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.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.8, Meringued Pie

Hello again, dear readers! It is that time again, so strap in your poetry reading helmets (safety first) and let's begin!

The Latin:
Lydia, dic, per omnis
te deos oro, Sybarin cur properes amando
perdere, cur apricum
oderit Campum, patiens pulueris atque solis,
cur neque militaris               5
inter aequalis equitet, Gallica nec lupatis
temperet ora frenis.
Cur timet flauum Tiberim tangere? Cur oliuum
sanguine uiperino
cautius uitat neque iam liuida gestat armis
bracchia, saepe disco
saepe trans finem iaculo nobilis expedito?
quid latet, ut marinae
filium dicunt Thetidis sub lacrimosa Troia
funera, ne uirilis
cultus in caedem et Lycias proriperet cateruas? 

The Translation:


Tell me Lydia, by all
the gods I beg you, why do you hurry
to ruin Sybaris by your love,
why does he hate the sunny field, enduring the dust and the sun
and why does he not ride among equal soldiers
nor temper the mouths of Gallic steeds with pointed bits?
Why is he frightened to touch the yellow Tiber?
Why does he avoid the olive with more caution than viper's ichor?
And does not now bear his weapons in his bruised arms,
which are often praised for the disc or
the javelin thrown across the border?
Why is he hiding, just they say that the son of
aquatic Thetis did before the tragic death of Troy,
Lest his virile disguise would bring the Lycian band
to slaughter.

I suppose it's bound to happen to everybody at some point. You get in a relationship and then the rest of your life just kind of falls apart because you're so distracted. I don't know this Sybaris fellow, nor his girl Lydia, but apparently that's what's happening here. The one allusion at the end of the is to Achilles, whose mother tried to disguise him as a woman so he wouldn't die at Troy, (Spoiler alert: it doesn't work).

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.7, Alcohol is Always a Solution

Hello again, dear readers! I thought that this poem was more fitting for the evening than during the day, because nobody should be day-drinking.

The Latin:
Laudabunt alii claram Rhodon aut Mytilenen
aut Ephesum bimarisue Corinthi
moenia uel Baccho Thebas uel Apolline Delphos
insignis aut Thessala Tempe;
sunt quibus unum opus est intactae Palladis urbem
carmine perpetuo celebrare et
undique decerptam fronti praeponere oliuam;
plurimus in Iunonis honorem
aptum dicet equis Argos ditesque Mycenas:
me nec tam patiens Lacedaemon
nec tam Larisae percussit campus opimae
quam domus Albuneae resonantis
et praeceps Anio ac Tiburni lucus et uda
mobilibus pomaria riuis.
Albus ut obscuro deterget nubila caelo
saepe Notus neque parturit imbris
perpetuo, sic tu sapiens finire memento
tristitiam uitaeque labores
molli, Plance, mero, seu te fulgentia signis
castra tenent seu densa tenebit
Tiburis umbra tui. Teucer Salamina patremque
cum fugeret, tamen uda Lyaeo
tempora populea fertur uinxisse corona,
sic tristis affatus amicos:
'Quo nos cumque feret melior fortuna parente,
ibimus, o socii comitesque.
Nil desperandum Teucro duce et auspice Teucro:
certus enim promisit Apollo
ambiguam tellure noua Salamina futuram.
O fortes peioraque passi
mecum saepe uiri, nunc uino pellite curas;
cras ingens iterabimus aequor.' 

The Translation:
Others praise famed Rhodes or Mytilene
Or Ephesus or of two-coasted walls of Corinth,
Thebes is distinguished by Bacchus, Delphi Apollo, Thessala Tempe;
There are those for whom there is work to celebrate
the singular city of virgin Minerva with endless songs
and to place plucked olive branches on their brows from all parts;
many offer honors for Juno,
Argive steeds and Mycenaean treasure:
neither enduring Lacedaemon,
nor the fields of fertile Larisa strike me so
as the home of the resounding Sybil,
the preciptous Aniene, the grove of the Tiber
and the orchards watered by flowing rivers.
As often as the white South Wind clears
the dark sky of clouds and never births rains
forever, thus you are wise, mindful
that sadness and the trials of life end,
with soothing pure wine, Plancus, whether
The gleaming camps keep you with the standard
or the thick shadows of the Tiber will hold you.
When Teucer fled Salamina and his father,
nevertheless it is said that he bound his temples
with a crown of popular, moist with Lyaean wine,
and, grief-struck he addressed his friends:
“Comrades and allies, wherever we shall go
fortune will bear us more kindly than my father.
There is nothing to dispair, with Teucer as your leader
and Teucer as your auger, for resolute Apollo promised
an uncertain future to Salamina in a new world.
Brave men, men who have suffered worse,
men forever with me, strike away your cares with wine
Tomorrow, we will sail the great sea!”


