Knights in Bright Latin
These are my English translations of Latin and Italian poems by Capito, Catullus, Dante, Veronica Franco, Martial, Michelangelo, Petrarch, Seneca, Leonardo da Vinci, Virgil, and other poets of note.
ANONYMOUS
Let all those love, who never loved before.
Let those who always loved, love all the more.
—ancient Latin saying, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
CAPITO
Warmthless beauty attracts but does not hold us; it floats like hookless bait. — Capito, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What a handsome epigram, such a stunning metaphor, and how true! “Warmthless beauty” seems like a good way to lead off this collection since we will find both warmth and beauty in poems by the best Latin and Italian poets.
Gaius Ateius Capito (circa 30 BC-22 AD) was a Roman jurist and senator during the reigns of the emperors Augustus and Tiberius.
CICERO
This is a rare example of rhyming Latin verse. More on this subject later, with examples of Greek and Latin rhyming poems.
O fortunate natal Rome,
to be hatched by me from the gloam!
—Cicero, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
VIRGIL
The following translation is the speech of the Sibyl to Aeneas, after he has implored her to help him find his beloved father in Hades, found in the sixth book of the Aeneid ...
"The Descent into the Underworld"
by Virgil
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Martin Mc Carthy
The Sibyl began to speak:
“God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises,
descending into the Underworld’s easy
since Death’s dark door stands eternally unbarred.
But to retrace one’s steps and return to the surface:
that’s the conundrum, that’s the catch!
Godsons have done it, the chosen few
whom welcoming Jupiter favored
and whose virtue merited heaven.
However, even the Blessed find headway’s hard:
immense woods barricade boggy bottomland
where the Cocytus glides with its dark coils.
But if you insist on ferrying the Styx twice
and twice traversing Tartarus,
if Love demands you indulge in such madness,
listen closely to how you must proceed...”
CATULLUS
Catullus is best known today for his love poems to Lesbia, but my favorite poems by Catullus include his touching elegy for his brother, his self-deprecating toast to Cicero, the epigram “Odi et Amo” (“I hate, I love”), and his translation of “That Man” by the immortal Sappho of Lesbos…
Catullus CI aka Carmina 101: “His Brother’s Burial”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Through many lands and over many seas
I have journeyed, brother, to these wretched rites,
to this final acclamation of the dead ...
and to speak — however ineffectually — to your voiceless ashes
now that Fate has wrested you away from me.
Alas, my dear brother, wrenched from my arms so cruelly,
accept these last offerings, these small tributes
blessed by our fathers’ traditions, these small gifts for the dead.
Please accept, by custom, these tokens drenched with a brother’s tears,
and, for all eternity, brother, “Hail and Farewell.”
2.
Through many lands and over many seas
I have journeyed, brother, to these wretched rites,
to this final acclamation of the dead ...
and to speak — however ineffectually — to your voiceless ashes
now that Fate has wrested you away from me.
Alas, my dear brother, wrenched from my arms so cruelly,
accept these small tributes, these last gifts,
offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers,
these final votives. Please accept, by custom,
these tokens drenched with a brother’s tears,
and, for all eternity, brother, “Hail and Farewell.”
In my second translation — please pardon the repetition but I like them both — "offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers" is from another translation by a translator I have been unable to identify. If you know the mystery translator’s name, please let me know in the comments.
Catullus LXXXV aka Carmina 85: “Odi et Amo”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I hate. I love.
You ask, “Why not refrain?”
I wish I could explain.
I can’t, but feel the pain.
2.
I hate. I love.
Why? Heavens above!
I wish I could explain.
I can’t, but feel the pain.
Gaius Valerius Catullus, better known simply as Catullus, was a Latin neoteric poet of the late Roman Republic. He influenced Ovid and Virgil, among others. I particularly like these “bookend” poems…
Catullus CVI aka Carmina 106: “That Boy”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See that young boy, by the auctioneer?
He’s so pretty he sells himself, I fear!
Catullus LI aka Carmina 51: “That Man”
Catullus’s translation of a poem by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’d call that man the equal of the gods,
or,
could it be forgiven
in heaven,
their superior,
because to him space is given
to bask in your divine presence,
to gaze upon you, smile, and listen
to your ambrosial laughter
which leaves men senseless
here and hereafter.
Meanwhile, in my misery,
I’m left speechless.
Lesbia, there's nothing left of me
but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth
and a thin flame running south...
My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water
till they swim in darkness.
Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness,
whatever it is that incapacitates you.
By any other name it’s the nemesis
fallen kings, empires and cities rue.
I also particularly admire this witty, self-deprecating toast to the great Roman orator Cicero…
Catullus XLIX aka Carmina 49: “A Toast to Cicero”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cicero, please confess:
You’re drunk on your success!
All men of good taste attest
That you’re the very best—
At making speeches, first class!
While I’m the dregs of the glass.
There are more poems by Catullus later on this page, including a second poem about his brother and several Lesbia poems.
PETRARCH
Sonnet XIV
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lust, gluttony and idleness conspire
to banish every virtue from mankind,
replaced by evil in his treacherous mind,
thus robbing man of his Promethean fire,
till his nature, overcome by dark desire,
extinguishes the light pure heaven refined.
Thus the very light of heaven has lost its power
while man gropes through strange darkness, unable to find
relief for his troubled mind, always inclined
to lesser dreams than Helicon’s bright shower!
Who seeks the laurel? Who the myrtle? Bind
poor Philosophy in chains, to learn contrition
then join the servile crowd, so base conditioned?
Not so, true gentle soul! Keep your ambition!
Sonnet VI
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I once beheld such high, celestial graces
as otherwise on earth remain unknown,
whose presences might earthly grief atone,
but from their blinding light we turn our faces.
I saw how tears had left disconsolate traces
within bright eyes no noonday sun outshone.
I heard soft lips, with ululating moans,
mouth words to jar great mountains from their traces.
Love, wisdom, honor, courage, tenderness, truth
made every verse they voiced more high, more dear,
than ever fell before on mortal ear.
Even heaven seemed astonished, not aloof,
as the budding leaves on every bough approved,
so sweetly swelled the radiant atmosphere!
