The Best Poets You Probably Never Heard Of, Part II

These are some of the world's best lesser-known poets, from around the globe.

Jul 08, 2024

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Vera Pavlova (1963-) is a leading contemporary Russian poet. Born in Moscow, she is a graduate of the Schnittke College of Music and the Gnessin Academy of Music, where she specialized in music history. Vera has worked as a guide at the Shalyapin Museum in Moscow and has published several essays on music. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker and other major literary publications.

I test the tightrope,
balancing a child
in each arm.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Immortalize me!
With your bare, warm palm
please sculpt and mold my malleable snow.
Polish me until I glow.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God saw
it was good.
Adam saw
it was impressive.
Eve saw
it was improvable.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scales:
on the one hand joy;
on the other sorrow.
Sorrow is weightier;
therefore joy
elevates.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A muse inspires when she arrives,
a wife when she departs,
a mistress when she’s absent.
Would you like me to manage all that simultaneously?
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You, my dear, are my shielding stone:
to sing behind, or bash my head on.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Remember me as I am this instant: abrupt and absent,
my words fluttering like moths trapped in a curtain.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have been dropped
and fell from such
immense heights
for so long that
perhaps I still
have enough
time to learn
how to
fly.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter―a beast.
Spring―a bud.
Summer―a bug.
Autumn―a bird.
Otherwise I'm a woman.
―by Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

KOREAN

Ko Un is a contemporary Korean poet. This is a striking poem that says so much in so few words…

Speechless
by Ko Un
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At Auschwitz
piles of glasses,
mountains of shoes ...
returning, we stared out different windows.

ANCIENT GREEK

Some ancient Greek poets like Homer and Sappho remain justly famous, while others are less well-known today. These are some of my personal favorites…

Euryalus, born of the blue-eyed Graces,
scion of the bright-tressed Seasons,
son of the Cyprian,
whom dew-lidded Persuasion birthed among rose-blossoms.
—Ibykos/Ibycus (circa 540 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mnemosyne was stunned into astonishment when she heard honey-tongued Sappho, wondering how mortal men merited a tenth Muse.
— Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mariner, do not question whose tomb this may be,
But go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
Michael R. Burch, unknown, sometimes attributed to Plato

Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus

Passerby,
Tell the Spartans we lie
Lifeless at Thermopylae:
Dead at their word,
Obedient to their command.
Have they heard?
Do they understand?
Michael R. Burch, after Simonides

Here he lies in state tonight: great is his Monument!
Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent.
Michael R. Burch, after Anacreon

Blame not the gale, nor the inhospitable sea-gulf, nor friends' tardiness,
Mariner! Just man's foolhardiness.
Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum

Now that I am dead sea-enclosed Cyzicus shrouds my bones.
Faretheewell, O my adoptive land that nurtured me, that suckled me;
I take rest at your breast.
Michael R. Burch, after Erycius

Stripped of her stripling, if asked, she'd confess:
"I am now less than nothingness."
Michael R. Burch, after Diotimus

There are ancient Greek poems by some wonderful Greek female poets later on this page.

LATIN

Gaius Ateius Capito (c. 30 BC-22 AD) was a Roman jurist and senator in the time of the emperors Augustus and Tiberius.

Warmthless beauty attracts but does not hold us; it floats like hookless bait.
— Capito, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

GERMAN

Georg Trakl was an Austrian poet who wrote poems in German. Trakl is notable for his use of color imagery in surrealistic poems.

To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.

Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.

Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?

A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss

from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:

the lost gold of vanished stars.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive bloody sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.

FRENCH

Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) was a French poet who also wrote poems in Middle English. In my opinion he was one of the world’s greatest love poets. And he is believed to have written the first Valentine, a poem he composed for his wife while being held hostage by the British in the Tower of London.

Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.

The text of the original poem can be found here.

In My Imagined Book
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In my imagined Book
my heart endeavored to explain
its history of grief, and pain,
illuminated by the tears
that welled to blur those well-loved years
of former happiness's gains,
in my imagined Book.

