Carpe Diem
After Catullus — Poem 5
Let’s live and love, my Lesbia, today!
And all the dismal talk of grim old men
is worth… a farthing to us, shall we say?
The sun may set; the sun may rise again.
We know that after our brief candle’s light
we’ll sleep together in unending night.
So give me kisses M, and kisses C,
then M again, and C pursuing those,
then M, then C, up to infinity…
so many millions, and the number grows.
And then we’ll muddle up the score
so even we won’t know the bottom line.
Let helpless envy look on such a store
of kisses without number, yours and mine!
Poem 32
I beg you, Ipsitilla, darling, my delight,
invite me round to spend the afternoon with you.
And if you do, sweet girl, do me this favour too:
don’t let the servants bar the entrance to your flat.
And stay at home; don’t think, ‘Perhaps I’ll wander out.’
Prepare yourself to fuck me nine times on the trot.
So, are you willing? Bid me come without delay.
I’ve lunched. I’m lying down. My cock is on its way
already, sticking through my tunic and my coat.
Personal Hygiene
After Catullus — Poem 69
Rufus, do tell me, are you wondering why
no woman wants to slide her tender thigh
beneath your bulk? She may indeed be stirred
by gifts of dresses of the choicest stuff
or by the gleam of some exquisite stone.
It’s not enough. Result: you sleep alone.
I’ll whisper it: the gossip that I’ve heard
— which does you harm — concerns your underarm.
‘A stinking goat lives there,’ the women say.
It’s no surprise they’re scared out of their wits;
the odour thence emerging is the pits.
No pretty girl would willingly consort
— the very thought! — with such a horrid beast.
So stop this nasal outrage; or at least
stop asking why the women run away.
Poem 70
My woman says she wants to marry me; and only me.
If Jove himself came courting her, she wouldn’t change her mind.
But what a woman tells her lover in his heat should be
inscribed in running water and imprinted on the wind.
Breakdown
After Catullus — Poem 75
Your faithlessness has brought my mind to such a state
of ruination in its own obsessive love
that it can neither wish you well should you turn out
a paragon of womankind (unlikely thought),
nor cease, my Lesbia, to love you as your slave
in spite of every wickedness you might commit.
Poem 85
I hate you and I love you; and perhaps you ask me why.
I can’t explain. It’s how I feel, and I’m in agony.
Poem 87
No woman truthfully could say that she’s been loved as much
as you were loved by me, my Lesbia, my own.
No staunch adherence to a bargain struck was ever such
— at least on my side — as the love for you I’ve shown.
Six of One…
After Catullus — Poem 92
That Lesbia won’t stop bad-mouthing me around the town,
yet may I perish if she doesn’t love me nonetheless.
How can this be? I’m in the same position, I confess.
By day and night, in front of everyone, I run her down,
but may I perish if I don’t adore her utterly.
Poem 96
If in the silent grave the dead can feel our grief
and gain some consolation from our sense of loss
— from the regret by which we make old loves revive
and when we weep for early friendships we let slip —
surely, dear Calvus, your Quintilia now feels less
the sorrow of her own too early death, alas,
than she rejoices in the memory of your love.
Poem 101
Through many countries, over many seas I’ve come
in sadness, brother, to perform this parting rite,
to honour you in death with these, my final gifts,
and pay my vain addresses to your silent ash.
Since Fate has snatched your very self from me — alas,
poor brother, stolen from my sight unworthily —
accept, at least, these offerings my tears have washed,
these tokens of my grief, my taking leave, bequeathed
by ancient custom of our family. And take
this greeting, brother, and, for ever, fare you well.
She’s Back!
After Catullus — Poem 107
Unlooked-for blessings are the truest pleasures to the mind.
So, Lesbia, that you restore yourself to one who pined
but dared not hope, brings joy; to one who longed, a precious prize.
My own! Beside this bounty, gold is worthless in my eyes.
I’ve marked it in the calendar: ‘She’s back! Red-letter date!’
Who’s luckier than I? Or who more smiled-upon by Fate?
Poem 109
Life promises that she and I shall love, and never part,
and dwell in happiness. Great gods, please help her keep her word!
Please grant that what she says she means sincerely, from the heart,
and that this pledge of lifelong hallowed friendship may hold good.