I don't have much to comment on this poem. It pretty much speaks for itself: when your life is shit, just drink and your problems go away until tomorrow. Even in ancient Rome, poets gave terrible life advice. As to Teucer, I am not overly familiar with him outside of being an archer and a captain during the Trojan war. Your guess beyond that is as good as mine.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.6, the Greatest Story that ever Wasn't

Hello Again, dear readers! There's no need for fancy introductions, we're all friends here. Let's get right into the text, shall we?

The Latin:

Scriberis Vario fortis et hostium

uictor, Maeonii carminis alite,

quam rem cumque ferox nauibus aut equis

miles te duce gesserit.

Nos, Agrippa, neque haec dicere nec grauem 

Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii,

nec cursus duplicis per mare Vlixei

nec saeuam Pelopis domum

conamur, tenues grandia, dum pudor

inbellisque lyrae Musa potens uetat 

laudes egregii Caesaris et tuas

culpa deterere ingeni.

Quis Martem tunica tectum adamantina

digne scripserit aut puluere Troico

nigrum Merionen aut ope Palladis 

Tydiden superis parem?

Nos conuiuia, nos proelia uirginum

sectis in iuuenes unguibus acrium

cantamus, uacui siue quid urimur

non praeter solitum leues.  

The Translations:

You will be been written about even by Varius,

Brave vanquisher of foes, by the wings of Maeonian songs

Whatever things the fierce soldier or ships or horsemen

Carry with you, leader

I, Agrippa, attempt neither to say these things nor

Yield to the grave rage of Achilles the Stubborn,

Nor the twofold course of Ulysses through the seas

Nor the cruel home of Pelops, should your greatness be lessened,

Whilst the chaste, powerful Muse, of the lyre unfit for war

Forbids that I wear away the greatness of

Caesar the Eminent and your own guilt of genius

Who will write properly about Mars, cloaked in the adamant tunic

Or Meriones, black with Trojan sand, or Tydides,

Equal to the gods by the work of Minerva?

I sing of banquets, I sing of the battles of bitter girls

With uncut nails against boys

Whether I am empty or whether I burn

I am not beyond my accustomed lightness. 

The general theme of this poem seems to be a reflection on the general policy of Alexandrian writers. That is to say, they were extremely opposed to writing epics, and only stuck to shorter poems about light things. Of course, this seems not to have stopped Vergil or Varius (who apparently wrote an epic, an award winning play celebrating the battle of Actium, neither of which survive, and was one of the editors of the Aeneid after Vergil died. Vergil, it seems, was very jealous of him). Agrippa, likewise was the original heir to the Empire, and Augustus, for as clever as a man as he was, didn't really have much in the way of a contingency plan for when he died. I suppose there isn't much else to say about this poem, other than it is a poem about how Horace couldn't write a more interesting poem about Agrippa. Oh well. 

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.5, Trouble at Sea.

Hello once again, dear readers! I have yet another poem for you all! It's actually one of my favorites of Horace, so I hope you enjoy!

The Latin:

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa

perfusus liquidis urget odoribus

grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?

cui flauam religas comam,

simplex munditiis? Heu quotiens fidem

mutatosque deos flebit et aspera

nigris aequora uentis

emirabitur insolens,

qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,

qui semper uacuam, semper amabilem

sperat, nescius aurae

fallacis. Miseri, quibus

intemptata nites. Me tabula sacer

uotiua paries indicat uuida

suspendisse potenti

uestimenta maris deo.

The Translation:

What slender, perfumed boy, on a bed of rose petals

In some pleasing cave, besets you now, Pyrrha?

