Summer of Horace: Ode 1.15: Back from the Dead

Hello again, dear readers! I am back from another one of my famous unannounced hiati. I would have updated regularly but, uh... I was on a spirit quest. Yeah sure, we'll go with that. Anyway, here is the next ode for you to read!

The Latin:

Pastor cum traheret per freta nauibus
Idaeis Helenen perfidus hospitam,
ingrato celeris obruit otio
     uentos ut caneret fera

Nereus fata: 'Mala ducis aui domum
quam multo repetet Graecia milite,
coniurata tuas rumpere nuptias
     et regnum Priami uetus.

Heu, heu, quantus equis, quantus adest uiris
sudor! Quanta moues funera Dardanae
genti! Iam galeam Pallas et aegida
     currusque et rabiem parat.

Nequicquam Veneris praesidio ferox
pectes caesariem grataque feminis
inbelli cithara carmina diuides;
     nequicquam thalamo grauis

hastas et calami spicula Cnosii
uitabis strepitumque et celerem sequi
Aiacem: tamen, heu serus, adulteros
      crines puluere collines.

Non Laertiaden, exitium tuae
gentis, non Pylium Nestora respicis?
Vrgent inpauidi te Salaminius
     Teucer, te Sthenelus sciens

pugnae, siue opus est imperitare equis,
non auriga piger; Merionen quoque
nosces. Ecce furit te reperire atrox
     Tydides melior patre,

quem tu, ceruus uti uallis in altera
uisum parte lupum graminis inmemor,
sublimi fugies mollis anhelitu,
     non hoc pollicitus tuae.

Iracunda diem proferet Ilio
matronisque Phrygum classis Achillei;
post certas hiemes uret Achaicus
     ignis Iliacas domos.'

The Translation:

When Paris the treacherous shepard hauled

his hostess Helen over the sea on a Trojan ship

Nereus stayed the quick winds with

an unwelcome stillness to recount

their savage fate:  “You bring evil to your grandfather’s home

Which the Greeks will claim with a martial mass,

Having conspired to destroy your wedlock

And the venerable kingdom of Priam.

Alas, alas, how much toil will there be, how much sweat

of men and horses! How many deaths of the Dardan people

will move you? Already, Pallas Minerva prepares

her helmet and shield, her chariot and her wrath.

This daring is fruitless: under Venus’ protection

you will comb your hair and share the tranquil lyre

and songs with women. You will hide away in your

love-chamber,

far from the heavy spear and the spines of Cretan arrows

and the clamor of war, and swift Ajax will follow you

However, you will wash your lecherous hair in dust

(too late though, pity).

Do you not recall Ulysses, the ruin of your nation

Nor Pylian Nestor? Salaminian Teucer

Presses you fearlessly, as does Sthenelus

Smart in a fight, nor dull as a charioteer

In the business of commanding horses;

You’ll also learn of Meriones. Look, bloody Tydides

 and his more skillful father, he burns to find you

You little bitch, you will flee him, high headed and wheezing

just as a deer flees, heedless of his forage

having seen the wolf in the adjacent vale,

You didn’t promise this to your girl.

The choler of Achilles’ fleet may delay

the Phyrgian day for Ilium and its women;

But after a certain winter, the Achaian fires

will burn Trojan homes.

This is an interesting poem, I think, because under most circumstances, Romans were firmly under team Trojan. Romans prided themselves on being the descendants of Aeneas (though to be perfectly fair, there's not exactly a 1:1 causation there), and in any case were not going to associate themselves with a bunch of tricksy Greeks. However, whoever you are, be you on the side of Trojans or Greeks, and whether you idealize, humanize or demonize the other side, there is one thing that all Trojan war fans can agree on: Paris is a snotty little bitch. This little cunt breaks sacred hospitality to stow away Helen (who, depending on whom you ask, may or may not be okay with this) and proceeds to dick around in the citadel of Troy while his brother, Hector, deals with the giant Greek Army which came frothing at the mouth thirsty for Trojan blood (well, most of them). At no point does he offer to recompense to the Greeks, and the one time he does duel Menelaus, which could have ended the war with both sides standing, Venus bails him out right after he got his ass handed to him. Later, he kills Achilles with a poisoned arrow, like a cunt. To top it all off, the entire thing was because he said that Venus was the prettiest between her, Juno and Minerva. This, of course is contrary to all common sense, as everyone knows that when asked to mediate between a dispute among gods, the correct thing to do is kill yourself.    