Alas, where should the reader look
beyond these drops of sweat, their stains,
all the effort & pain it took
& which I recorded night and day
in my imagined Book?

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms' twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you're far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms' twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I'll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms' twin chains!

Le Primtemps (“Spring” or “Springtime”)
by Charles d'Orleans
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.

The text of the original French poem can be found here.

My Very Gentle Valentine
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My very gentle Valentine,
Alas, for me you were born too soon,
As I was born too late for you!
May God forgive my jailer
Who has kept me from you this entire year.
I am sick without your love, my dear,
My very gentle Valentine.

VIETNAMESE

Ho Xuan Huong (1772-1882) was a risqué Vietnamese poetess. Her verse, replete with nods, winks, sexual innuendo and a rich eroticism, was shocking to many readers of her day and will probably remain so to some of ours. Huong has been described as "the candid voice of a liberal female in a male-dominated society." Her output has been called "coy, often bawdy lyrics." More information about the poet follows these English translations of her poems.

Ốc Nhồi ("The Snail")
Ho Xuan Huong
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My parents produced a snail,
Night and day it slithers through slimy grass.
If you love me, remove my shell,
But please don't jiggle my little hole!

The Breadfruit or Jackfruit
Ho Xuan Huong
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My body's like a breadfruit ripening on a tree:
My skin coarse, my pulp thick.
My lord, if you want me, pierce me with your stick,
But don't squeeze or the sap will sully your hands!

Bánh trôi nước ("Floating Sweet Dumpling")
Ho Xuan Huong
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My powdered body is white and round.
Now I bob. Now I sink.
The hand that kneads me may be rough,
But my heart at the center remains untouched.

Most of Huong's poems were written in Nôm script, a complex and difficult Vietnamese adaptation of Chinese characters that was used from the 15th to 19th centuries. Through her Nôm poems, Huong helped elevate the status of Vietnamese poetry. A century later, she was given the title "the Queen of Nôm poetry" by Xuan Dieu, one of Vietnam’s greatest poets. Huong was apparently born in the Quynh Luu district of the north-central province of Nghe An. Xuan Huong means "Spring Fragrance" or "Scent of Springtime." Her father, a scholar named Ho Phi Dien, died young, leaving her mother alone to care for her. Her mother remarried, as a concubine. Huong grew up near Thang Long (modern Ha Noi), in a male-dominated society in which polygamy was permitted and men were more privileged than women. Huong may or may not have been a concubine herself. Very little is known with any certainty about her life. In 1962, Nguyễn Đức Bính admitted, "I don't know anything about the poetess Hồ Xuân Hương and other people don't know any more than I do." And yet legends do take on lives of their own ...

JAPANESE

Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c. 700-750) was an important ancient Japanese poet. She had 79 poems in Manyoshu ("Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves"), the first major anthology of classical Japanese poetry, mostly waka. The compiler of the anthology was Otomo no Yakamochi (c. 718-785). Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume was his aunt, tutor and poetic mentor.

To a Daughter More Precious than Gems
by Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Heaven's cold dew has fallen
and thus another season arrives.
Oh, my child living so far away,
do you pine for me as I do for you?

I have trusted my jewel to the gem-guard;
so now there's nothing to do, my pillow,
but for the two of us to sleep together!

I cherished you, my darling,
as the Sea God guards his treasury's pearls.
But you are pledged to your husband
(such is the way of the world)
and have been torn from me like a blossom.

I left you for faraway Koshi;
since then your lovely eyebrows
curving like distant waves
ever linger in my eyes.

My heart is as unsteady as a rocking boat;
besieged by such longing I weaken with age
and come close to breaking.

If I could have prophesied such longing,
I would have stayed with you,
gazing on you constantly
as into a shining mirror.

I gaze out over the fields of Tadaka
seeing the cranes that cry there incessantly:
such is my longing for you.

Oh my child,
who loved me so helplessly
like bird hovering over shallow river rapids!