“Cantus Troili” from Troilus and Criseide
by Petrarch
“If no love is, O God, what fele I so?” translation by Geoffrey Chaucer
modernization by Michael R. Burch
If there’s no love, O God, why then, so low?
And if love is, what thing, and which, is he?
If love is good, whence comes my dismal woe?
If wicked, love’s a wonder unto me,
When every torment and adversity
That comes from him, persuades me not to think,
For the more I thirst, the more I itch to drink!
And if in my own lust I choose to burn,
From whence comes all my wailing and complaint?
If harm agrees with me, where can I turn?
I know not, all I do is feint and faint!
O quick death and sweet harm so pale and quaint,
How may there be in me such quantity
Of you, ’cept I consent to make us three?
And if I so consent, I wrongfully
Complain, I know. Thus pummeled to and fro,
All starless, lost and compassless, am I
Amidst the sea, between two rending winds,
That in diverse directions bid me, “Go!”
Alas! What is this wondrous malady?
For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.
HADRIAN
Hadrian's Elegy
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My delicate soul,
now aimlessly fluttering ... drifting ... unwhole,
former consort of my failing corpse ...
Where are we going—from bad to worse?
From jail to a hearse?
Where do we wander now—fraught, pale and frail?
To hell?
To some place devoid of jests, mirth, happiness?
Is the joke on us?
PARTIAL TO MARTIAL
I must admit I’m partial
to Martial.
—Michael R. Burch
Martial is best known for his twelve books of epigrams, published in Rome between AD 86 and 103, during the reigns of the emperors Domitian, Nerva and Trajan. In these short, witty, often scathing and sometimes deliciously raunchy poems, Martial lampooned "civilization" and the boorish/scandalous activities of his contemporaries. He wrote more than 1,500 epigrams, most of them in elegiac couplets, and is generally considered to be the father of the modern epigram. Martial has been described as "colorful" and as "Rome's wiseacre poet." Martial has been a possible or probable influence on epigrammatists such as Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Thomas More, Shakespeare, John Donne, Ben Jonson, Robert Herrick, Matthew Prior, Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, Voltaire, Dr. Samuel Johnson, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Emily Dickinson, Walter Savage Landor, Robert Frost and J. V. Cunningham.
These are translations of select Martial epigrams:
You ask me why I've sent you no new verses?
There might be reverses.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me to recite my poems to you?
I know how you'll "recite" them, if I do.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere?
You're not there.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I love fresh country air?
You're not befouling it, mon frère.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You never wrote a poem,
yet criticize mine?
Stop abusing me or write something fine
of your own!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There’s no need for sass,
when outstripping some inglorious ass.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He starts everything but finishes nothing;
thus I suspect there's no end to his fucking.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You’ll find good poems, but mostly poor and worse,
my peers being “diverse” in their verse.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
2.
Some good poems here, but most not worth a curse:
such is the crapshoot of a book of verse.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He undertook to be a doctor
but turned out to be an undertaker.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The book you recite from, Fidentinus, was my own,
till your butchering made it yours alone.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
2.
The book you recite from I once called my own,
but you read it so badly, it’s now yours alone.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
3.
You read my book as if you wrote it,
but you read it so badly I’ve come to hate it.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Recite my epigrams? I decline,
for then they’d be yours, not mine.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I do not love you, but cannot say why.
I do not love you: no reason, no lie.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You’re young and lovely, wealthy too,
and yet you’re still a silly shrew.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
2.
You’re young and lovely, wealthy too,
but that changes nothing: you remain a shrew.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
3.
You’re young and lovely, wealthy too,
but that changes nothing, since you're such a shrew.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Coq au vin
by Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you merely an éclair to the greedy?
2.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you tart Amaro to the greedy?
Amaro is an after-dinner liqueur thought to aid the digestion after a large meal.
3.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you an aperitif to the greedy?
4.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but they’re pimps to the seedy.
You dine in great magnificence
while offering guests a pittance.
Sextus, did you invite
friends to dinner tonight
to impress us with your enormous appetite?
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You alone own prime land, dandy!
Gold, money, the finest porcelain—you alone!
The best wines of the most famous vintages—you alone!
Discrimination, taste and wit—you alone!
You have it all—who can deny that you alone are set for life?
But everyone has had your wife—
she is never alone!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father,
I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love’s daughter,
who died six days short of completing her sixth frigid winter.
Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear;
muzzle hell’s three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed!
Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade,
her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games
as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Martial wrote this touching elegy for a little slave girl, Erotion, who died six days before her sixth birthday. The poem has been nominated as Martial’s masterpiece by L. J. Lloyd and others. Erotion means “little love” and may correspond to our term “love child.” It has been suggested she may have been Martial’s child by a female slave. That could explain why Martial is asking his parents’ spirits to welcome, guide and watch over her spirit. Martial uses the terms patronos (patrons) and commendo (commend); in Rome a freed slave would be commended to a patron. A girl freed from slavery by death might need patrons as protectors on the “other side,” according to Greek and Roman views of the afterlife, where the afterworld houses evil shades and is guarded by a monstrous three-headed dog, Cerberus. Martial is apparently asking his parents to guide the girl’s spirit away from Cerberus and the dark spirits to the heavenly Elysian fields where she can play and laugh without fear. If I am correct, Martial’s poem is not just an elegy, but a prayer-poem for protection, perhaps of his own daughter. Albert A. Bell supports this hypothesis with the following arguments: (1) Martial had Erotion cremated, a practice preferred by the upper classes, (2) “he buried her with the full rites befitting the child of a Roman citizen,” (3) he entrusted her [poetically] to his parents, and (4) he maintained her grave for years.
To you, my departed parents, with much emotion,
I commend my little lost darling, my much-kissed Erotion,
who died six days short of completing her sixth bitter winter.
Protect her, I pray, from hell’s hound and its dark shades a-flitter;
and please don’t let fiends leave her maiden heart dismayed!
But lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade
with her cherished friends, excitedly lisping my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was such a slight burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A BRIEF INTERMISSION
The poem below was my first translation, circa age 16-17, based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer:
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was always a little girl at heart
. . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . .
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
. . . requiescat in pace . . .
May she rest in peace.
. . . amen . . .
Amen.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high school and revised as an adult. From what I now understand, "ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam" means "to the God who gives joy to my youth," but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD). I can't remember exactly when I read the novel or wrote the poem, but I believe it was around my junior year of high school, age 17 or thereabouts. This was my first translation. I revised the poem slightly in 2001 after realizing I had "misremembered" one of the words in the Latin prayer.
This is a poem of mine that has been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro.
Her Grace Flows Freely
by Michael R. Burch
July 7, 2007
Her love is always chaste, and pure.
This I vow. This I aver.
If she shows me her grace, I will honor her.
This I vow. This I aver.
Her grace flows freely, like her hair.
This I vow. This I aver.
For her generousness, I would worship her.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not damn her for what I bear
This I vow. This I aver.
like a most precious incense–desire for her,
This I vow. This I aver.
nor call her “whore” where I seek to repair.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not wink, nor smirk, nor stare
This I vow. This I aver.
like a foolish child at the foot of a stair
This I vow. This I aver.
where I long to go, should another be there.
This I vow. This I aver.
I’ll rejoice in her freedom, and always dare
This I vow. This I aver.
the chance that she’ll flee me–my starling rare.
This I vow. This I aver.
And then, if she stays, without stays, I swear
This I vow. This I aver.
that I will joy in her grace beyond compare.
This I vow. This I aver.
Her Grace Flows Freely
by Michael R. Burch
Italian translation by Comasia Aquaro
La sua grazia vola libera
7 luglio 2007
Il suo amore è sempre casto, e puro.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Se mi mostra la sua grazia, le farò onore.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
La sua grazia vola libera, come i suoi capelli.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Per la sua generosità, la venererò.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Non la maledirò per ciò che soffro
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
come il più prezioso desiderio d’incenso per lei,
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
non chiamarla “sgualdrina” laddove io cerco di aggiustare.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Io non strizzerò l’occhio, non riderò soddisfatto, non fisserò lo sguardo
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Come un bambino sciocco ai piedi di una scala
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Laddove io desidero andare, ci sarebbe forse un altro.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Mi rallegrerò nella sua libertà, e sempre sfiderò
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
la sorte che lei mi sfuggirà—il mio raro storno
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
E dopo, se lei resta, senza stare, io lo garantisco
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Gioirò nella sua grazia al di là del confrontare.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
DA LENTINI
Giacomo da Lentini, also known as Jacopo da Lentini or by the appellative Il Notaro (“The Notary”), was an Italian poet of the 13th century who has been credited with creating the sonnet.
Sonnet 26
by Giacomo da Lentini
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I've seen it rain on sunny days;
I’ve seen the darkness split by light;
I’ve seen white lightning fade to haze;
Seen frozen snow turn water-bright.
Some sweets have bitter aftertastes
While bitter things can taste quite sweet:
So enemies become best mates
While former friends no longer meet.
Yet the strangest thing I've seen is Love,
Who healed my wounds by wounding me.
Love quenched the fire he lit before;
The life he gave was death, therefore.
How to warm my heart? It eluded me.
Yet extinguished, Love sears all the more.
CAVALCANTE
Guido Cavalcante aka Guido Cavalcanti was a friend of Dante. He was the son of Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, a Guelph condemned by Dante to eternal torment in the sixth circle of his Inferno, where the heretics are punished. Why? Possibly for being an atheist like his son.
Sonnet IV: ‘S’io prego questa donna che Pietate’
by Guido Cavalcante
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I should ask this lady, in her grace,
not to make her heart my enemy,
she'd call me foolish, venturing: “No man
was ever possessed of such strange vanity!”
Why such harsh judgements, written on a face
where once I’d thought to find humility,
true gentleness, calm wisdom, courtesy?
My soul despairs, unwilling to embrace
the sighs and griefs that flood my drowning heart,
the rains of tears that well my watering eyes,
the miseries to which my soul’s condemned ...
For through my mind there flows, as rivers part,
the image of a lady, full of thought,
through heartlessness became a thoughtless friend.
GUINIZELLI
Guido Guinizelli (circa 1225-1276), also known as Guido di Guinizello di Magnano, was born in Bologna. He became an esteemed Italian love poet and is considered to be the father of the "dolce stil nuovo" ("sweet new style"). Dante called him "il saggio" ("the sage" or "the wise").
Sonetto
by Guido Guinizelli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In truth I sing her honor and her praise:
My lady, with whom flowers can't compare!
Like Diana, she unveils her beauty's rays,
Then makes the dawn unfold here, bright and fair!
She's like the wind and like the leaves they swell:
All hues, all colors, flushed and pale, beside ...
Argent and gold and rare stones' brilliant spell;
Even Love, itself, in her, seems glorified.
She moves in ways so tender and so sweet,
Pride fails and falls and flounders at her feet.
The impure heart cannot withstand such light!
Ungentle men must wither, at her sight.
And still this greater virtue I aver:
No man thinks ill once he's been touched by her.
SELECT EPIGRAMS
My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Little sparks ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch
Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
—Ancient Roman graffiti, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel,
or a house when it's time to change residences,
even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.
―Seneca speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is nothing so pointless, so perfidious as human life! ...
The ultimate bliss is not to be born;
otherwise we should speedily slip back into the original Nothingness.
―Seneca, On Consolation to Marcia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Religion is regarded by fools as true,
by the wise as false,
and by rulers as useful.
— Seneca, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion, an English poet who composed poems in Latin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
Impressionum plurium librum laudat
Librarius; scortum nec non minus leno.
THE PLAGIARIST or THE PLAGIARTIST
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dogs raise a ruckus at the stench of a thief,
so what would they say about you, given speech?
Suspecto quid fure canes cum,
Pontice, latrent Dixissent melius, si potuere loqui?
MICHELANGELO
Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time.
Michelangelo Epigram Translations
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch
I saw the angel in the marble and freed him.
I hewed away the coarse walls imprisoning the lovely apparition.
Each stone contains a statue; it is the sculptor’s task to release it.
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.
Our greatness is only bounded by our horizons.
Be at peace, for God did not create us to abandon us.