For whom do you tie back your golden hair

With simple elegance? Alas, how often

He will lament his faith and fickle gods,

black winds and violent seas,

the awestruck fool

who now, trusting, loves you, gilded,

who hopes you are always free and always loving,

ignorant of your deceitful breaths.

You, yet untouched, still shine for them,

These miserable boys. For my own part,

The sacred walls show me with votive tablets

And dripping clothes, hung up to dry

By the mighty god of seas. 

I think we've all known someone like this, someone who's a frustrating tease who you just want to slap in the face and tell them to stop with their bullshit. I suppose the next best thing is to write a poem about them so everyone knows 2000 years in the future that whoever this Pyrrha is must be an insufferable bitch. A note which will clarify the one confusing this poem, in the fourth stanza this is an allusion to the practice of shipwrecked sailors. When they finally made landfall, they would go to the nearest temple of Neptune and give thanks that they were spared and ceremonially hang up their wet clothes (what they did if they were dry before they got there, I can't say). One other thing, there is a bonus for English speakers which isn't present in the Latin. In the first line in the third stanza, the word "aurea" can be translated as either "golden" or "gilded." Of course, you would be a fool to use golden when gilded is a perfect description for Pyrrha, a beautiful appearance with a rotten core.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.4, Such Springtime. Many Allegory. Wow.

Hello again, dear readers! Here we are transitioning from some of the lengthier poems to the more compact ones. Don't worry though, because there is still a lot of great stuff. Just a note, I'm going to start putting my commentaries after the poems, so you can get the full, fresh experience and then afterwords hear my ramblings about it. Enjoy!

The Latin:

Soluitur acris hiems grata uice ueris et Fauoni

trahuntque siccas machinae carinas,

ac neque iam stabulis gaudet pecus aut arator igni

nec prata canis albicant pruinis.

Iam Cytherea choros ducit Venus imminente luna

iunctaeque Nymphis Gratiae decentes

alterno terram quatiunt pede, dum grauis Cyclopum

Volcanus ardens uisit officinas.

Nunc decet aut uiridi nitidum caput impedire myrto

aut flore, terrae quem ferunt solutae;

nunc et in umbrosis Fauno decet immolare lucis,

seu poscat agna siue malit haedo.

Pallida Mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas

regumque turris. O beate Sesti,

uitae summa breuis spem nos uetat inchoare longam.

Iam te premet nox fabulaeque Manes

et domus exilis Plutonia, quo simul mearis,

nec regna uini sortiere talis

nec tenerum Lycidan mirabere, quo calet iuuentus

nunc omnis et mox uirgines tepebunt.

The Translation:

The bitter winter is unbound by dear spring and the western winds

And machines haul the boats ashore.

And the herds are no longer satisfied with their stables, nor the plowman with his fire

Nor are the meadows whitened by ashen frost.

Now Cytherean Venus leads the dances, moon overhead

And Nymphs fittingly join hands with the Graces

And they beat the earth with rhythmic feet, while stern Vulcan

Visits the Cyclopes at their weighty office.

Now it is fitting to grace the gleaming brow with verdant myrtle

Or flowers, which the unbound lands bear

Now it is fitting to sacrifice to Faunus in shady groves,

Whether he asks for a ewe, or if he prefers a goat kid.

Pale death beats his foot equally on the hovels of paupers

And regal palaces. Blessed Sestus,

The short sum of life prohibits us from drafting long hopes.

Already, night and fabled shades and the poor Plutonian house

To which you already travel, press upon you,

Neither to be elected master of wine with dice,

Nor to admire tender Lycida, for whom every boy is now hot

And soon girls will grow hot too.

Ode 1.4 is an interesting poem, I've always thought. The transition around line thirteen is really abrupt, switching from a celebration of spring to a somber meditation on mortality (Horace likes these). However, at a second look, you can see an interesting trend, because the first half of the poem kind of has a cycle of life hidden away. In the first four lines, there is birth: the farmers and cattle leave from the safety of their shelters, just like an infant leaves the womb. The next two lines are childhood and youth: Venus, the Nymphs and the Graces have the same carefree love as is reported to occur in youth (for my own part, I would say that poets tend to forget that being young actually kind of sucks). Next, with Vulcan and the Cyclopes and crowns of myrtle and flowers, we have hard work, and high praise, the meat and drink of adulthood. Finally you descend into the dark home of Faunus, a wild and frightful God, and here there is death. I don't know the official academic position on this, but I think that the narrative of spring is a bit more allegorical than literal, especially since half of the poem is about death. The latter half is very much like Ode 1.11 (The famous Carpe Diem poem, which we will get to later. I have some problems with the way it's been interpreted), except while 1.11 is more uplifting, the tone of this one is more so of "yeah but at the end of the day, you're still dead." Horace is super uplifting like that.