Dear child, my daughter, who stood
sadly pensive by the gate,
even though I was leaving for a friendly estate,
I think of you day and night
and my body has become thin,
my sleeves tear-stained with weeping.

If I must long for you so wretchedly,
how can I remain these many months
here at this dismal old farm?

Because you ache for me so intently,
your sad thoughts all confused
like the disheveled tangles of your morning hair,
I see you, dear child, in my dreams.

In the first stanza, Lady Otomo has left her children in Nara, possibly to visit her brother. In the second stanza, it is believed that the jewel is Lady Otomo's daughter and that she has been trusted to the care of her husband. As for the closing stanza, according to the notes of the Manyoshu, it was popularly believed that a person would appear in the dreams of the one for whom he/she yearned.

JEWISH

Hannah Arendt (1906-1975) was a Jewish-German philosopher, historian, political theorist and Holocaust survivor who also wrote poetry. Arendt escaped the Nazis twice: first by fleeing Germany in 1933 after being arrested by the Gestapo for investigating antisemitism; the second time in 1941 after being arrested in France following the Nazi takeover. She made her way to the United States via Portugal and became an American citizen in 1950.

H.B.
for Hermann Broch
by Hannah Arendt
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Survival.
But how does one live without the dead?
Where is the sound of their lost company?
Where now, their companionable embraces?
We wish they were still with us.

We are left with the cry that ripped them away from us.
Left with the veil that shrouds their empty gazes.
What avails? That we commit ourselves to their memories,
and through this commitment, learn to survive.

I Love the Earth
by Hannah Arendt
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the earth
like a trip
to a foreign land
and not otherwise.
Even so life spins me
on its loom softly
into never-before-seen patterns.
Until suddenly
like the last farewells of a new journey,
the great silence breaks the frame.

ANCIENT GREEK FEMALE POETS

Erinna

Erinna is widely regarded as second only to Sappho among the ancient Greek female poets.

This poem, about a portrait of a girl or young woman named Agatharkhis, has been called the earliest Greek ekphrastic epigram (an epigram describing a work of art):

This portrait is the work of sensitive, artistic hands.
See, noble Prometheus, you have human equals!
For if whoever painted this girl had only added a voice,
she would have been Agatharkhis entirely.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Erinna wrote a number of touching epitaphs for her beloved friend Baucis, who apparently died shortly before her wedding.

Passing by, passing by my oft-bewailed pillar,
shudder, my new friend to hear my tragic story:
of how my pyre was lit by the same fiery torch
meant to lead the procession to my nuptials in glory!
O Hymenaeus, why did you did change
my bridal song to a dirge? Strange!
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stele, inscription and lamentable urn
containing my meager remains, now property of Hades,
tell passersby my story, sad as it is:
how this mausoleum sealed a young bride’s womb;
that my name was Baucis, Telos my land;
and that my friend Erinna etched this epigram on my Tomb.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You, my tall Columns, and you, my small Urn,
receptacle of Hades’ tiny pittance of ash—
remember me to those who pass by
my grave, as they dash.
Tell them my story, sad as it is:
that this grave sealed a young bride’s womb;
that my name was Baucis and Telos my land;
and that Erinna, my friend, etched this poem on my Tomb.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here only a voice’s useless echo reaches Hades
where there is not an ear among the unseeing dead.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Erinna engraved this epigram on my tombstone.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Translator’s note: Erinna wrote in a mixture of Aeolic and Doric Greek. She has been attributed to different locations, including Lesbos, Rhodes, Teos, Telos and Tenos. Telos seems most probable due to her Dorian dialect. In 1928, Italian archaeologists excavating at Oxyrhynchus discovered a tattered piece of papyrus which contained 54 lines of Erinna’s lost epic, the poem “Distaff.” This work, like the epigrams above, was also about her friend Baucis or Baukis.

