Daisy Dunn - The Poems of Catullus

It is the poise of Catullus’ poems that has gripped me amid the passion of his words, and this that I have tried to capture in translating them. I hope they will speak to today’s reader, and confirm that while Catullus is ripe for the bedside, he is not yet ready to be put to bed.

I dedicate the elegant new little book

That I polished off not a moment ago

With dry pumice stone to who,

But you, Cornelius. For you always did think

That my ramblings were something,

Though you were the only man of Italy brave enough

In those days to unravel our whole history in three volumes –

Learned ones, by Jupiter, and exhaustive.

So have this little book, whatever it is

And whatever its worth; only please, virgin muse,

May it survive unceasing for over a hundred years.

Sparrow, apple of my girl’s eye,

Often she plays with you, holds you in her lap,

Gives you a fingertip when you want it

And urges you to take passionate bites

Whenever she wishes, gleaming in desire for me,

To play with something for pleasure.

And I believe it provides a small release from her

Frustration, as then the intolerable burning fades.

I wish that I could play with you as she does

And lighten the ponderous cares of my mind …

I would be as grateful as they say the quick-stepped

Atalanta was for the little golden apple

That loosed the chastity belt that bound her long.

Mourn, Venuses and Cupids

And all who have tasted love.

My girl’s sparrow is dead.

Sparrow, apple of my girl’s eye

Whom she loved more than her own eyes

For he was honey-sweet and knew his owner

As well as a girl knows her own mother.

He never shifted himself from her lap

But hopping around

Cheep here

Cheep there

Would chirp continuously to his mistress only.

But now he travels that shadowy path

From which they allow no return.

Shame on you, cruel darkness of the

Underworld who devours all beautiful things

As you have stolen pretty Sparrow from me.

Criminal deed. Poor little sparrow.

It is your fault the darling eyes of my girl

Are now swollen and red from weeping.

That little kidney bean you see before you, friends,

Says she was once the very fastest of ships

And that no floating plank in onward surge

Could outstrip her whether she made her flight

On hand-like oars or canvas,

And she says neither the shore of the dangerous Adriatic

Denies this nor the Cycladic islands

Nor upstanding Rhodes nor the savage Thracian

Propontis nor the harsh gulf of the Black Sea

Where that yacht to be was formerly

Long-haired forest – for on the ridge of Mount Cytoris

Her whispery hair would whistle.

Pontic Amastris and boxwood-bearing Cytoris,

Yacht says this was – still is – all very familiar to you.

At the very beginning, she says,

She was rooted on your heights

And soaked her hand-like oars in your waters,

And from there she carried her master

Over many unstoppable waves, regardless of whether

The breeze summoned her from port or starboard

Or Jupiter fell favourably upon both her sheets alike.

No vows were made on her behalf to the gods

On the shore when she set out on her last voyage

From the sea all the way to this limpid lake.

But this belongs to the past. Now she has been put away

To grow old peacefully and dedicates herself to you,

Twin Castor and twin of Castor, Pollux.

We should live, my Lesbia, we should love,

We should value at a penny all

The rumours of our elders – they are dourer than most.

The sun can set and rise again

But once our short light has passed beneath its yardarm

We must sleep a night that never ends.

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred

Then another thousand, then a second hundred.

Then – don’t stop – another thousand, then a hundred

Then when we have shared many thousands

We shall confound them so no one can know

Or cast an evil eye upon us

When he knows that our kisses are so many.

Flavius, if your lover were not

Inelegant and unrefined you would want to speak –

Would not be able not to speak – about her to Catullus.

No doubt you’re in love with some feverish

Little slut and it shames you to confess it.

See, for all its silence your bed betrays

The nights you sleep are not sexless:

Steeped in flowers and the oil of Syrian olive,

Knackered and tattered, pillows everywhere,

Creaking and shaking,

The trembling bedstead shattered.

If shame did not rule you, you would reveal all.

Why, you would not flash such toned love-handles

If you were not engaged in some dalliance.

So whatever news you have, be it good or bad,

Tell me. I want to proclaim you and your lover

To the skies in elegant verse.

You want to know how many of your gros bisous ,

Lesbia, would be enough for me, enough to spare?

As great as the number of grains of Libyan sand

That lie on silphium-bearing Cyrene

Between the oracle of steamy Jupiter

And the holy tomb of old King Battus;

Or as many as the stars, when night is quiet,

That watch the secretive liaisons of men:

To give you this many kisses

Is enough and more for crazy Catullus,

Which neither meddlers could count out

Nor utter evil spells about.

Stop being a fool, you failure, Catullus,

And accept what you see has died, is dead.

Once the sun shone brightly upon you,

When you went wherever the girl directed,

Loved by us as much as no woman again will be loved.

A lot of fun was had back there –

You were keen for it and the girl was not unwilling.

Yes, the sun truly shone brightly upon you.

Now she wants no more. And you, though weak,

Should not want it either, nor run after her as she flees,

Nor live in misery, but persevere with hardened heart, be strong.

Farewell, lover. Now Catullus is being strong.

He will not ask after you, or ask you out: you are not interested.

But you will be sorry when you are asked by no one.

So it is, wretched woman. What life remains for you yet?

Who’s going to approach you now, or consider you beautiful?

Whom now will you love, or whose lover will they say you are?

Whom will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?

But you, Catullus, pause. Be strong.

Veranius, had I three hundred thousand

Friends, you would still be number one.

Have you come home to your household gods,

And the brothers who take after you, and elderly mother?

You have. How happy I am at this news.

I shall see you safe and sound and hear you as you speak

Of the landscapes and habits and nations of the Spaniards

The way you always do, and throwing myself around your

Neck I shall kiss your charming mouth and eyes.

Of all men of great good fortune,

Who is happier or more fortunate than me?

I was idling in the Forum when my friend Varus

Saw me and led me off to the home of his lover,