Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (28 page)

Wickedness and that has given rise to wrongful deeds,

As when the leaders of the Greeks, those peerless peers, defi led

Th

e Virgin’s altar with the blood of Agamemnon’s child,

Iphigenia. As soon as they bound the fi llet round her hair

So that its ends streamed down her cheeks, the girl became aware

Th

at waiting at the temple for her there would be no groom—

Instead she saw her father with a countenance of gloom

Attended by the priests who kept the blade well hid. Th

e sight

Of people shedding tears to see her froze her tongue with fright.

She sank to the ground upon her knees. It did not mean a thing

For the princess now, that she had been the fi rst to give the king

Th

e name of
Father
. No, for shaking, the poor girl was carried

By the hands of men up to the altar, not that she be married

With solemn ceremony, to the accompanying strain

Of loud-sung bridal hymns, but as a maiden, pure of stain,

To be impurely slaughtered, at the age when she should wed,

Sorrowful sacrifi ce slain at her father’s hand instead.

All this for fair and favorable winds to sail the fl eet along!—

So potent was Religion in persuading to do wrong.

From Book 3, Against the Fear of Death

You might, from time to time, give yourself this to recite:

“
Even Ancus the Good has looked his last upon the light
,

Who was a better man than
you
by far, you reprobate,

And since his day, the sun of many a king and potentate

Luc r et i u s
237

Deitz 1st pages.indd 237

Deitz 1st pages.indd 237

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

Who held sway over mighty peoples has set. Yes, even he1

Who for his legions paved a road across the great blue sea

And taught them how to stride the salty main, he who held cheap

Th

e ocean’s roar and with his horses trampled on the deep—

Robbed of light, his spirit fl ed, he too went to the grave.

And Scipio, fi rebrand of war, the Scourge of Carthage, gave

His bones unto the earth like any slave of humble duty.

Add to these the pioneers of Wisdom and of Beauty,

Add the companions of the Muses, poets of renown.

Even Homer, the one and only who deserves the crown,

Even he now sleeps one sleep with all the rest. Th

e sage

Democritus, when he was warned by his advanced old age

Th

at the motions of his mind—his very memory—were fading,

He
himself
gave his own head to Death, unhesitating!

Even great Epicurus, once the light of life had run

Its course, perished, the very man whose brilliance outshone

Th

e human race, eclipsing all, just as the burning sun,

Risen, snuff s out all the stars. So who are
you
to balk

And whine at death? You’re almost dead in
life
, although you walk

And breathe. You fritter away most of your time asleep. You snore

With your eyes open; you never leave off dreaming, and a score

Of empty nightmares fi lls your mind and shakes it to the core.

Oft en, addled and dizzy, you don’t even know what’s wrong—

You fi nd yourself besieged at every turn by a whole throng

Of cares, and drift on shift ing currents of uncertainty.”

Men feel a heaviness upon their minds, it’s plain to see,

Th

at weighs them down. If they could grasp the cause of this ennui,

Th

is heap of misery and care that hunkers on the heart,

Th

ey would not lead the lives we see they
do
for the most part,

1. Xerxes, king of Persia, who built a pontoon bridge over the Hellespont in 480 b.c., on his way to invade Greece.

238
L at i n

Deitz 1st pages.indd 238

Deitz 1st pages.indd 238

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

None knowing what he wants, each ever seeking a change of place—

As if he could lay his burden down by traveling through space.

Oft en a man who’s sick and tired of his own hearth will roam

From his roomy mansion, only in a trice to come back home

Because he feels no better when he’s somewhere else. He heads

For his country villa, driving his imported thoroughbreds

Hell-for-leather, as though to save a house on fi re. And yet

Th

e fellow starts to yawn the very moment he has set

Foot in the door, or falls in a heavy sleep, seeking to drown

In oblivion. Or even wants to hotfoot back to town!

Th

us in this way each man is running from himself, yet still

Because he clings to that same self, although against his will,

And clearly can’t escape from it, he loathes it; for he’s ill

But doesn’t grasp the cause of his disease. Could he but see

Th

is clear enough, a man would drop everything else, and study

First to understand the Nature of Th

ings, for his own sake:

It’s his condition for
all time
—not for one hour—at stake,

Th

e state in which all mortals should expect themselves to be

Aft er death, for the remainder of eternity.

For what’s this great and wicked lust for living all about,

If it just drives us to distraction, amidst danger and doubt?

Th

e life of mortals has a limit set to it, my friend.

Death has no loopholes. All of us must meet it in the end.

We go through the same motions in the same old place. No measure

Of added life will ever coin for us a novel pleasure.

True, while we lack that which we long for, it is an obsession,

But we will just crave something
else
once it’s in our possession;

We are forever panting with an unquenched thirst for life.

No one knows what the years to come will bring—what joy or strife

May lie in store for us, what outcome’s looming in our lot.

But by adding on to life, we don’t diminish by one jot

Th

e length of death, nor are we able to subtract instead

Anything to abbreviate the time that we are dead.

Luc r et i u s
239

Deitz 1st pages.indd 239

Deitz 1st pages.indd 239

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

Th

ough you outlive as many generations as you will,

Nevertheless, Eternal Death is waiting for you still.

It is no shorter, that eternity that lies in store

For the man who with the setting sun
today
will rise no more,

Th

an for the man whose sun has set months, even years, before.

From Book 4, Against Passion

Add this—lovers fritter away their strength, worn out in thrall.

Th

is also—one lives ever at the other’s beck and call.