Excerpts from “Distaff”
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

… the moon rising …
… leaves falling …
… waves lapping a windswept shore …

… and our childish games, Baucis, do you remember? …

… Leaping from white horses into the deeper waves,
running on reckless feet through the great courtyard.
“You’re it!’ I cried, ‘You’re the Tortoise now!”
But when your turn came to pursue your pursuers,
you darted beyond the courtyard,
dashed out deep into the waves,
splashing far beyond us …

… My poor Baucis, these tears I now weep are your warm memorial,
these traces of embers still smoldering in my heart
for our silly amusements, now that you lie ash …

… Do you remember how, as girls,
we played at weddings with our dolls,
pretending to be brides in our innocent beds? …

… How sometimes I was your mother,
allotting wool to the weaver-women,
calling for you to unreel the thread? …

… Do you remember our terror of the monster Mormo
with her huge ears, her forever-flapping tongue,
her four slithering feet, her shape-shifting face? …

… Until you mother called for us to help with the salted meat …

… But when you mounted your husband’s bed,
dearest Baucis, you forgot your mothers’ warnings!
Aphrodite made your heart forgetful …

… Desire becomes oblivion …

… Now I lament your loss, my dearest friend.
I can’t bear to think of that dark crypt.
I can’t bring myself to leave the house.
I refuse to profane your corpse with my tearless eyes.
I refuse to cut my hair, but how can I mourn with my hair unbound?
I blush with shame at the thought of you! …

… But in this dark house, O my dearest Baucis,
My deep grief is ripping me apart.
Wretched Erinna! Only nineteen,
I moan like an ancient crone, eying this strange distaff …

O Hymen! … O Hymenaeus! …
Alas, my poor Baucis!

In my opinion “Distaff” is one of the most touching elegies ever written, in any language.

On a Betrothed Girl
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of Baucis the bride.
Observing her tear-stained crypt
tell Death who dwells underground:
"Thou art envious, O Death!"

Her monument reminds passersby
of the bitter misfortune of Baucis —
how her father-in-law burned the poor girl on a pyre
lit by bright torches meant to light her marriage train home.
While thou, O Hymenaeus, transformed her harmonious bridal song into the mournful wail of the threnos.

Hymen! O Hymenaeus!

Translator’s note: threnos: threnody, a wailing ode, song, hymn or poem of mourning composed and/or performed as a memorial to a dead person.

Anyte of Tegea

Anyte of Tegea (fl. 300 BC) was a Hellenistic poet from Tegea in Arcadia. Little is known of her life, but 24 epigrams attributed to her appeared in the Greek Anthology, with 19 generally considered to be authentic. Anyte was one of nine outstanding ancient female poets listed by Antipater of Thessalonica in the Palatine Anthology. Anyte has been credited with inventing the pastoral epigram and her invention may have influenced Theocritus. It was adapted by later poets, including Ovid.

Often lamenting at the tomb of her daughter,
Cleina, the mother, cried out for her dear dead child,
departed too soon.
Entreating the soul of understanding Philaenis,
who had crossed the pale Acheron unmarried.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

According to Nicole Loraux, no public comment on a woman’s death was considered acceptable in classical Athens. The standard of public silence for an unmarried woman who died would have been even more severe.

For her grasshopper, the night-fiddler,
and her tiny oak-dwelling cicada,
little Myro built a funeral mound
then shed a maidenly tear,
for unpersuadable Hades had made off with her playmates!
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forgoing a bedchamber and marriage’s warm rites,
your mother placed upon this cold albescent tomb
a maiden statue, having your form and likeness,
so that you, Thersis, can yet be remembered and saluted.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I mourn the maiden Antiba, for whom many men
came courting to her father’s house,
attracted by her beauty and wisdom,
but alas annihilating Fate hurled her beyond their reach.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You perished beside a deeply-rooted bush,
Locris, swiftest of the ebullient noisesome puppies,
as a speckle-necked snake injected its cruel poison
into your nimble limb.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The young men buried you, their captain, Pheidias.
Dying, you doomed them to dark grief,
like children for their mother.
And yet your headstone sings this beautiful song …
That you died fighting for your beloved country.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here “noisesome” is a bit of a coinage as I mean both noisy and bothersome, although I’m sure Anyte would have been glad to get that bit of frisky trouble back.

