine rain slants,
and the lone keep still holds its squat, ungainly stance,
and in the distance is it Spain or France

or merely death arraying its white peaks?
This is a half-way house. The door is locked.
Here's neither shelter nor trap. Here History speaks
only a muted memory of pain,

and, baffled, we move off,
obscurely, with a sense of gain.

(published in The French Literary Review)



Lisbon

My city of the slow, sad walkers,
city of hills, frozen green waters
where palaces and hovels lie adrift,
cluttering, clutching ridge and rift.

The earth will overturn and throw
you open to the sea's anger.
Carmo wears rags of stone, and I
must leave you in your danger.

Exiled from exile, memories march,
decay and linger.

(published in The Rotary Dial)




Inferno Canto 1 (translated from the Italian of Dante)

I’d reached the midpoint of our life’s wayfaring
and found myself in a dark wood encircled,
the straight path lost to the dark trees’ devouring.

I was so stunned by this, I was so startled,
this pitiless, wild, impenetrable wood —
retelling, into terror I’m still hurtled,

this tale’s taste too harsh, unto death or as good!
Yet I’d tell much else I witnessed, underwent —
for the great good I found there, this hurt withstood.

How I entered there I’m all but ignorant.
Drowsiness befuddled me up to the point
I abandoned the true path with wits errant.

But, having arrived at where a hill adjoined,
there at the foot, where that vale terminated
of piercing terror in which I’d wandered pent,

I looked up, saw the hill illuminated,
shoulders already garmented with the rays
from that straight-guiding planet emanated.

My fear somewhat abated by the sun’s grace,
fear that, filling my heart’s lake, had persisted
throughout the night to drown me in such a space.

As one who on the seashore gasps exhausted,
arrested there, the deep’s perils scarce escaped,
returns to gape on water scarce resisted,

my soul, fugitive still, with exit scarce scraped,
so returned to gaze in awe on that traverse
live souls may not pass but roam to perish cooped.

But once I’d paused to regather my spent force
again I set off up the deserted verge,
pressing hard down behind to maintain my course.

And, see there, where the steep slope had scarce emerged
from the dark wood, a leopard, light-swift-footed,
with spotted coat, flashed suddenly like a scourge,

nor ever from before my face departed.
I, therefore, impeded, stalled and overborne,
faint-heartedly repeatedly retreated.

It was the time morningfirst stirs into form
and on its climb the sun still keeps company
with those very stars as at the primal dawn

when divine love set in motion such beauty,
so that the hour and sweet season both supplied
some reason for hope in that ferociously

prancing, dancing feline in fine gaudy hide,
not that I could hide my terrorwhen I saw
advancing, outrageous, ravenous in pride,

a lion, head held high, rage aroused and raw,
coming against me minded to rend and chew,
such a beast the very air trembled before.

And then a she-wolf drew loping into view
who seemed, though lean, laden with every craving
whereby multitudes live as a wretched crew,

and laid such load on me I seemed past saving;
with all the terror that issued from her sight
hope of the heights seemed lost beyond retrieving.

As one who gains, gladdened by the good he sought,
and now gets to the time that enforces loss,
saddened, weeping, sickened in every weary thought,

so by that restless beast, granting me no rest,
I was crossed and recrossed, thus being driven
back to where the sun is sunk, in silence lost.

While I wallowed in fear I could not govern,
one whose voice long silence, it seemed, had hoarsened
stood in my sight, as though already given.

When in the great wild space I saw this person,
“Miserere on me,” beggingly I yelled,
whatever you are, shade or man for certain!”

He answered: “No man, but man I was of old,
and both my parents were of stout Lombard stock,
and Mantua as their fatherland they held.

Born sub Iulio, though late in that epoch,
I came to Rome under the good Augustus
when to false, false-speaking gods like fools we stuck.

I was a poet; I sang Anchises’ just
son, that grief-torn, toil-worn traveller from Troy
once he’d witnessed haughty Ilion combust.

But you, why back to such pain and turmoil stray?
Why do you not ascend the delightful mount
which supplies both source and motive of all joy?”

“Now are you that Vergil and that pristine fount
from which your eloquence spread a mighty river?”
Though diffident, shy, shamefaced, more words I found:

“O for all poets honour and light giver,
may my long study and great love avail me
whereby I’ve searched within your volume ever.

You, my master, author, sole authority,
from you alone I borrowed that lovely style
for which some honour me and poet style me.

Regard that vile beast so baulking me I stall,
turn, retreat; rescue me from her, famous sage;
my every vein and pulse she sets trembling still.

“Take another way, if you’d escape this creature’s rage”,
he answered on seeing tears deluge my face,
“for exit from this place so grim and savage.

You wail, but none can entice this beast, none force;
none she’ll let pass; she’ll keep her way, tooth and claw;
from such stubborn, murderous hindrance, no recourse.

Beast cruel, vicious, insatiable outlaw,
who never can fulfil her wilful craving,
she starves on feasting, more famished than before.

Many the animals she mates with, leaving
yet more to come till the greyhound should arrive
who’ll end in mortal pain her avid striving.

He shall not on pilfered land nor pelf survive,
whom rather wisdom, love, virtue shall nourish;
between felt and felt shall he be born and thrive.

May lowly Italy find health and flourish
through him, land for whom Turnus, Maid Camilla,
Euryalus, Nisus, all wounded perished.

Through every town he’ll chase that vicious killer
until to hell he has once more dispatched her
whom Envy first sent forth our world’s despoiler.

Wherefore I judge, considering this matter,
that you follow me, and I shall be your guide
to lead you hence through that eternal, bitter

place where you will hear the desperate outcries
and see the ancient spirits in torment, each
screeching at the second death each one still dies;

and those you will see content the fire will scorch
and more than scorch them, for they hope by that fire
the dwellings of the blessed sometime to reach.

To ascend to their domain if you’d aspire,
you’ll find a soul who’s a far worthier guide.
With her I’ll leave you and whence I came retire,

for that empire’s emperor has placed close guard,
given I was a rebel against his law:
would I bring you to his city, I am barred.

In every region he’s emperor and lord;
and there is his city, there his lofty throne;
O fortunate whom he chooses  to reward!”

“Poet,” I said, “by that God to you unknown
then, nevertheless now help me, I beseech,
to flee this creature, or what worse may be shown,

so that by your promised guidance I should reach
St Peter’s Gate, though travelling there I find
those lost or struggling spirits whose grief you teach.”

At which he moved off; I followed close behind.



Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!

Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte;
ma per trattar del ben ch’i’ vi trovai,
dirò de l’altre cose ch’i’ v’ho scorte.

Io non so ben ridir com’ i’ v’intrai,
tant’ era pien di sonno a quel punto
che la verace via abbandonai.

Ma poi ch’i’ fui al piè d’un colle giunto,
là dove terminava quella valle
che m’avea di paura il cor compunto,

guardai in alto e vidi le sue spalle
vestite già de’ raggi del pianeta
che mena dritto altrui per ogne calle.

Allor fu la paura un poco queta,
che nel lago del cor m’era durata
la notte ch’i’ passai con tanta pieta.

E come quei che con lena affannata,
uscito fuor del pelago a la riva,
si volge a l’acqua perigliosa e guata,

così l’animo mio, ch’ancor fuggiva,
si volse a retro a rimirar lo passo
che non lasciò già mai persona viva.

Poi ch’èi posato un poco il corpo lasso,
ripresi via per la piaggia diserta,
sì che ’l piè fermo sempre era ’l più basso.

Ed ecco, quasi al cominciar de l’erta,
una lonza leggera e presta molto,
che di pel macolato era coverta;

e non mi si partia dinanzi al volto,
anzi ’mpediva tanto il mio cammino,
ch’i’ fui per ritornar più volte vòlto.

Temp’ era dal principio del mattino,
e ’l sol montava ’n sù con quelle stelle
ch’eran con lui quando l’amor divino

mosse di prima quelle cose belle;
sì ch’a bene sperar m’era cagione
di quella fiera a la gaetta pelle

l’ora del tempo e la dolce stagione;
ma non sì che paura non mi desse
la vista che m’apparve d’un leone.