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.14 Hint: It's a Conceit

The Latin:
O nauis, referent in mare te noui
fluctus. O quid agis? Fortiter occupa
     portum. Nonne uides ut
     nudum remigio latus,
et malus celeri saucius Africo
antemnaque gemant ac sine funibus
     uix durare carinae
     possint imperiosius
aequor? Non tibi sunt integra lintea,
non di, quos iterum pressa uoces malo.
     Quamuis Pontica pinus,
     siluae filia nobilis,
iactes et genus et nomen inutile:
nil pictis timidus nauita puppibus
      fidit. Tu, nisi uentis
     debes ludibrium, caue.
Nuper sollicitum quae mihi taedium,
nunc desiderium curaque non leuis,
     interfusa nitentis
      uites aequora Cycladas.

The Translation:
Oh ship, new waves bring you back
on the sea. Oh, how do you fare?
Bravely take the harbor!
Do you not see the side, stripped of its oars,


and badly wounded by the swift Southwest,
the mast groaning and the keels
without binds, scarcely able to hold
the too-powerful waters?


You do not have sound sails,
no gods, to whom you call while badly pressed
Though you boast Pontic pine,
the noble sylvan daughter,


both its name and its race, it is useless
No wary sailor would sail on your painted
prow. You must beware, or else
you will be the wind's toy.


You, who before was vexing and dull to me,
is now my passion and my weighty care,
you must avoid the waters
between the glistening Cyclades

So in case you missed it in the title, this is actually a conceit, or an extended metaphor, specifically for Rome and its long Civil wars. I couldn't say why, but it seems to be a very popular metaphor to use. As I mentioned before in the Ode to Vergil, the opening storm in the Aeneid is also a metaphor for the Civil Wars. They must have felt really strongly about this metaphor, because Jesus Christ, they use it over and bloody over again.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.13: Lady Issues

The Latin:
  Cum tu, Lydia, Telephi
ceruicem roseam, cerea Telephi
     laudas bracchia, uae, meum
feruens difficili bile tumet iecur.
      Tunc nec mens mihi nec color
certa sede manet, umor et in genas 
     furtim labitur, arguens
quam lentis penitus macerer ignibus.
     Vror, seu tibi candidos
turparunt umeros inmodicae mero
     rixae, siue puer furens
inpressit memorem dente labris notam.
     Non, si me satis audias,
speres perpetuum dulcia barbare
      laedentem oscula, quae Venus
quinta parte sui nectaris imbuit.
     Felices ter et amplius
quos inrupta tenet copula nec malis
     diuolsus querimoniis
suprema citius soluet amor die.

The Translation:
Lydia, when you praise
Telephus' rosy neck,
his pliant arms, alas,
my heart swells, growing hot
with morose melancholy.
At those times, not my mind
nor my complexion stays
in its reliable place
and blood furtively
slips into my cheeks
proving how deep inside I am
consumed by unyielding flames.
I am burned, whether your
shoulders are disfigured
from too many wine-fueled fights
or some wild boy stamps an
evident mark on your lips with his teeth.
If you listen to me enough,
you don't hope for sweet lips,
to which Venus supplied
a fifth of her own nectar,
barbarically attacking forever.
They are blessed three times and more,
whom love holds with an unbroken bond
and, having torn away evil quarrels
will not quickly dissolve
until their final days.