Stranger, rest your weary legs beneath the elms;
hear how coolly the breeze murmurs through their branches;
then take a bracing draught from the mountain-fed fountain;
for this is welcome shade from the burning sun.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is the grove of Cypris,
for it is fair for her to look out over the land to the bright deep,
that she may make the sailors’ voyages happy,
as the sea trembles, observing her brilliant image.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here I stand, Hermes, in the crossroads
by the windswept elms near the breezy beach,
providing rest to sunburned travelers,
and cold and brisk is my fountain’s abundance.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sit here, quietly shaded by the luxuriant foliage,
and drink cool water from the sprightly spring,
so that your weary breast, panting with summer’s labors,
may take rest from the blazing sun.
—Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nossis

Nossis (fl. 300 BC) was a Hellenistic poet from Epizephyrian Locris in Magna Graecia. Probably well-educated and from a noble family, she had twelve epigrams in the Greek Anthology, with one possibly written by another poet in imitation of her style, which would have made her a poet of note at that time.

Nossis wrote a number of epitaphs about portraits apparently left in mausoleums or temples…

Sabaethis’s image is known from afar
due to its stature and beauty.
Even here we recognize her prudence, her kindness.
Godspeed, blessed lady!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This tablet portrays Thaumareta, aptly conveying
the ripeness and pride of the tender-eyed girl.
Even your watchdog would wag its tail,
thinking her its mansion’s mistress!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melinna is finely wrought. Her tender face!
See how she seems to gaze at us benignly!
How splendidly the daughter resembles her mother!
Isn’t it nice when children duplicate their parents?
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Bruttians flung these shields aside
as they fled from the fleet-footed Locrians.
Now hung from temple ceilings, the shields
praise the Locrians’ valor. Nor do they desire
the arms of the cowards they deserted.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is nothing sweeter than love.
All other delights are secondary.
Thus, I spit out even honey.
This is what Gnossis says:
Whomever Aphrodite does not love,
Is bereft of her roses.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Most reverend Hera, the oft-descending from heaven,
attend your Lacinian shrine fragrant with incense
and there receive the linen mantle your noble child Nossis,
daughter of Theophilis and Cleocha, has woven for you.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Apparently Theophilis was Nossis's mother and Cleocha her grandmother.

Stranger, if you sail to Mitylene, her homeland of beautiful dances,
to indulge in the most exquisite graces of Sappho,
remember I also was loved by the Muses, who bore me and reared me in Locris.
My name, never forget it!, is Nossis. Now go!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pass me by with ringing laughter, then award me
an appreciative word: I am Rhinthon, scion of Syracuse,
the Muses’s smallest nightingale; yet with my tragic burlesques
I was able to pluck an ivy, uniquely my own.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rhinthon was a parodist in an age when the laurels went to dramatists like Aeschylus, Euripides and Sophocles.

Let’s visit Aphrodite’s shrine to see her statue,
finely wrought and embellished with gold,
which Polyarchis the courtesan dedicated to her,
having made a fortune from her body’s splendor!
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Aphrodite will receive this gift, joyfully, I think,
it being Samthya’s own headdress,
for it’s elaborate and fragrantly perfumed.
With it she also anoints the beautiful Adonis.
—Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Callo

In the next poem Callo, a female poet, dedicates her picture to Aphrodite:

Callo placed this tablet in blonde Aphrodite’s temple,
a portrait she painted, faithful in every regard.
See how tenderly she stands! See how her charm blossoms!
May she flourish, for her conduct is blameless.
—Callo, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Corinna

Corinna or Korinna was an ancient Greek poet who lived in Tanagra, Boeotia, where she wrote in the Boeotian dialect of Greek and achieved fame sometime between the fifth and third centuries BC. Her work survives only in fragments and in several shorter pieces quoted by ancient grammarians. She wrote primarily about Boeotian mythology. According to one source, she defeated Pindar in five poetry competitions!