Questi parea che contra me venisse
con la test’ alta e con rabbiosa fame,
sì che parea che l’aere ne tremesse.

Ed una lupa, che di tutte brame
sembiava carca ne la sua magrezza,
e molte genti fé già viver grame,

questa mi porse tanto di gravezza
con la paura ch’uscia di sua vista,
ch’io perdei la speranza de l’altezza.

E qual è quei che volontieri acquista,
e giugne ’l tempo che perder lo face,
che ’n tutti suoi pensier piange e s’attrista;

tal mi fece la bestia sanza pace,
che, venendomi ’ncontro, a poco a poco
mi ripigneva là dove ’l sol tace.

Mentre ch’i’ rovinava in basso loco,
dinanzi a li occhi mi si fu offerto
chi per lungo silenzio parea fioco.

Quando vidi costui nel gran diserto,
«Miserere di me», gridai a lui,
«qual che tu sii, od ombra od omo certo!».

Rispuosemi: «Non omo, omo già fui,
e li parenti miei furon lombardi,
mantoani per patrïa ambedui.

Nacqui sub Iulio, ancor che fosse tardi,
e vissi a Roma sotto ’l buono Augusto
nel tempo de li dèi falsi e bugiardi.

Poeta fui, e cantai di quel giusto
figliuol d’Anchise che venne di Troia,
poi che ’l superbo Ilïón fu combusto.

Ma tu perché ritorni a tanta noia?
perché non sali il dilettoso monte
ch’è principio e cagion di tutta gioia?».

«Or se’ tu quel Virgilio e quella fonte
che spandi di parlar sì largo fiume?»,
rispuos’ io lui con vergognosa fronte.

«O de li altri poeti onore e lume,
vagliami ’l lungo studio e ’l grande amore
che m’ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume.

Tu se’ lo mio maestro e ’l mio autore,
tu se’ solo colui da cu’ io tolsi
lo bello stilo che m’ha fatto onore.

Vedi la bestia per cu’ io mi volsi;
aiutami da lei, famoso saggio,
ch’ella mi fa tremar le veni e i polsi”.

«A te convien tenere altro vïaggio»,
rispuose, poi che lagrimar mi vide,
«se vuo’ campar d’esto loco selvaggio;

ché questa bestia, per la qual tu gride,
non lascia altrui passar per la sua via,
ma tanto lo ’mpedisce che l’uccide;

e ha natura sì malvagia e ria,
che mai non empie la bramosa voglia,
e dopo ’l pasto ha più fame che pria.

Molti son li animali a cui s’ammoglia,
e più saranno ancora, infin che ’l veltro
verrà, che la farà morir con doglia.

Questi non ciberà terra né peltro,
ma sapïenza, amore e virtute,
e sua nazion sarà tra feltro e feltro.

Di quella umile Italia fia salute
per cui morì la vergine Cammilla,
Eurialo e Turno e Niso di ferute.

Questi la caccerà per ogne villa,
fin che l’avrà rimessa ne lo ’nferno,
là onde ’nvidia prima dipartilla.

Ond’ io per lo tuo me’ penso e discerno
che tu mi segui, e io sarò tua guida,
e trarrotti di qui per loco etterno;

ove udirai le disperate strida,
vedrai li antichi spiriti dolenti,
ch’a la seconda morte ciascun grida;

e vederai color che son contenti
nel foco, perché speran di venire
quando che sia a le beate genti.

A le quai poi se tu vorrai salire,
anima fia a ciò più di me degna:
con lei ti lascerò nel mio partire;

ché quello imperador che là sù regna,
perch’ i’ fu’ ribellante a la sua legge,
non vuol che ’n sua città per me si vegna.

In tutte parti impera e quivi regge;
quivi è la sua città e l’alto seggio:
oh felice colui cu’ ivi elegge!».

E io a lui: «Poeta, io ti richeggio
per quello Dio che tu non conoscesti,
acciò ch’io fugga questo male e peggio,

 che tu mi meni là dov’ or dicesti,
sì ch’io veggia la porta di san Pietro
e color cui tu fai cotanto mesti».

Allor si mosse, e io li tenni dietro.


Notes

A. Symbolism

(1) The wild beasts. There are various theories about the symbolism of the leopard, lion and she-wolf, but it is plausible they stand for lust, pride and anger, and avarice respectively. The she-wolf seems to be the deadliest of the three and it could well be that she also represents the papacy. Dante was doctrinally orthodox; however, he bitterly opposed the papacy’s claim to temporal power and territory. He believed, with some justice, that Pope Boniface VIII was behind his banishment from Florence in 1302. He was forbidden to return on pain of burning at the stake.

(2) The greyhound, “born between felt and felt”. There has been much dispute concerning the identity of this beast:

(i) Can Grande de La Scala, the ruler of Verona, known as Can Grande (“Big Dog”) because of his physical and mental strength and aggression. He gave Dante refuge during his exile. “Born between felt and felt” (Italian feltro) could be a pun on two place names, Feltre (a hill-town in the Veneto), and Montefeltro (in Romagna). Verona lies between the two.

(ii) The Emperor Henry VII. The Holy Roman Empire was an elective monarchy; the ballot was carried out by counters being dropped into a felt-lined box. Dante thought that the Emperor’s invasion of Italy (1311–1313), terminated by his untimely death, would lead to political and religious reform.

(iii) Dante himself, who was born under the sign of Gemini, i.e. the twins Castor and Pollux, often shown wearing conical felt caps. In this case, of course, his leadership would be moral and spiritual, not military.

There are, of course, plenty of other interpretations. Dante did not seek to make his intentions clear.

B. Verse Form

Dante wrote his poem in terza rima and in hendecasyllabic verse. I have imitated this in my translation, although the rhyming is more approximate than the original. I hope and feel that within the eleven syllables per line framework a variety of English accentual-syllabic measures make their presence felt.

Biography of Dante

Dante, in full Dante Alighieri, (born c. May 21–June 20, 1265, Florence, Italy; died September 13/14, 1321, Ravenna, Italy), Italian poet, prose writer, literary theorist, moral philosopher, and political thinker. He is best known for the monumental epic poem La commedia, later named La divina commedia (The Divine Comedy). In this poem Dante travels through Hell, Purgatory and Paradise, guided in the first two regions by the poet he reveres most of all, Virgil, and in the last by Beatrice, the woman he loves and his moral and spiritual inspiration.



Virgil Aeneid Bk. 1, prologue
Translated from Latin into English accentual-syllabic hexameters
Translation by Ranald Barnicot

Arms and the man I sing. He, first from the Trojan beaches,
Destiny’s fugitive, found on Lavinian shores his Italian
Haven, buffeted land and sea by the heavenly gods’ force,
Overpowering — savage Juno’s relentless anger;
Much did he suffer in war, too, till he should found his city,
Bringing his gods to Latium, whence the Latin nation,
Alba’s venerable fathers, and high Rome’s towering ramparts.

Bring to my mind the causes, Muse, the wounded godhead
Nursing such pain that the queen of the gods should bring down upon him
Such disasters, so many, on one so true to his duty,
So many toils inflict. So great are celestial angers?

There was an ancient city, possessed by Tyrian settlers,
Facing Italy and, far off at the mouth of the Tiber,
Ostia: Carthage, great in riches, ferocious in warfare.
Juno is said to have loved it above all others, consigning
Even Samos to second. Here was her armour, here her
Chariot. That this kingdom should reign over nations was the
Fondest ambition that in her heart she nurtured and cherished,
Fates permitting. But she had heard that a people of Trojan
Blood should one day overturn those Tyrian towers;
Yes, from this source would come a haughty warrior nation,
Wide in dominion, destruction to Libya: thus the fates spun.
Fearing this, remembering also the war she had carried
Up to the walls of Troy for her dear Greeks, Saturn’s daughter ―
Not even yet had her motives for anger and gnawing resentment
Fallen away from her, sores sunk festering deep in her spirit:
Paris’s judgement, her beauty slighted and spurned; then plundered
Ganymede pampered with honours …  both of a race she
                                                                                             detested!
Thus incensed, she warded these Trojans, everywhere sea-tossed,                                                                                    
Harsh Achilles’ leftovers, remnants of Greek carnage,
Well away from Latium, and their wanderings lasted
Many years all over the seas by the Fates’ compulsion.
Toil so massive it was to establish the Roman nation!

