434 I may seem mad (Poems of Exile)

a grave at the Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow, courtesy of Tess at The Mag

434      I may seem mad

I may seem mad to you, but I say this for myself:

I would not be seen as mad; but why am I seen thus?

You say, Because you are always loved, because you are always in love.

And I say, If this is madness, may the gods keep me mad forever!

Translated in my own fashion, from the Latin of Seneca or pseudo-Seneca, and encouraged by Tess at The Mag.  Many more inscriptions can be found here.

x

396 Advice to an Unknown Assassin (Poems of Exile)

396      Advice to an Unknown Assassin

  

I will slice the throat of anyone who terrorises my friends

Don’t think my pity is enough to let me forgive

When the unjust victor stabs even the forsaken dead – beware!

Often the dead hand thrusts the fatal wound.

Translated from the Latin of pseudo-Seneca, by Isabel Doyle.  It seems particularly apt given the slaughter next door.

x

239 Well, look at Xerxes! (Poems of Exile)

It is far too long since I've posted one of my 'translations' of Seneca.  Remember, if you have been set a translation task, my Latin is much worse than yours.

Well, look at Xerxes!  Everybody is watching his procession!

Why do you hesitate, Greece, to take on your yoke?

Europe – and every land – follows his orders; the arrows of debt cover the sky

New regulations hide the bright web of day

The people are buried in disbelief,  while

The tears of the Aegean carry mercenaries.

Who is the new Master of land, of sea, of every commerce?

Certainly, the old order has lost its way in this world.  

Adapted from Lucius Annaeus Seneca (or pseudo-Seneca) to reflect modern concerns.

416 I hate you, Maximus (Poems of Exile)

.

Seneca wrote a number of poems in verse combat against Maximus.  This one is a companion piece to 412   The Poet Protests, posted here.    Please keep in mind that these are not intended as literal translations, more spiritual ones.

Well, Maximus, I hate you, your jealousy: all.

I’d die rather than admit surprise.  Shall I tell you why?

Your liverish jokes – full of gall – with evil intent

You aimed at me, my life, my reputation.

Jealousy rules you.  You sought to harm me –

it was a trifle – yet your target was a fatal wound.

Your words, the truth you played with, these are the source

of my enmity.  My life is on it.

I hate you Maximus, that gives me great joy:

Your jealousy sings of my success!

.

429 Farewell Severe Mistress (Poems of Exile)

another offering from my 'translations' of pseudo-Seneca, in my collection Poems of Exile

Farewell severe Muse!  Now I  return to amusements and frolics.

Pleasure and playing delight me, Muse.

Swollen-breasted Arethusa stamps at my threshold

and would speak to me, in the manner of the night:

She who learned to slide through shadows,

now tangles me with her hair, now releases me.

She puts her gentle arms around my neck

reveals her snowy flank and half-lying on her back,

she imitates a painter’s model, always

surpassing herself, she languishes on my bed.

Muse, she is even more debauched than me, shameless

and exulting, not ceasing in our pleasures.

The poet has abandoned his labours, of Priam* bewailing his Hector.

Playing delights me Muse:  farewell severe Mistress!

*Priam was King of Troy, famous for lamenting his fallen son Hector, a typical subject of tragedy

x

405 Hymn to my Friend Crispus* (Poems of Exile)

another of my 'translations' from the Latin of Seneca/pseudo-Seneca

Crispus, you are my strength and support, the anchor of my galleon

You are the strong harbour that shelters my shipwreck

My fortress, honour and security:

Under the dear and gentle faith of your shrewd captaincy

Only peace and spiritual rest afflict me.

Nor just for me, for you stand high in public debate

Using your influence only to benefit your clients:

Your heart flows with Athenian honey and

You are the supreme glory of your family’s Name.

To be deprived of you, is to be in exile:

I languish on the surface of this forsaken rock,

But while my spirit is above the soil, it is near to you.

*Gaius Sallustius  Crispus Passienus, a Roman senator active during 1st century AD.  He was consul in 44.  He was step-father to Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbarus, who later became the Emperor Nero.  Seneca celebrated his friendship with Crispus in several epigrams, hoping that he would succeed in gaining Seneca clemency from the Emperor Claudius and thus a reprieve from exile on Corsica.

x

412 The Poet Protests (Poems of Exile)

Another 'translation' from pseudo-Seneca:

Your doom-laden songs are suffused with poison

And your jokes coloured with black feelings

no one escapes your fangs:

Not man, nor woman; not youth nor old age.

Furious, you throw your cruel words in the same way

as an army hurls boulders at our city.

(but, it is the habit of insane people to appear sane

and we do not see the missiles that strike home)

The Muse rewards your sullen menace

granting discordant songs to you alone

while my rebuttals fall like unpractised

arms, short of their marks.

Are you a man of honour?  Your jokes are like crimes

trickling black venom

Ah, but for a laugh – you say – and the wine,

Anything to score a hit, and if I weep, that wit has won!

Why abolish jokes?  It is not the laugh that is spiteful:

Wits are never light – whoever they strike.

x

804 Prayer to Phoebus for a happy retirement (Poems of Exile)

Smoldering Fires, Clarence Holbrook Carter, 1904-2000
Columbus Museum of Art

O Phoebus, favour my efforts which aim for nothing grand,

nothing that the envious crowd would want.

Keep riches away from me; let others seek leadership,

let others take pleasure in great influence:

that this one is named admiral, head of the fleet, and that one

is joyful at the returns of his anxious eagerness, who seeks to take

command of another army; that the province fears his two bundles of fasces;

and that he hears triple times applause.

As for me, can I devote myself to a poor plot and poems of love,

and not pass a day without my brothers?

Grant me retirement not touched by an indolent or sordid life,

that my mind fears nothing nor desires any thing;

and enjoying my ignorance, grant that I would be released after a long painless old age,

and that my brothers be near to collect my bones for burying.

Note on the poem:  this is one of my loose translations from a collection of 1st century Latin poems attributed to Lucius Annaeus Seneca, or pseudo-Seneca.  If you have been set it as a translation exercise, don't rely on my efforts as my Latin is pretty shaky ...  a full explanation for the collection is posted under 'The Madness of Exile (Exile II)'.

image from Tess Kincaid Mag 64 http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

232 Voracious Time (Poems of Exile)

Voracious time devours all, seizes all,

dislodges all foundations, nothing will remain.

Rivers fail, seas retreat,

mountains and ridges crumble.

Why speak of small things?  The awesome heavens

will ignite spontaneously and be consumed.

Death requires all;  it is the law, not punishment, to die.

One day the universe will be as if it never was.

the ultimate monster
x