So, while I am always a proponent of using classical texts to gain new insights and perspectives on life, relationship advice is not something that I would recommend you look for. Classical poets are absolutely awful with relationships (especially Catullus). It actually seems that most artists have a pretty terrible idea of what relationships are supposed to be like. One example that comes to mind are modern songwriters, who seem to be in one of two camps: the first, which is the realm of many hip-hop artists and upbeat-party musicians is that the ideal relationship is emotionally vacant and solely focused on physicality (hey,intimacy is scary). In rock and artsy music, being clingy, co-dependent and generally emotionally draining, both during and after relationship is romanticized, (for some reason). I suppose conflict is interesting and materialism is glamorous, and over-all having an emotionally healthy and stable relationship is kind of boring and bragging about it will win few friends.
That being said, there is one guy who got it right: Ovid, in his best-selling, controversial didactic poem Ars Amatoria. Some tips and tricks to help you win over your lady-friend for certain:
-Remember her birthday
-Wipe dust off her lap at the races
-Offer your own lap as a cushion (A silver bullet right here) 
-Make her jealous of other girls
-Don't ask what her age is
-How to sneak around her husband (Very important)
And even after all that, you need to break it off, don't fret! Ol' Schnozy's got you covered with Remedia Amoris! These handy tips will help your break-up and post-break up be quick and easy!
-Don't ever leave work
-Make sex really uncomfortable
-Have an affair (or several!)
-Think about how much being in a relationship sucks
-Cut off contact with everyone she knows
-Don't tell her why you're breaking up 
Once you've made your lady-friend your lady-enemy, here's some ways to help ease the insurmmountable emotional distress!
-Don't watch or read anything about love
-Never mention your relationship again
-Don't drink moderately: If you're going to drink, drink in excess.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.12, Stalling Tactics

The Latin:
Quem uirum aut heroa lyra uel acri
tibia sumis celebrare, Clio?
Quem deum? Cuius recinet iocosa
     nomen imago

aut in umbrosis Heliconis oris
aut super Pindo gelidoue in Haemo?
Vnde uocalem temere insecutae
     Orphea siluae

arte materna rapidos morantem
fluminum lapsus celerisque uentos,
blandum et auritas fidibus canoris
     ducere quercus.

Quid prius dicam solitis parentis
laudibus, qui res hominum ac deorum,
qui mare ac terras uariisque mundum
     temperat horis?

Vnde nil maius generatur ipso
nec uiget quicquam simile aut secundum;
proximos illi tamen occupabit
      Pallas honores. 

Proeliis audax, neque te silebo,
Liber, et saeuis inimica uirgo
beluis, nec te, metuende certa
     Phoebe sagitta.

Dicam et Alciden puerosque Ledae,
hunc equis, illum superare pugnis
nobilem; quorum simul alba nautis
     stella refulsit,

defluit saxis agitatus umor,
concidunt uenti fugiuntque nubes 
et minax, quod sic uoluere, ponto
     unda recumbit. 

Romulum post hos prius an quietum
Pompili regnum memorem, an superbos
Tarquini fasces, dubito, an Catonis
     nobile letum. 

Regulum et Scauros animaeque magnae
prodigum Paulum superante Poeno
gratus insigni referam Camena
      Fabriciumque.    
     
Hunc et incomptis Curium capillis
utilem bello tulit et Camillum
saeua paupertas et auitus apto
     cum lare fundus. 

Crescit occulto uelut arbor aeuo 
fama Marcelli; micat inter omnis
Iulium sidus, uelut inter ignis
     luna minores. 

Gentis humanae pater atque custos,
orte Saturno, tibi cura magni
Caesaris fatis data: tu secundo
     Caesare regnes.

Ille seu Parthos Latio imminentis
egerit iusto domitos triumpho
siue subiectos Orientis orae
     Seras et Indos, 

te minor laetum reget aequus orbem:
tu graui curru quaties Olympum,
tu parum castis inimica mittes
      fulmina lucis. 

The Translation:
What man or hero do you praise
with the lyre or the high shrill flute, Cleo?
What god? Whose name will resound
with happy echoes


Either on the shadowy slopes of Helicon,
above icy Pindus, or on Haemus Mons?
Whence the woods blindly followed
Orpheus' voice,


which, by his mother's art, stopped
flowing rivers and rushing winds
and lead listening oaks with grace
and melodious chords.


Of whom shall I first sing the praises
reserved for the Father, who rules
the affairs of men and gods, who
tempers the seas, the various lands of the world
and the seasons?


From whom no one greater than himself was born
nor is anyone as powerful or nearly as powerful;
Minerva, however will gain the closest honors
to him.