Original version

Arma virumque canō, Trōiae quī prīmus ab ōrīs
Ītaliam, fātō profugus, Lāvīniaque vēnit
lītora, multum ille et terrīs iactātus et altō
vī superum saevae memorem Iūnōnis ob īram;
multa quoque et bellō passus, dum conderet urbem,               
inferretque deōs Latiō, genus unde Latīnum,
Albānīque patrēs, atque altae moenia Rōmae.
Mūsa, mihī causās memorā, quō nūmine laesō,
quidve dolēns, rēgīna deum tot volvere cāsūs
īnsīgnem pietāte virum, tot adīre labōrēs                                 
impulerit. Tantaene animīs caelestibus īrae?
Urbs antīqua fuit, Tyriī tenuēre colōnī,
Karthāgō, Ītaliam contrā Tiberīnaque longē
ōstia, dīves opum studiīsque asperrima bellī,
quam Iūnō fertur terrīs magis omnibus ūnam                         
posthabitā coluisse Samō; hīc illius arma,
hīc currus fuit; hōc rēgnum dea gentibus esse,
sī quā Fāta sinant, iam tum tenditque fovetque.
Prōgeniem sed enim Trōiānō ā sanguine dūcī
audierat, Tyriās olim quae verteret arcēs;                                 
hinc populum lātē regem bellōque superbum
ventūrum excidiō Libyae: sīc volvere Parcās.
Id metuēns, veterisque memor Sāturnia bellī,
prīma quod ad Trōiam prō cārīs gesserat Argīs—
necdum etiam causae īrārum saevīque dolōrēs                        
exciderant animō: manet altā mente repostum
iūdicium Paridis sprētaeque iniūria fōrmae,
et genus invīsum, et raptī Ganymēdis honōrēs.
Hīs accēnsa super, iactātōs aequore tōtō
Trōas, rēliquiās Danaum atque immītis Achillī,                        
arcēbat longē Latiō, multōsque per annōs
errābant, āctī Fātīs, maria omnia circum.
Tantae mōlis erat Rōmānam condere gentem!

Commentary

The first thirty-three lines of the Aeneid are a prologue to the whole poem. Virgil announces his great theme: a man with a mission to escape the destruction of his native city and start a new history, the eventual establishment of Rome and the Roman people on Italian soil.

Yet before he can achieve this, he has to overcome many obstacles set in his path by the goddess Juno, daughter of Saturn and Jupiter’s wife and sister. She feels an implacable hate for the Trojans, firstly, among other reasons, for the privileges granted to the beautiful Trojan youth, Ganymede, whom Jupiter had abducted in the guise of an eagle. Moreover, she had been slighted by Paris, who in the beauty contest between Juno, Athene and Venus, awarded the prize of a golden apple to the last of these. She has heard, also, that the Romans will destroy Carthage, a city she especially cherishes. Thus an undercurrent of the poem is the future protracted mortal conflict of the Punic Wars.

Nevertheless, Aeneas manages eventually to establish his city, Lavinium, in Latium. His son, Iulus, will move his capital to Alba Longa, whence Romulus will found the city of Rome.

The whole poem is written in quantitative (based on syllable length) hexameters, each line consisting of six feet, either dactyls (long-short-short) or spondees (long-long), with the last two feet a dactyl and a spondee respectively. I have used an approximation of this metre, in the accentual-syllabic prosody traditional in English-language poetry. The main difference is that I tend to use trochees instead of spondees since the latter are rare in English (mainly two monosyllables — some examples in my text are “gods’ force”, line 3; “fates spun”, line 22; and “sores sunk”, line 26 — or compound words, e.g. ‘sea-tossed’, line 29). Also, Virgil almost invariably has a dactyl as fifth foot, but I frequently use a trochee or a spondee. This does happen, though, in Latin verse, more frequently in the hexameters of Catullus 64. The demands of the metre sometimes cause a normally unstressed word to be ‘promoted’ to stressed as in line 30: “OF GREEK / CARNage”.  A slower, more emphatic spoken delivery makes this more palatable.

One final comment: my version starts: “Arms and the man I sing.” Of course, John Dryden’s version starts in exactly the same way, but I would plead that this is not plagiarism on my part as it is a literal translation of the Latin “Arma virumque cano, …”

Publius Vergilius Maro (trad. 70 – 19 BCE), commonly known in English as Vergil or Virgil was one of Rome’s greatest poets, writing in the reign of Augustus. He is known for three poems, the Eclogues, the Georgics and the Aeneid, Rome’s national epic, which had had an incalculable influence on Western literature, particularly on Dante’s Divine Comedy, where he appears as Dante’s guide through Hell and Purgatory.



Song of a Foreigner

by Giovanni Quessep, translated from Spanish by Felipe Botero Quintana and Ranald Barnicot, revised by Ranald Barnicot into Sapphic Adonic meter.

Castle’s twilight darkening in my dreamtime                                                      
Claudia’s tower warding off absence from me
Twilight love reflected in water’s shadow
Whitening lengthy

Voice in hiding tell me your hidden secret
Doubly threading fable and then unthreading
White-skinned sleep-starved wife of Odysseus scarcely
Soothed by the fairy

How to come within your domain if keeping
Close guard on yourself you have locked the garden
Gate against the foreigner lost to wander
Whiteness of island

Someone is approaching though through the forest
Where the deer are winged and the moon is foreign
Claudia’s island searching for so much sorrow
Seeking the sovereign

Real is the story with hands that open
Fruit of death abandoned and then forgotten
If a legend’s thread yet retains remembrance
Beauty in sleeping

On your shorelines time in its vespers sings out
Save me time of Claudia from night-time’s drumming
How to come within your domain’s white tower
Blocked to my coming

Nonetheless the word comprehends a walker
Blind song on the wing to enchantment’s country
Where to hide his voice that’s a flying vessel
Bound for your body

Castle, vessel is he in your remembrance
Sea of wine and prince of abolished princedom
Claudia’s body finally window onto
Paradise giving

If before an audience of stones he names you
That you may be moved so to drift in splendour
Course set fair to where a new realm will render
Tribute of wonder

What’s this voice awoken by you in dreaming?
Garden’s story over again repeating?
Where’s your body next to which shadow sliding
Taking a beating?

Water-borne Penelope you’ve forgotten
Now her beauty sleeping in ancient moonlight
Taking from the mirror another likeness
Alice’s profile

Tell me then the secret of rose or never
Lion paired with unicorn standing sentry
All the while the foreigner climbs your hillside
Ever more lonely

Steps repeat at dawn, are repeating while you
Are retreating, always your own song singing
Castle’s twilight marking the dark beginning
Age of the fairies

Through my hand your veins in their webs run coursing
Labyrinthine delta of desolation
And love’s fable, lost or abandoned, summons
You from oblivion

And the poet names you the one in many
Alice or Penelope yes forever
Garden mirror wine sea reflect remember
Revenant Claudia

Hear him now descending within the forest
Where the deer are winged, and the moon is foreign
Feel him touch your hands let him raise the purple
Rose to your body

From what country whence and from what time comes his
Voice or comes the story he sings or chants you?
Claudia’s vessel draw me on to your shoreline
Tell him you love him

Claudia’s tower let not oblivion take him
Blue in whiteness now in the hour of dying
Claudia’s garden sky-dweller elemental
Claudia celestial

Castle vessel is he in your remembrance
Sea renewed and prince of abolished princedom
Claudia’s body finally window onto
Paradise giving

(original translation included in ‘A Greek Verse for Ophelia Selected Poems 1968 – 2017’, Out-Spoken Press, 2018)

Original Poem

Canto del extranjero

Penumbra de castillo por el sueño
Torre de Claudia aléjame la ausencia
Penumbra del amor en sombra de agua
Blancura lenta

Dime el secreto de tu voz oculta
La fábula que tejes y destejes
Dormida apenas por la voz del hada
Blanca Penélope

Cómo entrar a tu reino si has cerrado
La puerta del jardín y te vigilas
En tu noche se pierde el extranjero
Blancura de isla

Pero hay alguien que viene por el bosque
De alados ciervos y extranjera luna
Isla de Claudia para tanta pena
Viene en tu busca

Cuento de lo real donde las manos
Abren el fruto que olvidó la muerte
Si un hilo de leyenda es el recuerdo
Bella durmiente

La víspera del tiempo a tus orillas
Tiempo de Claudia aléjame la noche
Cómo entrar a tu reino si clausuras
La blanca torre

Pero hay un caminante en la palabra
Ciega canción que vuela hacia el encanto
Dónde ocultar su voz para tu cuerpo
Nave volando

Nave y castillo es él en tu memoria
El mar de vino príncipe abolido
Cuerpo de Claudia pero al fin ventana
Del paraíso

Si pronuncia tu nombre ante las piedras
Te mueve el esplendor y en él derivas
Hacia otro reino y un país te envuelve
La maravilla

¿Qué es esta voz despierta por tu sueño?
¿La historia del jardín que se repite?
¿Dónde tu cuerpo junto a qué penumbra
Vas en declive?