God grant that I always desire more than my capabilities.
My soul’s staircase to heaven is earth’s loveliness.
I live and love by God’s peculiar light.
Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.
Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.
I have never found salvation in nature; rather I love cities.
He who follows will never surpass.
Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.
I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.
If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn’t call it “genius.”
SONNET: RAVISHED
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair,
yet starved for virtues pure hearts might confess,
my soul can find no Jacobean stair
that leads to heaven, save earth's loveliness.
The stars above emit such rapturous light
our longing hearts ascend on beams of Love
and seek, indeed, Love at its utmost height.
But where on earth does Love suffice to move
a gentle heart, or ever leave it wise,
save for beauty itself and the starlight in her eyes?
SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A pena prima.
I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes
Which unto yours were life itself, and light,
When he closed them fast in death's eternal night
To reopen them on God, in Paradise.
In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise,
Yet the fault not mine: for death's disgusting ploy
Had robbed me of that deep, unfathomable joy
Which in your loving memory never dies.
Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine
To make our unique friend smile on, in stone,
Forever brightening what dark earth would dim,
And because the Beloved causes love to shine,
And since the artist cannot work alone,
I must carve you, to tell the world of him!
BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Al cor di zolfo.
A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so;
Bones brittle wood; the soul without a guide
To curb the will’s inferno; the crude pride
Of restless passions’ pulsing surge and flow;
A witless mind that – halt, lame, weak – must go
Blind through entrapments scattered far and wide; ...
Why wonder then, when one small spark applied
To such an assemblage, renders it aglow?
Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean,
Must exceed nature – so divine a power
Belongs to those who strive with every nerve.
Created for such Art, from childhood given
As prey for her Infernos to devour,
I blame the Mistress I was born to serve.
SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sì come nella penna.
Just as with pen and ink,
there is a high, a low, and an in-between style;
and, as marble yields its images pure and vile
to excite the fancies artificers might think;
even so, my lord, lodged deep within your heart
are mingled pride and mild humility;
but I draw only what I truly see
when I trust my eyes and otherwise stand apart.
Whoever sows the seeds of tears and sighs
(bright dews that fall from heaven, crystal-clear)
in various pools collects antiquities
and so must reap old griefs through misty eyes;
while the one who dwells on beauty, so painful here,
finds ephemeral hopes and certain miseries.
SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A che più debb' io.
Am I to confess my heart's desire
with copious tears and windy words of grief,
when a merciless heaven offers no relief
to souls consumed by fire?
Why should my aching heart aspire
to life, when all must die? Beyond belief
would be a death delectable and brief,
since in my compound woes all joys expire!
Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow,
I rather seek whoever rules my breast,
to glide between her gladness and my woe.
If only chains and bonds can make me blessed,
no marvel if alone and bare I go
to face the foe: her captive slave oppressed.
TRANSLATIONS OF POEMS AND EPIGRAMS BY LEONARDO DA VINCI
Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once we have flown, we will forever walk the earth with our eyes turned heavenward, for there we were and there we will always long to return.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The great achievers rarely relaxed and let things happen to them. They set out and kick-started whatever happened.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The greatest deceptions spring from men’s own opinions.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There are three classes of people: Those who see by themselves. Those who see only when they are shown. Those who refuse to see.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes!—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Small minds continue to shrink, but those whose hearts are firm and whose consciences endorse their conduct, will persevere until death.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowledge is not enough; we must apply ourselves. Wanting and being willing are insufficient; we must act.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where the spirit does not aid and abet the hand there is no art.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Necessity is the mistress of mother nature's inventions.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nature has no effect without cause, no invention without necessity.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Did Leonardo da Vinci anticipate Darwin with his comments about Nature, necessity and invention? Yes, and his studies of comparative anatomy, including the intestines, led da Vinci to say explicitly that "apes, monkeys and the like" are not merely related to humans but are "almost of the same species." He was, indeed, a man ahead of his time, by at least 350 years.
Excerpts from “Paragone of Poetry and Painting” and Other Writings
by Leonardo da Vinci, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sculpture requires light, received from above,
while a painting contains its own light and shade.
Painting is the more beautiful, the more imaginative, the more copious,
while sculpture is merely the more durable.
Painting encompasses infinite possibilities
which sculpture cannot command.
But you, O Painter, unless you can make your figures move,
are like an orator who can’t bring his words to life!
While as soon as the Poet abandons nature, he ceases to resemble the Painter;
for if the Poet abandons the natural figure for flowery and flattering speech,
he becomes an orator and is thus neither Poet nor Painter.
Painting is poetry seen but not heard,
while poetry is painting heard but not seen.
And if the Poet calls painting dumb poetry,
the Painter may call poetry blind painting.
Yet poor is the pupil who fails to surpass his master!
Shun those studies in which the work dies with the worker.
Because I find no subject especially useful or pleasing
and because those who preceded me appropriated every useful theme,
I will be like the beggar who comes late to the fair,
who must content himself with other buyers’ rejects.
Thus, I will load my humble cart full of despised and rejected merchandise,
the refuse of so many other buyers,
and I will go about distributing it, not in the great cities,
but in the poorer towns,
selling at discounts whatever the wares I offer may be worth.
EPIGRAMS
And what can I do when a woman plucks my heart?
Alas, how she plays me, and yet I must persist!
—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Che posso fare se la femina mi trae’l cuore?
What can I do when a woman plucks my heart?
—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here forms, colors, the character of the entire universe, contract to a point,
and that point is miraculous, marvelous …
O marvelous, O miraculous, O stupendous Necessity!
By your elegant laws you compel every effect to be the direct result of its cause,
by the shortest path possible.
Such are your miracles!
—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
DANTE
I’m not a fan of Dante’s hellish theology, but the man could write and is widely considered to be one of poetry’s “big three” along with Homer and Shakespeare, although I would argue first for Sappho, then for Basho, Frost, Komachi, Neruda, Rilke, Yeats and others…
Dante Epigrams
Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her sweetness left me intoxicated.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love commands me by determining my desires.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The devil is not as dark as depicted.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze?—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind?—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Midway through my life’s journey
I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood,
for I had strayed far from the straight path.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL
Before me nothing created existed, to fear.