She is dauntless in combat, and I will not be silent
of you Bacchus, nor to you Virgin of crossroads,
enemy of beasts, nor you, Apollo, feared
for your sure-shot arrows.


I will even sing of Hercules, and Leda's boys
this one famed for his victory in horse-riding,
the other in boxing; whenever their white stars
shine for sailors,


churning waters flow from the cliffs,
they beat down the winds and put clouds to flight
and, because they will it so, threatening waves
slink back into the sea.


I don't know whether to praise Romulus afterword,
or the memory of Numa's peaceful reign,
or Tarquins arrogant fasces, or the noble
death of Cato.


Grateful, with distinguished poems I recall
Regulus and the Scauri, Paulus, wasteful
of his great life, overcome by the Phoenician,
and Fabricus.


I tell of him, and Curius with uncut hair
and Camillus, ever the pragmatist in war,
on account of his savage poverty, his
worthy gods and ancestral homeland.


Marcellus' glory grows silently
like a tree in time; Julian stars
shines bright among the others,
just as the moon among lesser lights.




Father and watchman of the nations of men,
son of Saturn, the responsibility of great Caesar
was given to you by fate: you will rule
with Caesar your regent.


Whether he leads the vanquished Persians
or menacing Latium in a just triumph
or the Seras and Indians who live under
the sky of the Orient,


Second to you, he will rule the world well,
You will shake Olympus with your heavy chariot
you'll send hostile flames to sacred groves
once pure.


Jesus, that was a long one. Still, it wasn't the worst I've had; this is a relatively straightforward poem, a nice bit of brown-nosing on Horace's part. This is the sort of poem you certainly wouldn't see in a Latin class, that's for certain. It's long, it's not particularly interesting and there's a bunch of references to mythology and history that are pretty obscure. The only things I will clarify are some metonymic allusions. The Father, of course, is Jupiter, the Virgin of crossroads is Diana, goddess of the moon, the hunt, and crossroads (for some reason), and the Phoenician is Hannibal, who basically is like Napoleon mixed with Hitler in Roman eyes (that is to say, the archtypical Enemy, but somewhat respected and not shorthand for Evil).

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.11: The Translation's Always Wrong

Well, here am I, the lazy fool once again! I apologize for not getting in the promised poem yesterday, especially since this one has proved to be the most famous of all Horace's poems, for less than a single line, no less!

The Latin:

Tu ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
temptaris numeros. Vt melius quicquid erit pati!
Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum, sapias, uina liques et spatio breui
spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit inuida
aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. 

The Translation:

Do not seek, for it is wrong to know, what destiny

gods have given to me or to you, Leuconoe,

nor test the Babylonian tallies; as it is better to

endure, whatever may come:

whether Jupiter allots us many winters,

or this final one, which even now cripples the cliffs against the Tyrrhenian sea.

Prudence! Strain your wine and prune back long hopes to a smaller space:
Whilst we speak, envious time will flee

gather this day, trust in tomorrow as little as possible.

Okay for those of you who read the Latin, you know why this poem is so popular. It is this poem which is the origin of "carpe diem" usually translated as "sieze the day." It should also be noted that that translation is wrong, misses the point of the poem completely and is overall the sort of inane bullshit that spawned YOLO and other trite, dated crap like that. The overall point of the poem is to not trust the future to provide for you, and to focus on bettering your present condition. "Carpe"  follows through with the gardening metaphor in the previous line, and literally means to "gather the best" like you would when picking fruit. Goddamn it, It makes me livid.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.10, Ballad of the Psychopomp

The Latin:
Mercuri, facunde nepos Atlantis,
qui feros cultus hominum recentum
uoce formasti catus et decorae
more palaestrae,

te canam, magni Iouis et deorum
nuntium curuaeque lyrae parentem,
callidum quicquid placuit iocoso
condere furto.

Te, boues olim nisi reddidisses
per dolum amotas, puerum minaci
uoce dum terret, uiduus pharetra
risit Apollo.

Quin et Atridas duce te superbos
Ilio diues Priamus relicto
Thessalosque ignis et iniqua Troiae
castra fefellit.

Tu pias laetis animas reponis
sedibus uirgaque leuem coerces
aurea turbam, superis deorum
gratus et imis.   