Ya te olvidas Penélope del agua
Bella durmiente de tu luna antigua
Y hacia otra forma vas en el espejo
Perfil de Alicia

Dime el secreto de esta rosa o nunca
Que guardan el león y el unicornio
El extranjero asciende a tu colina
Siempre más solo

Maravilloso cuerpo te deshaces
Y el cielo es tu fluir en lo contado
Sombra de algún azul de quien te sigue
Manos y labios

Los pasos en el alba se repiten
Vuelves a la canción tú misma cantas
Penumbra de castillo en el comienzo
Cuando las hadas

A través de mi mano por tu cauce
Discurre un desolado laberinto
Perdida fábula de amor te llama
Desde el olvido
 
Y el poeta te nombra sí la múltiple
Penélope o Alicia para siempre
El jardín o el espejo el mar de vino
Claudia que vuelve

Escucha al que desciende por el bosque
De alados ciervos y extranjera luna
Toca tus manos y a tu cuerpo eleva
La rosa púrpura

¿De qué país de dónde de qué tiempo
Viene su voz la historia que te canta?
Nave de Claudia acércame a tu orilla
Dile que lo amas

Torre de Claudia aléjale el olvido
Blancura azul la hora de la muerte
Jardín de Claudia como por el cielo
Claudia celeste

Nave y castillo es él en tu memoria
El mar de nuevo príncipe abolido
Cuerpo de Claudia pero al fin ventana
Del paraíso

Biography of original poet:

Giovanni Quessep, born in San Onofre, Colombia, in 1939, is Colombia's most renowned living poet. In 2004 he received the Premio Nacional de Poesía José Asunción Silva, in acknowledgment of a life dedicated to poetry. In 2015 he was awarded the Premio Mundial de Poesía René Char. Some of his work has already been partially translated into German, Portuguese, Italian, French, English, Arab and Greek. To date, Giovanni Quessep has published thirteen books of poetry in the space of sixty years. In addition, he has been included in many Colombian and Latin American anthologies of poetry. A Greek Verse for Ophelia and Other Poems by Giovanni Quessep, Selected Poems 1968 – 2017, Translated by Felipe Botero Quintana and Ranald Barnicot was published by Out-spoken Press, London,  in November 2018.



Two bitternesses, each from a different source
by Julio Flórez Roa (1867-1923)

Sky, waves, surf, wind,
the water’s hiss and surge;
through mist, the sun, burning out in
the huge red furnace of its forge.

A white gull, a snow flash ―
once glimpsed, erased ― a scratch ―
leaves in the air its brash,
penetrating screech.

I, alone, lean on the guard-
rail, while
the ship clatters, shudders, makes hard
going of it on the sea, and smile
to think of you, while solitary, pure,
a tear gleams on my eyelash, rolls
down my cheek, falls to its obscure
fate where a wave unscrolls.

And there go … wave and lament
on their joint course:
two symbols of the soul’s dismemberment,
two bitternesses, each from a different source!

Dos amarguras de distinta fuente
Olas, vientos y espumas,
cielo y agua,
el sol, tras de las brumas,
muere en su roja y gigantesca fragua.

Una nívea gaviota
que se aleja
en el aire la nota
de un grito agudo y penetrante deja.

Yo solo, en la baranda
del navío
que cruje y tiembla y anda
penosamente sobre el mar, sonrío
y pienso en ti, y en mis pestañas brilla,
pura y sola,
una lágrima, rueda en mi mejilla …
y cae en las arrugas de una ola.

Y allá van… ola y llanto
juntamente:
¡dos símbolos eternos de quebranto!
¡dos amarguras de distinta fuente!



The Bogotan
by Julio Flórez Roa (1867-1923)

Correct in his attire, with easy charm
no shadow of crazed grief seems to impair,
the Bogotan strolls out to take the air,
refined, elegant, coruscating, calm.

If with the ladies he would chance his arm,
a model courtier, loving à la légère,
for gallantry, with friends this debonair
splurges genius likewise, sprays bliss and balm.

Immersing himself in bed, freed from the flare
of dances and excitements that the night
had previously comprised, he, with despair

now overmastering him, grieves at this sight:
in his brain’s corners, scurrying here and there,
his mouldering, leafless dreams fail to ignite.

El Bogotano

Correcto en el vestido; por su semblante
 nunca pasa una sombra de duelo insano:
Así va por las calles el bogotano,
siempre fino y alegre, siempre elegante.

Entre amigos y damas luce el chispeante
ingenio, que derrocha cortés y llano;
y como es un modelo de cortesano,
ama así a la ligera: por ser galante.

Al hundirse en el lecho tras el quebranto
de una noche de danzas y de emociones,
se apodera de su alma cruel desencanto,

y mira, entristecido, por los rincones
del oscuro cerebro, vagar, en tanto,
deshojadas y mustias sus ilusiones.



All the swallows now are fled
by Julio Flórez Roa (1867-1923)

All the swallows now are fled
from your festive balconies,
all the forest melodies;
rain and fog throughout are spread.

Thorns can rankle flesh scratched red,
only as other regions please
swallows that have long since fled
from your festive balconies.

Miseries and unfathomed dread
in the ruins perch at ease
among my passions long since dead.
Ah, false hopes, false remedies
with the swallows all now fled!

Huyeron los golondrinas

Huyeron las golondrinas
de tus alegres balcones;
ya en la selva no hay canciones
sino lluvias y neblinas.

Me dan pesar sus espinas
sólo porque a otras regiones
huyeron las golondrinas
de tus alegres balcones.

Insondables aflicciones
se posan entre las ruinas
de mis ya muertas pasiones.
¡Ay, que con las golondrinas
huyeron mis ilusiones!



Julio Flórez Roa (1867-1923) was a late Romantic Colombian poet, in his country perhaps the most popular of his time. One of his poems, Mis Flores Negras (“My Black Flowers”), which he set to music himself, is still sung both inside and outside Colombia. His passionate and highly accomplished verse still impresses, and he deserves to be better known outside Latin America. His last book, ¡A piê, los muertos! (Arise, ye dead!), concerns the First World War, during which he was an enthusiastic supporter of the Allies.

Bio of translator:

Ranald Barnicot (born 1948) has published original poems and translations from various languages (Ancient Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian) in journals such as Orbis, Cannon’s Mouth and Acumen. A Greek Verse for Ophelia and Other Poems by Giovanni Quessep, Selected Poems 1968 – 2017, Translated by Felipe Botero Quintana and Ranald Barnicot was published by Out-spoken Press in November 2018. By Me, Through Me (original poems and translations) was published by Alba Press in January 2019. His translation of Catullus’ shorter poems, Friendship, Love, Abuse etc. (Dempsey and Windle) came out in August 2020.



Omnia tempus edax (from the Latin of Seneca)

Time, so voracious, strips all bare, displaces and
      Destroys, allows nothing to be for long.
The rivers fail, the sea recedes, choked by the land,
      Mountains subside, and high peaks crash. But wrong
To talk of little things! All this ‘brave firmament’
      Will suddenly burn away in its own flame.
Death demands all. To die is law, not punishment.
      Some day there’ll be no world, ‘this goodly frame’.