Summer of Horace: Ode 1.3, Uplifting Travel Advice

Hello dear readers, it is time for poetry! Twice in one day, you lucky dogs. This poem is a poem addressed to Vergil, who was on a trip to Athens at the time of writing. It is a very cheery poem about the continual folly of man, which seems like a great thing to write for a friend who is making a dangerous voyage. One interesting thing is the imagery of the cruel, belligerent winds, which may have inspired the personification of winds in the Aeneid (I don't know the official word on this, but this poem was addressed to Vergil, so I suppose it's not unlikely). Another small note, the son of Japtus is Prometheus, and that line is a great example of Alexandrian allusion. The Alexandrian school was a school of poetry who wrote mostly lyric stuff, no epics (they thought that epic poetry should begin and end with Homer), and was very popular during late Republican Rome. Their shtick was to make as many as obtuse allusions as possible, usually to mythology and geography, just to prove how smart they were and generally be huge douchebags, kind of like those people who will throw references of Infinite Jest and obscure garage bands into daily conversation. Basically, Alexandrians were the hipster scum of the late BCs.

Sincere Regards,

Michael Coffey 

The Latin:

Sic te diua potens Cypri,

sic fratres Helenae, lucida sidera,

uentorumque regat pater

obstrictis aliis praeter Iapyga,

nauis, quae tibi creditum              

debes Vergilium; finibus Atticis

reddas incolumem precor

et serues animae dimidium meae.

Illi robur et aes triplex

circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci               

commisit pelago ratem

primus, nec timuit praecipitem Africum

decertantem Aquilonibus

nec tristis Hyadas nec rabiem Noti,

quo non arbiter Hadriae               

maior, tollere seu ponere uolt freta.

Quem mortis timuit gradum

qui siccis oculis monstra natantia,

qui uidit mare turbidum et

infamis scopulos Acroceraunia?               

Nequicquam deus abscidit

prudens Oceano dissociabili

terras, si tamen impiae

non tangenda rates transiliunt uada.

Audax omnia perpeti              

gens humana ruit per uetitum nefas;

audax Iapeti genus

ignem fraude mala gentibus intulit;

post ignem aetheria domo

subductum macies et noua febrium     

terris incubuit cohors

semotique prius tarda necessitas

leti corripuit gradum.

Expertus uacuum Daedalus aera

pennis non homini datis;  

perrupit Acheronta Herculeus labor.

Nil mortalibus ardui est;

caelum ipsum petimus stultitia neque

per nostrum patimur scelus

iracunda Iouem ponere fulmina.

The Translation:

Thus the mighty goddess of Cyprus,

thus Helen’s brothers, the shining stars

the father of winds guide you,

all but the Northwest restrained,

ship, you who are entrusted with Vergil,

I pray that you return safely to Attic lands,

and you watch over that half of my soul.

Oak and copper thrice was wrapped round my heart

which first bound the fragile raft to the savage sea,

it neither fears the headlong Southwest wind fighting with the North,

nor will the doleful Rains, nor the South’s wrath,

(there is no greater judge of the Adriatic

whether he wishes to stir or sooth the seas).

What stage of death does he fear,

he, who with dry eyes saw swimming terrors,

the tumbling sea and the infamous Ceraunian cliffs?

Wise God split the earth with the discordant Ocean in vain

if, even still, impious boats skim across the untouchable depths.

The human race is eager to suffer every forbidden sin;

the daring son of Japtus brought fire to the nations with an evil trick;

after the fire was brought from it’s ethereal home,

want and a new court of fever fell upon the earth

And need spurred on the once-slow state of distant death.

Though Daedalus could not give the empty air

 to man with wings, he tried.

The hardship of Hercules broke through the Archeon;

there is nothing too steep for mortals;

we aim for Heaven itself with folly and

Because of our sins, we do not let

Jove lay down his wrathful flames.