("Flavius, you'd tell Catullus...") (Tr. by Martha Hollander)

JUNE 1976

MARTHA HOLLANDER

CATULLUS: TEN POEMS

Greetings, girl! You haven't got much-

Neither small nose, nor a pretty foot,

Dark eyes, or slender hands to touch,

No dry mouth; the way you put

Your phrases isn't neat at all,

Mistress of the bankrupt man

From Formiae-but Cisalpine Gaul

Says you're lovely, lovelier than

My Lesbia, even? Oh, enough!

This ignorant age-how rude and rough!

LXXI

Lesbia, in the good old days you said

Catullus alone had taken you to bed,

And even Jove was not preferred to me.

I adored you-not the way a girl would be

By a whole crowd of suitors, rather more

As a father loves his sons and sons-in-law.

I really know you now; therefore, despite

My fiercer burning, you're still, in my sight,

A cheaper and more trivial thing by far.

How can this be? you ask. Because a scar

Like this compels your lover under stress

To love you more, but to respect you less.

Through many races and through many seas

I've come, my brother, to these piteous rites

To offer you a final gift in death,

And to your silent ashes call in vain;

For Fate has stolen you away from me-

Alas, unhappy brother-undeserved.

Now, meanwhile, still accept what I can give

To death, in the manner of our ancestors,

A gift that flows with all a brother's tears,

And for ever more, hail, and farewell.

XXVII

Serving-boy, bring me a spicier cup

Of old Falernian wine

As Postumia's law commands-

Our queen of feasts, herself more drunk

Than the ripest of the vine.

But water, you can go away,

You enemy of wine;

Go and migrate where you like,

And keep to the sober ones: for here

Is Bacchus, pure, divine.

You ask me, Lesbia, just how many kisses

Make up enough, and more than enough, for me.

There lie as many grains of Libyan sand

In flowering Cyrenae, from the shrine

MARTHA HOLLANDER

Of glowing Jove to Battus' sacred tomb;

As many stars can watch men's secret loves

When night is still. That many kisses, then,

Make up enough, and more, for mad Catullus-

The curious ones could never count them out,

Nor charm them with the spell of evil words.

To me he's on a level with a god;

If this is so, he far surpasses gods.

Sitting across from you, he sees

And hears your sweet, repeated laugh,

Which robs me, in my wretchedness, of sense.

For in the instant that I gaze at you,

Nothing, Lesbia, is beyond me...

But now my tongue is stiff, immoveable;

A slender flame creeps trickling through my limbs,

Sounding in my ears; my eyes

Are shrouded in a double night.

Catullus, being idle does you harm,

And you tejoice in idleness too much.

From idleness, in former days,

Both kings and blessed cities fell.

vill

Catullus, you wretch, stop talking like a fool,

And say that what has died is truly dead.

You once were used to happy, shining days

When you would go wherever she might lead

(The girl was loved as none was ever loved)

A multitude of pleasures happened there;

You wanted them, and she did not refuse:

Yes, you were used to happy, shining days.

And now, she doesn't want you. Therefore, now

You must not weaken, follow in pursuit

When she escapes, or live in misery,

But bear up with a hardened heart, stand firm.

Goodbye, girl! Now Catullus does stand firm:

Not seeking you, nor pleading against your will-

But you'll despair, when no-one asks for you.

Get out of here, bitch! What a life you'll have!

Who'll come around? Who'll find you beautiful?

Whom will you love or who'll call you his own?

And then, whom will you nibble at and kiss?

But you, Catullus, stop, be stone, stand firm.

XXXI

O Sirmio, almost-island, and the gem

Of all the islands Neptune bears aloft

In still pools or great seas, how glad I am

To see you! For I scarcely can believe

I've left Bithynia's fields and Thynia,

And look at you in safety once again.

For what can be more blissful than to ease

One's troubles, when the mind puts off its load

And I return, all care-worn, to my hearth

And sleep in the bed I've longed for? Surely, this

Is worth the labor. Lovely Sirmio,

I greet you-now rejoice, your master's here;

Rejoice, O waters of the Lydian lake,

And laugh, whatever rippling's in this place.

Fabullus, you'll have quite a feast

At my place in a day or two-

If the gods decide to favor you,

If you provide the meal, at least.

MARTHA HOLLANDER

Then bring a glowing girl, and lend

Some wine, some wit, a laugh that rings.

If you remember all these things,

You'll have a feast, my charming friend-

For your Catullus' money-sack

Is full of spiders, nothing more.

But in return, accept a store

Of pleasure, which I never lack,

Or a thing that's even lovelier,

More elegant: I have a rich

Ointment from my mistress, which

The gods of Love had given her.

And when you smell it, you'll propose

The gods turn you into a nose.

Flavius, you'd tell Catullus

All about your love-affairs

If they weren't so crude and vulgar-

Still, you blurt out the who's and where's

Because you can't shut up; in fact,

You worship some hot whore or other,

And she herself is too ashamed

To talk about it with another.

Your bed, perfumed with Syrian oil

And garlands, shouts out its report:

You never sleep alone at night.

(Who cares if it can't talk?) Your sport

Has wrinkled up the pillow and the sheets;

Thrusts and wiggles have trammeled it.

No lust is ever secret. Why?

You wouldn't look so drained-admit!-

Unless you'd screwed around a bit.

So tell me what you're up to now,

Whether it's been all right or wrong;

Tl praise you and your little loves

To the heavens in delightful song.

Structure

155 lines · 33 stanzas