Latin Text:

Omnia tempus edax depascitur, omnia carpit,
    omnia sede movet, nil sinit esse diu.
flumina deficiunt, profugum mare litora siccant,
   subsidunt montes et iuga celsa ruunt.
quid tam parva loquor? moles pulcherrima caeli
   ardebit flammis tota repente suis.
omnia mors poscit. lex est, non poena, perire:
   hic aliquo mundus tempore nullus erit.

Seneca the Younger (Lucius Annaeus Seneca) was born c. 4 BCE in Córdoba, Spain. Poet, dramatist, Stoic philosopher, essayist and letter-writer, he exercised a huge influence on later ages, particularly in moral philosophy and dramatic practice. He was also a statesman and politician, being one of Nero’s principal advisers and, in the early years of the reign, a moderating influence. However, in 65 CE he was caught up in a conspiracy against the emperor and forced to commit suicide. In the poem translated here (although its attribution to Seneca is not certain), he expounds the Stoic doctrine of ekpyrosis, the eventual destruction of the universe by fire, from which it will be reborn only to be destroyed again in a perpetual cycle.



An emperor to his soul (from the Latin of Hadrian)

Dear little fleeting, friendly soul,
my body’s guest and boon-companion,
into what regions will you now be gone,
pale little soul, naked, cold,
without your flippant ways of old?

Latin Text:

Animula vagula blandula
hospes comesque corporis,
quae nunc abibis in loca,
pallidula, rigida, nudula,
nec ut soles dabis iocos?

Hadrian (Publius Aelius Hadrianus), born in 76 CE in Italica, Spain, was a cousin of the emperor Trajan and succeeded him on his death in 117 CE. He reversed his predecessor’s policy of territorial expansion, and concentrated on protecting the empire’s borders, most famously by building Hadrian’s Wall as the northern frontier of Britannia. He travelled widely all over the empire during his reign but its later years were marked by personal tragedy, the death of his young lover Antinous by drowning in the Nile. Hadrian is said to have written the poem translated here shortly before his own death in 138 CE.



The Savage
by Antonio Gomes Leal (1848-1921)

I love no-one. Nor in the world is there
Another heart that beats for my heart’s sake.
No other understands my deep despair.
When others weep, I feel my laughter shake.

I live estranged from every one and thing,
More silent than the coffin, Death, blank slate;
Solitary, savage, inert, mute suffering
— Stupid passivity of Things my state.

I closed the Past’s book, oh a long time ago!
I feel in me the Future’s sneering gaze,
And live in my own company, and know
Only dark, barbarous egoism clogging my days.

I’ve torn up all I’ve read. I dwell in stark
Domains cruel, indifferent folk patrol.
My heart’s a serpents’ nest where, in the dark,
I’ve stamped on pains that writhe in its hell-hole.

And I see no-one. I only sally out
After sun-set onto the empty street,
None to sneak up on me, eye, ear or snout,
Only the dogs, the moon their yapping dirges greet ….

O Selvagem
por António Gomes Leal, in 'Claridades do Sul'

Eu não amo ninguem. Tambem no mundo
Ninguem por mim o peito bater sente,
Ninguem entende meu sofrer profundo,
E rio quando chora a demais gente.

Vivo alheio de todos e de tudo,
Mais callado que o esquife, a Morte e as lousas,
Selvagem, solitario, inerte e mudo,
— Passividade estupida das Cousas.

Fechei, de ha muito, o livro do Passado
Sinto em mim o despreso do Futuro,
E vivo só commigo, amortalhado
N'um egoismo barbaro e escuro.

Rasguei tudo o que li. Vivo nas duras
Regiões dos crueis indifferentes,
Meu peito é um covil, onde, ás escuras,
Minhas penas calquei, como as serpentes.

E não vejo ninguem. Saio sómente
Depois de pôr-se o sol, deserta a rua,
Quando ninguem me espreita, nem me sente,
E, em lamentos, os cães ladram à lua…

Antonio Gomes Leal (1848-1921), Portuguese poet, journalist and essayist, born in Lisbon, posed as a decadent and dandy for much of his career, even flirting with Satanism. On the death of his mother in 1910, he reconverted to Catholicism. At this time he also fell into poverty and became homeless, being forced to sleep on park benches and subject to physical assault. His friends and members of literary circles campaigned for a petition to have the government grant him some financial support. He eventually received a small stipend towards the end of his life.



Four sonnets and a décima by the Portuguese Dominican nun Soror Violante do Céu (1602-1693), translated from Portuguese …

To an absence
by Soror Violante do Céu (1602-1693)

If severed from my body is sweet life
yielding its sway to harsh, unyielding death,
how comes it that I wait so long for death,
absented from the soul that gives me life?

Without Sylvano I no more wish for life,
since all without Sylvano’s living death;
now that Sylvano’s gone, come to me, death;
and by Sylvano perished be my life.

Ah you, sighed for and absent, if this death
forces not your consent to give me life,
can I not receive it from the hands of death?

But if the soul’s the true substance of life,
well do I know, waiting for tardy death,
pain slows death’s steps at death of such a life.

A uma ausencia

Se apartada do corpo a doce vida
domina in seu lugar a dura morte,
de que nasce tardar-me tanto a morte
se ausente da alma estou, que me dá vida?

Não quero sem Sylvano já ter vida,
pois tudo sem Sylvano é viva morte;
já que se foi Sylvano, venha a morte;
perca-se por Sylvano a minha vida.

Ah, suspirado ausente, se esta morte
não te obriga querer a dar-me vida,
como não vem dar-me a mesma morte?

Mas se na alma consiste a própria vida,
bem sei que se me tarda tanto a morte,
que é porque sinta a morte de tal vida.

(published in Poetry Salzburg Review and By Me, Through Me)



What long suspense
by Soror Violante do Céu (1602-1693)

What long suspense, what ecstasy, what care
is mine, God Cupid, tyrant to the core?
From me all sense you commandeer and draw;
each feeling attracts its contrary, won’t share.

Absorbed in my harsh fate and in despair,
alien from my own senses, I am sure
of two things only: I live, and the rapport
life has with death, which I within me bear.

Exulting in the hurt whereby offended,
I am suspended in my weeping’s cause;
in nothing, though — alas! — my pain’s suspended.

Such is the rare enchantment that is yours;
cease, cease it love! Whom love leaves undefended
“Not so much pain, less pain’s enough!” implores.

Que suspensão

Que suspensão, que enleio, que cuidado
É este meu, tirano deus Cupido?
Pois tirando-me enfim todo o sentido
Me deixa o sentimento duplicado.

Absorta no rigor de um duro fado,
Tanto do meus sentidos me divido.
Que tenho só de vida o bem sentido
E tenho já de morte o mal logrado.

Enlevo-me no damno que me offende,
Suspendo-me na causa do meu pranto
Mas meu mal (ai de mim!) não se suspende.

Ó cesse, cesse amor, tam raro encanto
Que para quem de ti não se defende
Basta menos rigor, não rigor tanto.



Life that’s not reached
by Soror Violante do Céu (1602-1693)

Life that’s not reached the end-point of its ending,
Though bidding you a premature farewell —
Its senses their own atrophy compel,
Or else it feels immortality impending.

Life that from you now suffers its self-rending
And into self-destruction all but fell —
Living, its flame consumes it to a shell,
Or else it kills, eternal life pretending.

What’s certain, Lord, is that it doesn’t finish,
This life of suffering which they report:
Limitless suffering won’t fade or vanish.

But, living amongst tears, what import?
Life amongst absences, a life of anguish,
Alive to sorrow, dead to all glad thought.

Vida que não acaba

Vida que não acaba de acabar-se,
Chegando já de vós a despedir-se,
Ou deixa por sentida de sentir-se
Ou pode de immortal acreditar-se.

Vida que já não chega a terminar-se,
Pois chega já de vós a dividir-se,
Ou procura vivendo consumir-se,
Ou pretende matando eternizar-se.

O certo é, Senhor, que não fenece,
Antes no que padece se reporta,
Porque nâo se limite o que padece.