Eternal I am, and eternal I endure.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Paradiso, Canto III:1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love,
Had now revealed to me—as visions move—
The gentle and confounding face of Truth.
Thus I, by her sweet grace and love reproved,
Corrected, and to true confession moved,
Raised my bowed head and found myself behooved
To speak, as true admonishment required,
And thus to bless the One I so desired,
When I was awed to silence! This transpired:
As the outlines of men’s faces may amass
In mirrors of transparent, polished glass,
Or in shallow waters through which light beams pass
(Even so our eyes may easily be fooled
By pearls, or our own images, thus pooled):
I saw a host of faces, pale and lewd,
All poised to speak; but when I glanced around
There suddenly was no one to be found.
A pool, with no Narcissus to astound?
But then I turned my eyes to my sweet Guide.
With holy eyes aglow and smiling wide,
She said, “They are not here because they lied.”
Excerpt from Paradiso
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son,
Humble, and yet held high above creation,
You are the apex of all Wisdom known!
You are the Pinnacle of human nature,
Your nobility instilled by its Creator
who did not qualm to be born with your features.
Love was engendered in your perfect womb
Where warmth and holy peace were given room
For heaven's Perfect Rose, once sown, to bloom.
Now unto us you are a Torch held high:
Our noonday sun—the light of Charity,
Our wellspring of all Hope, a living sea.
Madonna, so pure, high and all-availing,
The man who desires grace of you, though failing,
Despite his grounded state, is given wing!
Your mercy does not fail us, Ever-Blessed!
Indeed, the one who asks may find his wish
Unneeded: you predicted his request!
You are our Mercy; you are our Compassion;
you are Magnificence; in you creation
becomes the sum of Goodness and Salvation.
Sonnet: "Love's Faithful Ones" from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To every gentle heart true Love may move,
And unto whom my words must now be brought
For wise interpretation’s tender thought—
I greet you in our Lord's name, which is Love.
Through night’s last watch, as winking stars, above,
Kept their high vigil over men, distraught,
Love came to me, with such dark terrors fraught
As mortals may not casually speak of.
Love seemed a being of pure Joy and held
My heart, pulsating. On his other arm,
My lady, wrapped in thinnest gossamers, slept.
He, having roused her from her sleep, then made
My heart her feast—devoured, with alarm.
Love then departed; as he left, he wept.
Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi.
Here is a Deity, stronger than myself, who comes to dominate me.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.
Your blessedness has now been manifested unto you.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps.
Alas, how often I will be restricted now!
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra.
My son, it is time to cease counterfeiting.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic.
Love said: “I am as the center of a harmonious circle; everything is equally near me. No so with you.”
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burc
Sonnet: “Love’s Thoroughfare” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“O voi che par la via”
All those who travel Love's worn tracks,
Pause here awhile, and ask
Has there ever been a grief like mine?
Pause here, from that mad race;
Patiently hear my case:
Is it not a piteous marvel and a sign?
Love, not because I played a part,
But only due to his great heart,
Afforded me a provenance so sweet
That often others, as I went,
Asked what such unfair gladness meant:
They whispered things behind me in the street.
But now that easy gait is gone
Along with the wealth Love afforded me;
And so in time I’ve come to be
So poor that I dread to ponder thereon.
And thus I have become as one
Who hides his shame of his poverty
By pretending happiness outwardly,
While within I travail and moan.
Sonnet: “Cry for Pity” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These thoughts lie shattered in my memory:
When through the past I see your lovely face.
When you are near me, thus, Love fills all Space,
And often whispers, “Is death better? Fly!”
My face reflects my heart's blood-red dammed tide,
Which, fainting, seeks some shallow resting place;
Till, in the blushing shame of such disgrace,
The very earth seems to be shrieking, “Die!”
’Twould be a grievous sin, if one should not
Relay some comfort to my harried mind,
If only with some simple pitying
For this great anguish which fierce scorn has wrought
Through the faltering sight of eyes grown nearly blind,
Which search for death now, as a blessed thing.
Sonnet: “Ladies of Modest Countenance” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who wear a modest countenance
With eyelids weighed down by such heaviness,
How is it, that among you every face
Is haunted by the same pale troubled glance?
Have you seen in my lady's face, perchance,
the grief that Love provokes despite her grace?
Confirm this thing is so, then in her place,
Complete your grave and sorrowful advance.
And if indeed you match her heartfelt sighs
And mourn, as she does, for the heart's relief,
Then tell Love how it fares with her, to him.
Love knows how you have wept, seeing your eyes,
And is so grieved by gazing on your grief
His courage falters and his sight grows dim.
More Dante Translations by Michael R. Burch
These are references to Dante in other translations of mine…
THE MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart — youth, liberty, glory —
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.
Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes — calm, implacable, pitiless.
“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”
She answers, “Yes.”
I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:
Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are ...
to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness ...
VERONICA FRANCO
Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose. Renaissance Venetian society recognized two very different classes of courtesans: the cortigiana onesta (intellectual courtesans) and the cortigiana di lume (lower-class prostitutes, often streetwalkers). Franco was perhaps the most celebrated cortigiana onesta, or "honest courtesan." Thanks to her fine education and literary talents, she was able to mingle with Venice's elites, befriending and sometimes bedding aristocrats and noblemen, even King Henry III of France, to whom she addressed two sonnets in her second book. She also became close friends with Domenico Venier, a patron of female poets, and was able to take advantage of the Venier palace library. Her poems display both passion and intelligence, and she sometimes engaged in witty poetic "duels" with the male poets she knew. For instance, Franco wrote the poem below in response to a poem by Marco Venier:
A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I)
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts
if only you give me the one that lifts
me laughing ...
And though it costs you nothing,
still it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be
not just to fly
but to soar, so high
that your joys vastly exceed your desires.
And my beauty, to which your heart aspires
and which you never tire of praising,
I will employ for the raising
of your spirits. Then, lying sweetly at your side,
I will shower you with all the delights of a bride,
which I have more expertly learned.