Th

ey grow slack in their duties. Good name stumbles and malingers.

Wealth, turned to Babylonian perfumes, slips through the fi ngers.

But you can bet that
she’s
well heeled, in shoes from Sicyon,

And those are genuine emeralds, the rocks that she’s got on.

Th

e wine-dark sheets, from rough and constant use upon the bed

And drinking up the sweat of Venus, are worn down to the thread.

Th

e father’s hard-earned fortune turns to tiaras for her hair,

Alindan silks, diaphanous gowns from Cos for her to wear.

He shells out for fantastic feasts with all the trimmings—fi ne

Linens, music, perfume, garlands, wreaths, free-fl owing wine—

But in vain—since in the very fountain of delights, there rises

Something of bitterness that chokes even among the roses.

Perhaps it’s that remorse, gnawing at the conscience, taunts

Th

e lover he’s thrown his life away in sloth, among low haunts;

Or else his darling wings a two-edged word at him, a dart

Th

at smolders like a fi re, and rankles in the love-struck heart;

Or else he thinks her roving eye too freely wanders aft er

Another, and imagines in her face a trace of laughter.

And these are just the problems of a love that’s going
well
!

Imagine a love that’s crossed and doesn’t have a chance in hell—

Even with your eyes shut, you can grasp that the amount

Of troubles in unhappy love are more than you could count.

Best to keep eyes open, as I’ve said—don’t take the bait.

It’s easier to avoid the toils of love than extricate

240
L at i n

Deitz 1st pages.indd 240

Deitz 1st pages.indd 240

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

Yourself once you are caught fast in the nets and to break free

From the strong knots of Venus. Yet you’re still able to fl ee

Th

e danger, even if you’re tangled up, snared in the gin,

So long as you don’t stand in your own way, and don’t begin

To overlook all shortcomings in body and in mind

Of the woman you lust aft er. For desire makes men blind—

And generally they overlook their girlfriends’ faults, and bless

Th

ese women with fi ne qualities they don’t in fact possess.

Th

at’s how it comes that we see girls—malformed in many ways,

And hideous—are petted darlings, objects of high praise.

Indeed, one lover oft en urges another he would mock:

“Venus has it out for you—your love’s a laughingstock.”

(Poor fool—that
his
delusion’s worse would come as quite a shock!)

Th

e black girl is
brown sugar
. A slob that doesn’t bathe or clean

Is a
Natural Beauty
;
Athena
if her eyes are grayish-green.

A stringy beanpole’s a
gazelle
. A midget is a
sprite
,

Cute as a button
. She’s a
knockout
if she’s giant’s height.

Th

e speech-impaired has a
charming lithp
; if she can’t talk at all

She’s
shy
. Th

e sharp-tongued shrew is
spunky
, a little
fi reball
.

If she’s too skin-and-bones to live, she’s a
slip of a girl
, if she

Is sickly, she’s just
delicate
, though half dead from TB.

Obese, with massive breasts?—a
goddess
of fertility!

Snub nosed is
pert
, fat lips are
pouts
begging to be kissed—

And other delusions of this kind too numerous to list.

Yet even if her face has every beauty you could name,

And she pours out the power of Venus from her entire frame,

Th

e truth is, there are other fi sh in the sea. Th

e truth is, too,

We’ve lived without her up to now. She does—we know it’s true—

Exactly the same things as all the ugly women do,

And fumigates herself, poor girl, to cover the stench aft er,

While her maids steer clear of her and try to hide their laughter.

But the lover, locked out, weeps, and strews the stoop with wreaths in bloom,

And anoints the haughty doorposts with sweet-marjoram perfume,

Luc r et i u s
241

Deitz 1st pages.indd 241

Deitz 1st pages.indd 241

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM

And presses his lips to the door, the fool—when if he were let in,

One whiff and he would seek a good excuse to leave again!

His long-rehearsed heartfelt lament would then come crashing down,

Right then and there he’d curse himself for being such a clown,

And for granting her perfection that no mere mortal attains.

Our Venuses are on to this—that’s why they take great pains

To hide the backstage business of life, keeping unaware

Th

ose whom they wish to hold bound fast, caught in desire’s snare.

But all in vain, because your mind can drag everything out

Into the light, and fi nd what all the tittering is about—

Yet if she is good-natured, never spiteful, it’s only fair

To make allowances for foibles that all humans share.

From Book 5, On the Development of Civilization

Th

e race of mankind then was far more hardy, as befi t

Th

e very hardness of the earth that had engendered it,

And they were built on scaff olding of bigger, denser bone,

Fixed with brawny sinews throughout the fl esh, and weren’t as prone

To being overwhelmed by heat or cold, could stomach all

Kinds of changes in their diet, and they did not fall

Ill from any sickness. For many a cycle of the blaze

Of the sun rolling through the heavens, they dragged out their days

Like the far-roaming wild brutes, nomadic in their ways.

Back then there was no sturdy ploughman to guide the curving plough,

No one knew how to work the land with iron tools, or how

To plant young slips in soil, or cut the barren branches down

From the tall trees with pruning hooks. Whatever sun and rain

Provided them, whatever the earth, unasked for, would impart,

Th

ey found these things were boon enough to satisfy the heart.

Mostly they would take a mess of acorns for their meat

Amongst the groves of oaks, or from arbutus they would eat

Th

e berries—which you see are just now in the wintertime

Ripening to scarlet. But when the Earth was in her prime,

242
L at i n

Deitz 1st pages.indd 242

Deitz 1st pages.indd 242

6/26/2013 6:52:20 AM