Mas, viver entre lágrimas, que importa?
Se vida que entre ausencias permanece
É só viva ao pezar, ao gosto morta?



To Dona Marianna de Luna
by Soror Violante do Céu (1602-1693)

Muses, who in the king of daylight’s garden,
loosening sweet voices, of the wind take hold,
deities admiring thought that’s fresh and bold,
augmenting Apollo’s flowers your kind burden.

Leave, leave the sun to other friends and fortune,
in the sun’s entourage no more enrolled;
in the envious firmament a moon’s revealed,
in her harmonious garden is your portion,

for, being moon, she’s also sun and portent.
Lest you should think such an ambitious statement
may go beyond all reason and proportion

making the moon’s pure light the sun’s curtailment —
this lyric garden, know, defies intrusion,
walled by eternity, immortal, fragrant.

A Dona Marianna de Luna

Musas, que no jardim do rei do dia,
soltando a doce voz, prendeis o vento;
deidades, que admirando o pensamento
as flores aumentais, que Apollo cria.

Deixai, deixai do sol a companhia,
que fazendo invejoso o firmamento
uma lua, que é sol, e que é portento;
um jardim vos fabrica de harmonia.

E porque não cuideis que tal ventura
pode pagar tributo à variedade
pelo que tem da lua a luz mais pura;

sabei que por mercé da divindade,
este jardim canoro se assegura
com o muro imortal da eternidade.

(published in Poetry Salzburg Review and By Me, Through Me)



Décima — to a learned doctor who in some verses complimented the author by comparing her to a flower — viola— and a musical instrument — viola

To contradict a doctor’s evident
Proof, I know well, of some temerity,
Yet I would offer him a truth as fee
For his so sweetly worded compliment:
Neither am I flower, nor instrument.
Yet, if I might be so, then, I beseech,
Let none aspire so far beyond his reach,
For I am no man’s for the touching,
No man’s for playing or for plucking,
And these words to the wise I teach.

Décima — a um doutor que chamou á Autora em uns versos que lhe fez  viola — flôr — e viola — instrumento

Contradizer a um Doutor
Bem sei que é temeridade:
Porém com uma verdade,
Quero pagar um louvor:
Nem instrumento , nem flor
Sou; porém, se o posso ser,
Ninguem trate de emprehender
O que não ha de alcançar:
Pois nenhum me ha de tocar,
Pois nenhum me ha de colher.

(published in Poetry Salzburg Review and By Me, Through Me)

Soror Violante do Céu Montesinos (1607-1693) was a Portuguese Dominican nun, renowned in her lifetime as “The Tenth Muse” but now fallen into comparative obscurity, who wrote both secular and religious poems in Spanish and Portuguese. The first three sonnets, probably written before she took the veil, express a despairing erotic love inspired by her doomed engagement to a fellow poet, Paulo Gonçalves Andrade, whom she addresses in her poems as Silvano or Lauso — in the poems he wrote for her he calls her Silvia. In the next poem she expresses her warm feelings for a female friend, Dona Marianna de Luna, who has recently brought out a book of poems — luna is of course the Spanish for ‘moon’, the equivalent Portuguese word being lua. Finally, the last poem, in which she fights off the flattering attentions of a ‘doctor’ who wishes to seduce her through poetry, is a décima espinela, a ten-line poem with the rhyme-scheme ABBAACCDDC, invented (or perhaps re-invented) by the Spanish poet and musician Vicente de Espinel (1550-1624).



Two poems by the Portuguese poet António Ferreira (1528-1569) …

Não Tejo, Douro, Zézer, Minho, Odiana
by António Ferreira

[1] Not Tagus, Douro, Minho, Odiana,
Mondego, Tua, Vouga, Lima, Neiva,
Nor rivers that rise with orient sun for neighbour,
[2] Euphrates, Nile, Ganges, Hydaspe, Tana;

[3] Not beech, elm, holm oak, ivy, in their leaves’ armour,
Nor prose or rhyme in their sweetly breathed labour
Will quench the flame that flows and will not waver
From the third heaven, streaming from eyes’ ardour.

May another heaven open, the world be drenched
And drown, a mighty wind grant us no quarter,
My flame will still be burning deep in me.

And I shall die, for it will not be quenched:
Then the pleasure shall be more, the glory greater,
The more my love subjects me to this agony.

[1] The first two lines list rivers that rise in Spain and flow through Portugal. For the sake of metrical consistency, I have omitted Zézer and Avia from Ferreira’s list.
[2] These are Asian or African rivers. For the same reason as above I omitted the Indus. Hydaspe is the Classical name for the river Jhelum in Pakistan, where in 326 BCE Alexander the Great fought the Indian king Porus. The Tana js the longest river in Kenya.
[3] Here again, to avoid a hypermetric line, I omitted pine (pinho) and cane (cana).

Não Tejo, Douro, Zézer, Minho, Odiana,
Mondego, Tua, Avia, Vouga, Neiva e Lima,
nem os que correm lá no Oriental clima
Nilo, Indo, Gange, Eufrate, Hydaspe e Tana

Não pinho, faia, enzinho, ulmo, hera, ou cana,
nem doce suspirar em prosa, ou rima
o fogo apagarão, qu’em mim de cima
do terceiro ceo cae, e dos olhos mana.

Qu’o ceo outra vez s’abra, e o mundo alague,
sopra de toda parte bravo vento,
ardendo m’estará meu fogo em meo.

E eu morrerei, porque se não apague;
então de mor prazer, mor glória cheo,
quanto mor parecer o meu tormento.



S’erra a minha alma, em contemplar-vos tanto

If my soul errs, in so much contemplation,
And these sad eyes of mine, in seeing you,
If my great love errs in its reluctance to
Conceive a lovelier cause for consternation,

And if my spirit errs, singing its exultation
In you, writing in your sole name, as due,
If my life errs, in my verse plain to view,
Living in constant pain and lamentation,

If my hope errs, in that time after time
It has been self-deceived, yet, thus deceived,
Returns to known deceits, as for a tryst, and tame,

If my desire should err, in honest trust, to claim
That at some point my griefs will be believed,
Then for my errors you must bear sole blame.

S'erra minh'alma, em contemplar-vos tanto,
E estes meus olhos tristes, em vos ver,
S'erra meu amor grande, em não querer
Crer que outra cousa há ai de mor espanto,

S'erra meu espírito, em levantar seu canto
Em vós, e em vosso nome só escrever,
S'erra minha vida, em assim viver
Por vós continuamente em dor, e pranto,

S'erra minha esperança, em se enganar
Já tantas vezes, e assim enganada
Tornar-se a seus enganos conhecidos,

S'erra meu bom desejo, em confiar
Que algu'hora serão meus males cridos,
Vós em meus erros só sereis culpada.

António Ferreira (1528-1569) was a Portuguese poet and the foremost representative of the classical school, founded by Francisco de Sá de Miranda. His most considerable work, Castro, is the first tragedy in Portuguese and the second in modern European literature. The sonnets forming the First Book in his collected works, date from 1552 and contain the history of his early love for an unknown lady. They seem to have been written in Coimbra or during vacations in Lisbon. The sonnets in the Second Book were inspired by his wife, and they are marked by chastity of sentiment, seriousness and ardent patriotism.



Sleeper in the valley
(translated from the French of Arthur Rimbaud)

It’s a green hollow where a river sings
With ragged silver catching at the grass
In frenzy, where sun from the proud mountain flings
Its rays, and the small valley sparkles like a glass.

A soldier young, mouth open and head bare,
Neck bathing in the fresh blue cress, is sleeping;
Stretched in the grass, beneath a cloud, pale there
In his green bed on which the light is weeping.

Feet in the sword-grass, he’s asleep. Smiling the way
A sick child smiles, he takes a nap. I pray
You, nature, cradle him in your warmth: he’s cold.

No fragrance stirs his nostrils: hands afold
Upon his quiet breast, in the sun’s pride,
He sleeps. With three red holes in his right side.