Then you who so fervently burned
will at last rest, fully content,
fallen even more deeply in love, spent
at my comfortable bosom.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
becoming completely free
with the man who loves and enjoys me.
Here’s a second version of the same poem ...
I Resolved to Make a Virtue of My Desire (II)
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My rewards will match your gifts
If you give me the one that lifts
Me, laughing. If it comes free,
Still, it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be—not just to fly,
But to soar—so incredibly high
That your joys eclipse your desires
(As my beauty, to which your heart aspires
And which you never tire of praising,
I employ for your spirit's raising).
Afterwards, lying docile at your side,
I will grant you all the delights of a bride,
Which I have more expertly learned.
Then you, who so fervently burned,
Will at last rest, fully content,
Fallen even more deeply in love, spent
At my comfortable bosom.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
Becoming completely free
With the man who freely enjoys me.
Franco published two books: Terze rime (a collection of poems) and Lettere familiari a diversi (Faa collection of letters and poems). She also collected the works of other writers into anthologies and founded a charity for courtesans and their children. And she was an early champion of women's rights, one of the first ardent, outspoken feminists that we know by name today. For example ...
Capitolo 24
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
(written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman)
Please try to see with sensible eyes
how grotesque it is for you
to insult and abuse women!
Our unfortunate sex is always subject
to such unjust treatment, because we
are dominated, denied true freedom!
And certainly we are not at fault
because, while not as robust as men,
we have equal hearts, minds and intellects.
Nor does virtue originate in power,
but in the vigor of the heart, mind and soul:
the sources of understanding;
and I am certain that in these regards
women lack nothing,
but, rather, have demonstrated
superiority to men.
If you think us "inferior" to yourself,
perhaps it's because, being wise,
we outdo you in modesty.
And if you want to know the truth,
the wisest person is the most patient;
she squares herself with reason and with virtue;
while the madman thunders insolence.
The stone the wise man withdraws from the well
was flung there by a fool ...
Life was not a bed of roses for Venetian courtesans. Although they enjoyed the good graces of their wealthy patrons, religious leaders and commoners saw them as symbols of vice. Once during a plague, Franco was banished from Venice as if her "sins" had helped cause it. When she returned in 1577, she faced the Inquisition and charges of "witchcraft." She defended herself in court and won her freedom, but lost all her material possessions. Eventually, Domenico Venier, her major patron, died in 1582 and left her with no support. Her tax declaration of that same year stated that she was living in a section of the city where many destitute prostitutes ended their lives. She may have died in poverty at the age of forty-five.
Hollywood produced a movie based on her life: Dangerous Beauty.
When I bed a man
who—I sense—truly loves and enjoys me,
I become so sweet and so delicious
that the pleasure I bring him surpasses all delight,
till the tight
knot of love,
however slight
it may have seemed before,
is raveled to the core.
We danced a youthful jig through that fair city—
Venice, our paradise, so pompous and pretty.
We lived for love, for primal lust and beauty;
to please ourselves became our only duty.
Floating there in a fog between heaven and earth,
We grew drunk on excesses and wild mirth.
We thought ourselves immortal poets then,
Our glory endorsed by God's illustrious pen.
But paradise, we learned, is fraught with error,
and sooner or later love succumbs to terror.
In response to a friend urging Veronica Franco to help her daughter become a courtesan, Franco warns her that the profession can be devastating:
"Even if Fortune were only benign and favorable to you in this endeavor, this life is such that in any case it would always be wretched. It is such an unhappy thing, and so contrary to human nature, to subject one's body and activity to such slavery that one is frightened just by the thought of it: to let oneself be prey to many, running the risk of being stripped, robbed, killed, so that one day can take away from you what you have earned with many men in a long time, with so many other dangers of injury and horrible contagious disease: to eat with someone else's mouth, to sleep with someone else's eyes, to move according to someone else's whim, running always toward the inevitable shipwreck of one's faculties and life. Can there be greater misery than this? ... Believe me, among all the misfortunes that can befall a human being in the world, this life is the worst."
I confess I became a courtesan, traded yearning for power, welcomed many rather than be owned by one. I confess I embraced a whore's freedom over a wife's obedience.— Dangerous Beauty, 1998
I wish it were not a sin to have liked it so.
Women have not yet realized the cowardice that resides,
for if they should decide to do so,
they would be able to fight you until death;
and to prove that I speak the truth,
amongst so many women,
I will be the first to act,
setting an example for them to follow.
CATULLUS, PART II
This is another fine poem in which Catullus expresses anguish for the brother he lost…
Catullus LXV aka Carmina 65
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hortalus, I’m exhausted by relentless grief,
and have thus abandoned the learned virgins;
nor can my mind, so consumed by malaise,
partake of the Muses' mete fruit;
for lately the Lethaean flood laves my brother's
death-pale foot with its dark waves,
where, beyond mortal sight, ghostly Ilium
disgorges souls beneath the Rhoetean shore.
Never again will I hear you speak,
O my brother, more loved than life,
never see you again, unless I behold you hereafter.
But surely I'll always love you,
always sing griefstricken dirges for your demise,
such as Procne sings under the dense branches’ shadows,
lamenting the lot of slain Itys.
Yet even amidst such unfathomable sorrows, O Hortalus,
I nevertheless send you these, my recastings of Callimachus,
lest you conclude your entrusted words slipped my mind,
winging off on wayward winds, as a suitor’s forgotten apple
hidden in the folds of her dress escapes a virgin's chaste lap;
for when she starts at her mother's arrival, it pops out,
then downward it rolls, headlong to the ground,
as a guilty blush flushes her downcast face.
The poem above inspired this original poem of mine, which was also influenced by epigrams of Sappho in which she observed that the gods hoard immortality and that gold does not rust, yet her son became dust…
What do the gods know, with their superior airs,
wiser than a mother’s tears
for her lost child?
If they had hearts, surely they would be beguiled,
repeal the sentence of death!
Since they have none,
or only hearts of stone,
believers, save your breath.
—Michael R. Burch, after Catullus
And now, without further ado, are my favorite poems of Catullus for Lesbia…
Catullus II aka Carmina 2: “Lesbia’s Sparrow”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sparrow, my sweetheart’s pet,
with whom she plays cradled to her breast,
or in her lap,
giving you her fingertip to peck,
provoking you to nip its nib ...
Whenever she’s flushed with pleasure
my gorgeous darling plays such dear little games:
to relieve her longings, I suspect,
until her ardour abates.
Oh, if only I could play with you as gaily,
and alleviate my own longings!
Catullus V aka Carmina 5: “Let us live, Lesbia, let us love”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I take this to be an “accounting” poem because conturbare is an accounting term for “fiddling the figures.”
Let us live, Lesbia, let us love,
and let the judgments of ancient moralists
count less than a farthing to us!
Suns may set then rise again,
but when our brief light sets,
we will sleep through perpetual night.
Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more,
another thousand, then a second hundred,
yet another thousand, then a third hundred...
Then, once we’ve tallied the many thousands,
let’s jumble the ledger, so that even we
(and certainly no malicious, evil-eyed enemy)
will ever know there were so many kisses!
Catullus VII aka Carmina 7: “How Many Kisses”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask, Lesbia, how many kisses
are enough, or more than enough, to satisfy me?
As many as the Libyan sands
swirling in incense-bearing Cyrene
between the torrid oracle of Jove
and the sacred tomb of Battiades.
Or as many as the stars observing amorous men
making love furtively on a moonless night.
As many of your kisses are enough,
and more than enough, for mad Catullus,
as long as there are too many to be counted by inquisitors
and by malicious-tongued bewitchers.
Catullus VIII aka Carmina 8: “Advice to Himself”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Snap out of it Catullus, stop this foolishness!
It’s time to cut losses!
What is dead is gone, accept it.
Once brilliant suns shone on you both,
when you trotted about wherever she led,
and loved her as never another before.
That was a time of such happiness,
when your desire intersected her will.
But now she doesn’t want you any more.
Be resolute, weak as you are, stop chasing mirages!
What you need is not love, but a clean break.
Goodbye girl, now Catullus stands firm.
Never again Lesbia! Catullus is clear:
He won’t miss you. Won’t crave you. Catullus is cold.
Now it’s you who will grieve, when nobody calls.
It’s you who will weep that you’re ruined.
Who’ll submit to you now? Admire your beauty?
Whom will you love? Whose girl will you be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, you must break with the past, hold fast.
Catullus LX aka Carmina 60: “Lioness”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Did an African mountain lioness
or a howling Scylla beget you from the nether region of her loins,
my harsh goddess? Are you so pitiless you would hold in contempt
this supplicant voicing his inconsolable despair?
Are you really that cruel-hearted?
Catullus LXX aka Carmina 70: “Marriage Vows”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My sweetheart says she’d marry no one else but me,
not even Jupiter, if he were to ask her!
But what a girl says to her eager lover
ought to be written on the wind or in running water.
Catullus was a Roman poet who lived from 87 BC to 54 BC and wrote poems in Latin. Many of his love poems were written for a woman with the pseudonym “Lesbia.” It is believed that Lesbia was Clodia Metellus, the wife of the proconsul Metellus.
ALDHELM
"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").
The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.
Solution: a coat of mail.
SAINT GODRIC OF FINCHALE
The song below is said in the Life of Saint Godric to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison.
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!
GILDAS
Gildas, also known as Gildas Sapiens (“Gildas the Wise”), was a 6th-century British monk who is one of the first native writers of the British Isles we know by name. Gildas is remembered for his scathing religious polemic De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae (“On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain” or simply “On the Ruin of Britain”). The work has been dated to circa 480-550 AD.
“Alas! The nature of my complaint is the widespread destruction of all that was good, followed by the wild proliferation of evil throughout the land. Normally, I would grieve with my motherland in her travail and rejoice in her revival. But for now I restrict myself to relating the sins of an indolent and slothful race, rather than the feats of heroes. For ten years I kept my silence, I confess, with much mental anguish, guilt and remorse, while I debated these things within myself...” — Gildas, The Ruin of Britain, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gildas is also remembered for his “Lorica” (“Breastplate”):
“The Lorica of Loding” from the Book of Cerne
by Gildas
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Trinity in Unity, shield and preserve me!
Unity in Trinity, have mercy on me!
Preserve me, I pray, from all dangers:
dangers which threaten to overwhelm me
like surging sea waves;
neither let mortality
nor worldly vanity
sweep me away from the safe harbor of Your embrace!
Furthermore, I respectfully request:
send the exalted, mighty hosts of heaven!
Let them not abandon me
to be destroyed by my enemies,
but let them defend me always
with their mighty shields and bucklers.
Allow Your heavenly host
to advance before me:
Cherubim and Seraphim by the thousands,
led by the Archangels Michael and Gabriel!
Send, I implore, these living thrones,
these principalities, powers and Angels,
so that I may remain strong,
defended against the deluge of enemies
in life’s endless battles!
May Christ, whose righteous Visage frightens away foul throngs,
remain with me in a powerful covenant!
May God the Unconquerable Guardian
defend me on every side with His power!
Free my manacled limbs,
cover them with Your shielding grace,
leaving heaven-hurled demons helpless to hurt me,
to pierce me with their devious darts!
Lord Jesus Christ, be my sure armor, I pray!
Cover me, O God, with Your impenetrable breastplate!
Cover me so that, from head to toe,
no member is exposed, within or without;
so that life is not exorcized from my body
by plague, by fever, by weakness, or by suffering.
Until, with the gift of old age granted by God,
I depart this flesh, free from the stain of sin,
free to fly to those heavenly heights,
where, by the grace of God, I am borne in joy
into the cool retreats of His heavenly kingdom!
Amen
RHYMING LATIN POEMS
The famous Roman orator Cicero employed “tail rhyme” in this pun:
O Fortunatam natam me consule Romam.
O fortunate natal Rome, to be hatched by me!
—Cicero, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ancient Greek and Latin poetry did not normally rhyme. However, there are exceptions. For instance Catullus 1 (“cui dono lepidum novum libellum”), also known as “Carmina 1” and “Carmen 1,” employs rhyme.
Catullus I aka Carmina 1
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
cui dono lepidum novum libellum // To whom do I dedicate this novel book
arida modo pumice expolitum // polished drily with a pumice stone?
Corneli tibi namque tu solebas // To you, Cornelius, for you would look
meas esse aliquid putare nugas // content, as if my scribblings took
iam tum cum ausus es unus Italorum // the cake, when in truth you alone
omne aevum tribus explicare cartis // unfolded Italian history in three scrolls,
doctis Iuppiter et laboriosis // as learned as Jupiter in your labors.
quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli // Therefore, this little book is yours,
qualecumque quod patrona virgo // whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden,
plus uno maneat perenne saeclo // I pray will last more than my lifetime!
The Latin hymn Dies Irae employs end rhyme:
Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sybilla
The day of wrath, that day
which will leave the world ash-gray,
was foretold by David and the Sybil fey.
—attributed to Thomas of Celano, St. Gregory the Great, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, and St. Bonaventure; loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
End rhymes occur in classical Greek poetry in Euripides’ Alcestis 782-786 and Ovid’s Amores 1.2.1-4, 39-42.
THE SEEDIER SIDE OF ROMAN VERSE
Cunt, while you weep and seep neediness all night,
ass has claimed what would bring you delight.
—Musa Lapidaria, #100A, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
DANTE CRITICISM
As I mentioned before, I’m not a fan of Dante’s hellish theology, and I have been known to make my dissatisfaction known…
Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands
by Michael R. Burch
Judas sat on a wretched rock,
his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing.
Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye,
wildly geeing and hawing.
I’m on parole from Hell today!
Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.
You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint!
Let this rock by my church,
my baptismal, these icy waves.
O, plead for me now with the One who saves!
Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood
at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,
and mightily prayed for the mangy man
whose flesh flashed pale and stark
in the golden dawn, beneath a sun
that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.
Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land
and Saint Judas headed Home.
O, behoove yourself, if ever you can,
of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!
In Dante’s Inferno, Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.
Dante’s was a defensive reflex
against religion’s hex.
—Michael R. Burch
Dante, you Dunce!
by Michael R. Burch
The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce!
Which you should have perceived—since you lived here once.
God is no Beatrice, gentle and clever.
Judas and Satan were wise to dissever
from false “messiahs” who cannot save.
Why flit like a bat through Plato’s cave
believing such shadowy illusions are real?
There is no "hell" but to live and feel!
How Dante Forgot Christ
by Michael R. Burch
Dante damned the brightest and the fairest
for having loved—pale Helen, wild Achilles—
agreed with his Accuser in the spell
of hellish visions and eternal torments.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love,
the fulcrum of his body’s, heart’s and mind’s
sole triumph, and their altogether conquest.
She led him to those heights where Love, enshrined,
blazed like a star beyond religion’s hells.
Once freed from Yahweh, in the arms of Love,
like Blake and Milton, Dante forgot Christ.
The Christian gospel is strangely lacking in Milton’s and Dante’s epic poems. Milton gave the “atonement” one embarrassed enjambed line. Dante damned the Earth’s star-crossed lovers to his grotesque hell, while doing exactly what they did: pursing at all costs his vision of love, Beatrice. Blake made more sense to me, since he called the biblical god Nobodaddy and denied any need to be “saved” by third parties.
Dante’s Antes
by Michael R. Burch
There’s something glorious about man,
who lives because he can,
who dies because he must,
and in between’s a bust.
No god can reign him in:
he’s quite intent on sin
and likes it rather, really.
He likes sex touchy-feely.
He likes to eat too much.
He has the Midas touch
and paves hell’s ways with gold.
The things he’s bought and sold!
He’s sold his soul to Mammon
and also plays backgammon
and poker, with such antes
as still befuddle Dantes.
I wonder—can hell hold him?
His chances seem quite dim
because he’s rather puny
and also loopy-looney.
And yet like Evel Knievel
he dances with the Devil
and seems so damn courageous,
good-natured and outrageous
some God might show him mercy
and call religion heresy.
RE: Paradiso, Canto III
by Michael R. Burch
for the most “Christian” of poets
What did Dante do,
to earn Beatrice’s grace
(grace cannot be earned!)
but cast disgrace
on the whole human race,
on his peers and his betters,
as a man who wears cheap rayon suits
might disparage men who wear sweaters?
How conventionally “Christian” — Poet! — to damn
your fellow man
for being merely human,
then, like a contented clam,
to grandly claim
near-infinite “grace,”
as if your salvation was God’s only aim!
What a scam!
And what of the lovely Piccarda,
whom you placed in the lowest sphere of heaven
for neglecting her vows —
She was forced!
Were you chaste?
Intimations V
by Michael R. Burch
We had not meditated upon sound
so much as drowned
in the inhuman ocean
when we imagined it broken
open
like a conch shell
whorled like the spiraling hell
of Dante’s Inferno.
Trapped between Nature
and God,
what is man
but an inquisitive,
acquisitive
sod?
And what is Nature
but odd,
or God
but a Clod,
and both of them horribly flawed?
Endgame
by Michael R. Burch
The honey has lost all its sweetness,
the hive—its completeness.
Now ambient dust, the drones lie dead.
The workers weep, their King long fled
(who always had been nude, invisible,
his “kingdom” atomic, divisible,
and pathetically risible).
The queen has flown,
long Dis-enthroned,
who would have gladly given all she owned
for a promised white stone.
O, Love has fled, has fled, has fled ...
Religion is dead, is dead, is dead.
The drones are those who drone on about the love of God in a world full of suffering and death: dead prophets, dead pontiffs, dead preachers. Spewers of dead words and false promises.
The queen is disenthroned, as in Dis-enthroned. In Dante’s Inferno, the lower regions of hell are enclosed within the walls of Dis, a city surrounded by the Stygian marshes. The river Styx symbolizes death and the journey from life to the afterlife. But in Norse mythology, Dis was a goddess, the sun, and the consort of Heimdal, himself a god of light. DIS is also the stock ticker designation for Disney, creator of the Magic Kingdom.
The “promised white stone” appears in Revelation, which turns Jesus and the Angels into serial killers.
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again . . .
pissed off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when . . .
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned.
Worth a Like just for the title!