The Translation:
Mercury, eloquent grandson of Atlas
who, cunning, cultivated
the cruel custom of young mankind
with his voice and founded the honored gymnasium


I sing of you, herald of great Jove
and the gods and the father of the curved lyre
and sly, hiding whatever pleases in a
jolly trick.


Once, unless you returned the cows that you stole
through your cunning while Apollo feared the threatening voice
of a boy while he laughed at his widowed quiver


Moreover, by your lead wealthy Priam
cheated proud Atridas, with Ilium left behind,
and tricked Thessalian watchfires and the camp
hostle to Troy


You lead pious souls back
to blessed homes and contain
the fickle uproar with your golden wand
and are dear to the gods, highest and lowest. 

Well this was a nice little apostrophe to Mercury. It's a pretty straightforward poem, and gives a good overview of Mercury's achievements. He's the trickster god of the Pantheon, he invented the lyre and stole Apollo's herd of cattle when he was a baby (why the sun god has a herd of cows, or what a baby would want with cows, I couldn't say. If I remember correctly, Mercury did invent the lyre using one of the sun-cow's intestines for string). The fourth stanza is an allusion to the Iliad, when Priam goes to Achilles to beg for Hector's body back. Interestingly, Mercury was one of the few gods who remained neutral in the war, along with Jupiter and Pluto (I'm just going to keep using the Roman names for consistancy's sake). I think this has to do with Mercury's role as a psychopomp, or a god who leads spirits to the underworld, like the Grim Reaper. I suppose in Homer's work, agents of death don't take sides, they just clean up afterwords (so long as you're buried properly that is. If you're not you can right well fuck off). One last interesting thing is that in the last stanza, souls are lead back to Elysium. This has a connection to the universe as presented in the Aenied, where souls come and go between the world and the underworld, which, so I am told, is very neoplatonic. I couldn't say for certain, though, as I'm not overly familiar with neoplatonism.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.9: A Remedy for the Winter Blues

The Latin:
Vides ut alta stet niue candidum
Soracte nec iam sustineant onus
siluae laborantes geluque
flumina constiterint acuto?

Dissolue frigus ligna super foco
large reponens atque benignius
deprome quadrimum Sabina,
o Thaliarche, merum diota.

Permitte diuis cetera, qui simul
strauere uentos aequore feruido
deproeliantis, nec cupressi
nec ueteres agitantur orni.

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere, et
quem fors dierum cumque dabit, lucro
adpone nec dulcis amores
sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,

donec uirenti canities abest
morosa. Nunc et Campus et areae
lenesque sub noctem susurri
composita repetantur hora,

nunc et latentis proditor intumo 
gratus puellae risus ab angulo
pignusque dereptum lacertis

aut digito male pertinaci.


The Translation:

Do you see that Socrates stands, white with snow

do straining forests hold up this burden,

are the rivers still with bitter ice?

Unfreeze the chilly logs, placing them above

an abundant hearth and more favorably

pour the four-winter vintage

from the worthy Sabine jar, Thaliarce.

Leave other things to the gods, who

as they restrain the belligerent winds

from stormy seas, so they don’t agitate

the cypress, nor the aged ash.

Avoid the question “what will happen tomorrow?”

and assign gain to whatever the daily fortune gives,

do not spurn sweet lovers, boy, nor the dance,

so long as your bloom is free of morose grey hairs.

Now both the playing fields and the arenas

and soft whispers repeated under night

at the appointed hour.

Even now, pleasant laughter betrays

the girl hidden in a secret niche and

and the hostage taken from  the barely

resisting arms with a finger.

This is a theme which Horace seems to like: "Fuck it, we're young. Let's get wasted and make out" (or something like that). I have to say that I am not overly fond of these types of poems, but I suspect that's because I skipped the intermediary period between kid and dour, businesslike old man. Horace also seems to be fascinated with the seasons, and here, like in 1.4 seems to equate the coming of spring to youth. I can't imagine why he would possibly do that. Doesn't seem right. I'm not sure where he was going with the allusion to Socrates at the beginning, but as an admirer of his work, I'm sorely disappointed this poem wasn't about him.