Le dormeur du val

C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière,
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) was a French poet known for his influence on modern literature and arts, which prefigured surrealism. Born in Charleville-Mézières, he started writing at a very young age and excelled as a student, but abandoned his formal education in his teenage years to run away from home to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian War. During his late adolescence and early adulthood he began the bulk of his literary output, then completely stopped writing at the age of 20, after assembling one of his major works, Illuminations. Rimbaud was known to have been a libertine and a restless soul, having engaged in an at-times-violent romantic relationship with fellow poet Paul Verlaine, which lasted nearly two years. After ending his literary career, he travelled extensively on three continents as a merchant before his death from cancer just after his thirty-seventh birthday. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to Symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell, a precursor to modernist literature.



Anguish
(translated from the French of Paul Verlaine)

Nature, you leave me cold, for all your fields’
Nourishing largesse, vermilion echo of
Pastoral Sicilian scenes, dawn’s pomp or grave
Sorrowful dusks day’s requiem unfolds.

I laugh at Art, Mankind, Song, Verse; each yields
In turn to my derision; nor would I save
Greek temples, spires cathedrals drive
Into the empty sky. The sky still holds!

I don’t believe in God; renounce, abjure
All thought; blur good and wicked indiscriminately;
And love ― don’t mention that stale irony!

Tired of living, fearful of dying, a boat,
A toy, the tide’s plaything, somehow afloat,
Readying for the wrecks I must endure.

L’angoisse

Nature, rien de toi ne m’émeut, ni les champs
Nourriciers, ni l’écho vermeil des pastorales
Siciliennes, ni les pompes aurorales,
Ni la solennité dolente des couchants.
Je ris de l’Art, je ris de l’Homme aussi, des chants,
Des vers, des temples grecs et des tours en spirales
Qu’étirent dans le ciel vide les cathédrales,
Et je vois du même œil les bons et les méchants.
Je ne crois pas en Dieu, j’abjure et je renie
Toute pensée, et quant à la vieille ironie,
L’Amour, je voudrais bien qu’on ne m’en parlât plus.
Lasse de vivre, ayant peur de mourir, pareille
Au brick perdu jouet du flux et du reflux,
Mon âme pour d’affreux naufrages appareille.

Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) was one of the leading French Symbolist poets. Frequently labelled as “Decadent”, he coined the phrase “les poètes maudits” (“the accursed poets”) to describe himself, his lover Arthur Rimbaud, and others. His poetic values principally consisted in lyricism, musicality and subtle suggestion as opposed to rhetoric and precise statement.



To Licinius Calvus (L)
by Catullus

Licinius, yesterday we played around,
A precious pair of poets at one in leisure.
My scribbling-tablets we found fertile ground
Essaying this, that or the other measure.
We raised our glasses. Wine and wit flowed to
And fro, as epigram capped epigram.
I left there utterly on fire for you,
Your charm, your wit. Once home, wretch that I am,
Dinner delighted not me. Sleep denied my eyelids
Her cool compress. "When will dawn come?" I cried,
Tossing and turning, traversing my bed's terrain,
Yearning for your converse and company, but became
Half-corpse on my couch as my limbs lay defeated,
So I made this poem for you, my laughing one,
To raise your awareness of the pain I suffer.
Now don't be rash, ― dear as my eyes! ― nor shun
This suitor so disdainfully, but offer
Nemesis some respect, for, once enraged,
This goddess is not easily assuaged.

Notes: Caius Licinius Calvus Macer (82-47 BCE), perhaps Catullus’s closest friend, a gifted orator and poet, of whose work only a few fragments survive.

1-3. My second line is an echo of Conrad Aiken’s “Rimbaud and Verlaine, precious pair of poets” (Preludes to Memnon XVI, l. 1), in order to bring out the (mock?)-homoeroticism.

In the original, the first three lines:

Hesterno, Licini, die otiose
Multum lusimus in meis tabellis,
Ut convenerat esse delicatos.

“Delicatos” has a number of connotations, depending on context and speaker/writer. It can mean sensitive, tasteful, refined etc. or, equally, affected, frivolous, precious (my rendering), decadent or even effeminate.

Latin Text:

Hesterno, Licini, die otiosi
multum lusimus in meis tabellis,
ut convenerat esse delicatos.
Scribens versiculos uterque nostrum
ludebat numero modo hoc modo illoc,
reddens mutua per iocum atque vinum.
Atque illinc abii tuo lepore
incensus, Licini, facetiisque,
ut nec me miserum cibus iuvaret
nec somnus tegeret quiete ocellos,
sed toto indomitus furore lecto
versarer, cupiens videre lucem,
ut tecum loquerer simulque ut essem.
At defessa labore membra postquam
semimortua lectulo iacebant,
hoc, iucunde, tibi poema feci,
ex quo perspiceres meum dolorem.
Nunc audax cave sis, precesque nostras,
oramus, cave despuas, ocelle,
ne poenas Nemesis reposcat a te.
Est vehemens dea: laedere hanc caveto.

Catullus (c.85-c.54 BCE) is most famous for his love poems, especially those inspired by the faithless Clodia Metelli (wife and later widow of the politician and general Metellus Celer). He gives her the name Lesbia in his poems as a tribute to the Greek poetess, Sappho of Lesbos. However, he also wrote fine poems celebrating friendship, such as this one, mourning his brother, excoriating his enemies, including Julius Caesar (often obscenely) and recounting Greek legend.



Hymn to Diana (Catullus XXXIV)

We hold to Diana’s faith,
Girls and boys we do not stray,
Boys and girls untouched and chaste,
Still we sing Diana’s praise,
Dianae sumus in fide.

O Leto’s daughter, goddess great,
Offspring of Jove supremely great,
Whom, giving birth, Your mother gave
The Delian olive-tree for shade,
Dianae sumus in fide,

That You should be mistress and maid
Of mountains and green forest ways,
Passes through every hidden place,
Resounding streams that downward race,
Dianae sumus in fide.

Lucina Juno¹, You whose aid
Women invoke in childbirth crazed,
The mighty Three Ways Goddess named
And Moon whose light’s refracted flame,
Dianae sumus in fide.

Measuring out each monthly stage
Through which the year’s long haul’s conveyed,
With Your largesse of fruits you raise
Wealth farmers’ barns accumulate,
Dianae sumus in fide.

Whichever name You please to take
To celebrate your power and grace,
Never Your ancient care forsake,
But cherish Romulus’s race,
Dianae sumus in fide.

¹ In this stanza, Diana is identified as (a) goddess of the Moon, (b) identical with Juno Lucina (Juno in her capacity as aider of childbirth), and (c) Trivia, or Hecate, worshipped at crossroads.

Latin Text:

Dianae sumus in fide
puellae et pueri integri,
Dianam pueri integri
puellaeque canamus.
O Latonia, maximi
magna progenies Iovis,
quam mater prope Deliam
deposivit olivam,
montium domina ut fores
silvarumque virentium
saltuumque reconditorum
amniumque sonantum,
tu Lucina dolentibus
Iuno dicta puerperis,
tu potens Trivia et notho es
dicta lumine Luna.
Tu cursu, dea, menstruo
metiens iter annuum,
rustica agricolae bonis
tecta frugibus exples.
Sis quocumque tibi placet
sancta nomine, Romulique,
antique ut solita es, bona
sospites ope gentem.



Unexpectedly (CVII)
by Catullus

Day incandescent in my calendar of gloom
Restoring you to me
Quite unexpectedly!
You have flown back to me – kazoom!
Naturally, I’m over the moon!

Latin Text:

Si quicquam cupido optantique optigit umquam
     insperanti, hoc est gratum animo proprie.
Quare hoc est gratum nobis quoque carius auro
     quod te restituis, Lesbia, mi cupido.
Restituis cupido atque insperanti, ipsa refers te
     nobis. o lucem candidiore nota!
Quis me uno vivit felicior aut magis hac est
     optandus vita dicere quis poterit?



To Gallus (Catullus LXXVIII)

Gallus has brothers, one of whom is blessed
With a delightful wife, the other a son no less.
Gallus is cute; he thinks himself astute
To put them to bed together, both being so cute.
Gallus is stupid. Why? Can’t you guess?
He’s married too. He should be careful lest
(The pupil all too suitably impressed)
This uncle keeps a nephew in the nest.

Latin Text:

Gallus habet fratres, quorum est lepidissima coniunx
     alterius, lepidus filius alterius.
Gallus homo est bellus: nam dulces iungit amores,
     cum puero ut bello bella puella cubet.
Gallus homo est stultus, nec se videt esse maritum,
     qui patruus patrui monstret adulterium.



Horace Odes 2.10 (translated from the Latin)

You’ll live more rationally, Licinius,
neither always pushing out into deep water,
nor hugging the insidious coast, too close, too cautious,
shuddering at storms that may or may not happen.

Who cherishes the Golden Mean, temperate and safe,
avoids the pauper’s squalid dwelling ― precarious,
ramshackle ― likewise avoids the nabob’s mansion,
 enviable, but invidious.

It is the huge pine that winds shake,
the lofty towers that fall more ponderously,
and lightning strikes the highest peak
more fiercely and more frequently;

a well-trained mind in times of trouble proves
hopeful, fearful in favourable, of alteration:
Jupiter brings back misshapen
winters and Jupiter removes.

Fortune that scowls today will change expression:
Apollo will at times awaken
the silent Muse to shape
his lyre’s music, nor always bends

his bow upon us. Spirited and brave
appear when all else fails,
and when the wind’s
too favourable, draw in your swelling sails.

Original text:

Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum
semper urgendo neque, dum procellas
cautus horrescis, nimium premendo
litus iniquum.

auream quisquis mediocritatem
diligit, tutus caret obsoleti
sordibus tecti, caret invidenda
sobrius aula.
saepius ventis agitatur ingens
pinus et celsae graviore casu
decidunt turres feriuntque summos
fulgura montis
sperat infestis, metuit secundis
alteram sortem bene praeparatum
pectus. informis hiemes reducit
Iuppiter, idem
submovet. non, si male nunc, et olim
sic erit: quondam cithara tacentem
suscitat Musam neque semper arcum
tendit Apollo.
rebus angustis animosus atque
fortis adpare: sapienter idem
contrahes vento nimium secundo
turgida vela.



Horace, Odes 3.30 (translated from the Latin)

I've built a monument outlasting bronze,
outsoaring Pharaoh's pyramids;
rain will not rust,
nor North wind weather it away:
though ceaseless time bangs down the lids,
on me, on all men's ash and bones,
yet I have something that can brave
mortuary, undertaker, grave.

The priest and silent vestal's feet still clip
the Capitol; Aufidus roars
in torrents; trust
that I, as long as these, shall stay.
Ask parched Apulia the cause:
my birth is low, yet noble verse took ship
from Lesbos, sailed through time and space
to Italy, in my verse found new grace.

So crown me, Melpomene,
With Delphic laurel, lyric muse,
Nor refuse
My arrogant ambition mastery.

Original text:

Exegi monumentum aere perennius
regalique situ pyramidum altius,
quod non imber edax, non Aquilo inpotens
possit diruere aut innumerabilis
annorum series et fuga temporum.             
Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei
vitabit Libitinam; usque ego postera
crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium
scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.
Dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus             
et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium
regnavit populorum, ex humili potens
princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos
deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam
quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica             
lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.



Horace Odes 4.9 (translated from the Latin)

Do not suppose the words I write will perish ―
I, who was born by far-resounding Aufidus ―
words I recite blending with plangent music ―
never divulged till now such skill to shape and embellish!

Homer holds pride of place in poets’ symposia,
yet Pindar’s muse does not lurk in the shadows, nor
do Simonides’ and Alcaeus’ farouche Camenae,
the solemn of Stesichorus, lack honour;

nor has time destroyed Anacreon’s playful
lyrics; Sappho’s love lives on
committed to her lyre-strings,
still passionate, still painful.

Not only Laconian Helen, for an adulterer’s elegant hair-do,
suffered the burning itch,
for his gold-embroidered garments, regal
finery and retinue.

Nor from Cydonian bow was Teucer first to fire
his arrows, nor only once was Troy assaulted, nor
Sthenelus nor huge Idomeneus unique
to engage in battles that might worthily inspire

the Muses; nor was fierce Hector first afflicted,
nor keen Deiphobus, by heavy blows,
lest their chaste wives, their children suffer rape,
slaughter or slavery, unprotected.

Mighty men lived before Agamemnon,
many of them; all unwept, beyond
weeping, whom long night crushes, forgotten
heroes, but of no sacred poet’s song.

Hidden virtue’s not far from buried sloth;
I will not, in the records I keep, let silence shroud
a life unadorned by praise
or suffer you to find oblivion in death,

reward for your many labours to drown
in its livid waters, Lollius: you’ve a mind
prudent and upright
in times both fair and foul,

prompt to punish fraud and avarice,
hold at a distance the greed for gain that channels
all to itself and, consul for one year, comport
yourself throughout your life as worthy of that office,

righteous and sound in judgement, preferring honour to
expedience, with a disdainful look
rejecting the offers of those that mean you harm,
cutting through corrupt hordes that confront you.

One rich in possessions you’d not rightly
call blessed; more entitled to claim
that epithet one who employs
the gods’ gifts wisely,

skilled to endure harsh poverty,
fearing disgrace more than death,
not fearing to die for dear
friends or country.

Original text:

Ne forte credas interitura quae
longe sonantem natus ad Aufidum
     non ante volgatas per artis
     verba loquor socianda chordis:
non, si priores Maeonius tenet
sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent
     Ceaeque et Alcaei minaces
     Stesichoriue graves Camenae;
nec siquid olim lusit Anacreon,
delevit aetas; spirat adhuc amor
     vivuntque commissi calores
     Aeoliae fidibus puellae.
Non sola comptos arsit adulteri.
crines et aurum uestibus inlitum
     mirata regalisque cultus
     et comites Helene Lacaena
primusve Teucer tela Cydonio
direxit arcu; non semel Ilios
     vexata; non pugnavit ingens
     Idomeneus Sthenelusue solus
dicenda Musis proelia; non ferox
Hector vel acer Deiphobus gravis
     excepit ictus pro pudicis
     coniugibus puerisque primus.
Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
multi; sed omnes inlacrimabiles
     urgentur ignotique longa
     nocte, carent quia vate sacro.
Paulum sepultae distat inertiae
celata virtus. Non ego te meis
     chartis inornatum silebo
     totve tuos patiar labores
impune, Lolli, carpere lividas
obliviones. Est animus tibi
     rerumque prudens et secundis
     temporibus dubiisque rectus,

vindex avarae fraudis et abstinens
ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniae,
     consulque non unius anni,
     sed quotiens bonus atque fidus
iudex honestum praetulit utili,
reiecit alto dona nocentium
     voltu, per obstantis catervas
     explicuit sua victor arma.
Non possidentem multa vocaveris
recte beatum; rectius occupat
     nomen beati, qui deorum
     muneribus sapienter uti
duramque callet pauperiem pati
peiusque leto flagitium timet,
     non ille pro caris amicis
     aut patria timidus perire.

Horace (Quintius Horatius Flaccus) lived from 65 to 8 BCE. He fought on the wrong side at the Battle of Philippi but was later befriended by Maecenas, Augustus’s chief minister, and prospered under Augustus. He wrote many different types of poems in a variety of metres on a variety of topics. His Odes are remarkable for their elegance and their emotional detachment.



Elegy to Therimachos by Diotimos (translated from the Greek)

Of their own accord at nightfall from their steep
Pastures the snowclad cattle went down to the byre.
Alas, Therimachos sleeps the long sleep
By the oak tree, stilled by celestial fire.

Aủτόμαται δειλῇ ποτὶ ταὔλιον αἱ βόες ἦλθον
      ἐξ ὄρεος πολλῇ νιφόμεναι χιόνι‧
Aἰαί, Θηρίμαχος δὲ παρὰ δρυῒ τὸν μακρὸν εὕδε
       ὕπνον‧ ἐκοιμήθη δ’ ἐκ πυρὸς οὐρανίου.

Bio: Apparently, we know virtually nothing about Diotimos. He seems to have lived around 100 BC and may have known Posidonus. A Stoic philosopher by that name was accused of forging slanderous letters about Epicurus, for which he was allegedly put to death.

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