I come to sing of heroes' and heroines' courageous deeds.—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Terpsichora calls me to sing beautifully of heroes
for Tanagra's white-clad daughters and my city rejoices,
hearing my clear, evocative voice.
—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Terpsichora was the Muse associated with the choral dance.

Mount Helicon, father of fair offspring, friend of the wayfarer, beloved of the Muses!—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I indeed censure even sweet-voiced Myrtis,
for, having been born a woman,
she chose to compete against Pindar!
—Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

THE SINGING CONTEST OF HELICON AND CITHAERON
by Corinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The text in brackets was missing and has been filled in imaginatively.

[The chorus gathered] well-garlanded atop Olympus [as the musicians tuned their] lyre-strings [to the] mountains’ [great height and] rarefied air, while tribes of asses [brayed and jockeyed for position,] as always [a discordant] family. Then Cithaeron sang of how the Curetes had sheltered the goddess’s sacred offspring in a cave without the knowledge of crooked-minded Cronus, since blessed Rhea had stolen him away, winning great honor from the Immortals. Such was Cithaeron’s song that, when it was done, the Muses immediately instructed the Blessed Ones to cast their secret ballot-stones into gleaming gold urns. Then they all rose together, declaring Cithaeron the winner, whereupon Hermes heartily proclaimed Cithaeron victorious with a loud cry, and the Blessed Ones, rejoicing, decorated him with garlands as he danced with joy. But Helicon hurled down ten thousand boulders in disgust!

According to Greek mythology, the Curetes (aka Korybantes, Corybantes, Corybants and Kurbantes) were armed and crested dancers who worshipped the Phrygian goddess Cybele with drumming and dancing. The holy babe stolen by Rhea was Zeus.

Moero

Moero or Myro (fl. 300 BC) was a Byzantine poet who was highly regarded in antiquity. Meleager mentioned her with Sappho and Anyte in the opening catalogue of his Garland, while Antipater of Thessalonica ranked her among the top nine ancient female poets.

Hamadryad Nymphs, river-daughters, ambrosial beings
treading the depths with rose-petaled feet,
hail!, and may you always remember and safeguard Kleonymos,
who placed these lovely votive images beneath the pines for you, O goddesses!
—Moero, Greek Anthology 6.189, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You lie here, grapes, beneath Aphrodite’s golden portico,
full to the brim with Dionysus’s nectar,
but your mother-vine can no longer lovingly wrap her branches around you,
nor protect you beneath her tender leaves.
—Moero, Greek Anthology 6.119, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mnemosyne
by Moero
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Zeus was nursed to manhood on Crete where none of the Blessed Ones knew him, yet he continued to grow in strength and vigor. Secure inside a sacred cave, he was nurtured by timid doves bearing ambrosia from the Ocean streams. Meanwhile a great eagle drawing nectar from a rock brought it continually in its beak for prudent Zeus to drink. Thus after he had conquered his father Cronus, victorious Zeus made the eagle immortal, bequeathing him heaven. He likewise bestowed honour on the timid doves, making them heralds of summer and winter.

Moero seems to be alluding to an observation by Circe in the Odyssey:

No winged creatures passed through the way of the Clashing Rocks, not even timid doves bearing ambrosia to father Zeus! —Homer, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

SULPICIA TRANSLATIONS

Sulpicia is one of the few female poets of ancient Rome whose work survives, and she is arguably the most notable. The original Sulpicia authored six short poems (some 40 lines in all) written in Latin during the first century BC. Her poems were published as part of the corpus of Albius Tibullus. Sulpicia's family were well-off Romans with connections to Emperor Augustus, since her uncle Valerius Messalla Corvinus served as a commander for Augustus and was consul in 31 BC.

I. At Last, Love!
by Sulpicia
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch