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“The Mad Poet” after Horace, Epistula ad Pisones 
(Ars Poetica, 453-476) 

 
Translation and Commentary: Stephen Rojcewicz 

 
As if he spread filthy scabies, or jaundice, 
Or bigoted fury and lunatic frenzy, 
The mad poet is snubbed and dodged by the wise, 
While ruffian, reckless boys torment and hound him. 
While he belches his stanzas, head in the clouds 
Like a hunter intent on a blackbird, 
He topples over into a well or pit. However long 
He yells, “Help! Citizens!” no one bothers to salvage him. 
If someone would trouble to lower a rope, 
I’d say, “How do you know he didn’t jump on purpose 
And doesn’t want rescue?” and I’d recount 
The extinction of that Sicilian poet: 

Empedocles, longing to be esteemed a god, 
Hurled himself, cold-blooded, into fiery Etna. 

For poets, it should be lawful to kill themselves! 
Who saves the unwilling really commits murder. 
 
This isn’t the first time the mad poet has toppled;  
Dragged out, he’d still remain a mortal,  
He will never relinquish 
His yearning for a spectacular death. 
It’s not clear why he’s cursed to continue writing: 
Perhaps he made water on his father’s ashes, 
Or polluted a spot sanctified by lightning. 
He is mad, for sure. Like a fierce bear 
Who shatters the bars of his cage, 
He frightens off, through his pitiless recitals, 
The ignorant as well as the learned. 
In truth, unyielding, he will clutch anyone,  
Crushing him with all his readings, 
A leech that won’t drop until glutted with blood. 
 
 
Q. HORATII FLACCI ARS POETICA 
lines 453-476 
 
Vt mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urget 
aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
uesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam, 
qui sapiunt; agitant pueri incautique sequuntur. 
Hic dum sublimis uersus ructatur et errat, 
si ueluti merulis intentus decidit auceps 



 Rojcewicz 29

in puteum foueamue, licet “succurrite” longum 
clamet “io ciues,” non sit qui tollere curet. 
Si curet quis opem ferre et demittere funem, 
"qui scis an prudens huc se deiecerit atque 
seruari nolit?” dicam, Siculique poetae 
narrabo interitum. Deus inmortalis haberi 
dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus Aetnam           
insiluit. Sit ius liceatque perire poetis; 
inuitum qui seruat, idem facit occidenti. 
Nec semel hoc fecit nec, si retractus erit, iam 
fiet homo et ponet famosae mortis amorem. 
Nec satis apparet cur uersus factitet, utrum   
minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
mouerit incestus; certe furit, ac uelut ursus, 
obiectos caueae ualuit si frangere clatros, 
indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus; 
quem uero arripuit, tenet occiditque legendo, 
non missura cutem nisi plena cruoris hirudo. 
 
 
Commentary: 
Having often read praises of Horace’s poetic treatise on poetry, commonly 
called the Ars Poetica [The Art of Poetry] although it is formally named Epistula 
ad Pisones [Letter to the Pisos], I was quite disappointed in the first English 
translations I read in the 1960s and 1970s. Most versions seemed to me to be 
dull, without energy, very pedantic and stilted. No one reading these versions 
could imagine what made the work important or memorable. Although English 
translations have greatly improved since then, I would still like to offer a new 
version of the concluding section, which I have named The Mad Poet. These 
lines (453-476) may be the first ever description of a poetry reading (and you 
thought today’s amateur poets could be pushy and obnoxious). I translated the 
section almost literally, trying to use a vigorous vocabulary that still remained 
faithful to the original Latin. In one instance, I changed the active voice into 
passive, to allow the English syntax to be smoother. 
  



30 Delos

“Profession of Beliefs,” A Medieval Drinking Song 
after the Archpoet (Archipoeta): Confessio 

 
Translation and Commentary: Stephen Rojcewicz 

 
The fire within the goblet 
Ignites the soul’s true pattern. 
A heart soaked through with spirits 
Soars straight up to Saturn, 
My most delightful savor 
Is pure wine in a tavern, 
Sweeter than the watery mix 
Served by some bouncing slattern. 
 
 
Certain so-called poets 
Flee the public house with curses, 
Commit themselves to solitude 
As if they lived in hearses, 
Devote all hours, wide-awake, 
To struggle with reverses, 
At last they barely can disgorge 
A few clear-headed verses. 
 
 
These poets in their chorus 
Fast and teach resistance, 
Shun the uproar of the market, 
Always keep their distance. 
Trying to create a work 
Of undying subsistence, 
They die daily in their zeal 
For counterfeit existence. 
 
 
Poetic spirit never grabs 
My own imagination, 
Unless my belly first has reached 
The point of satiation. 
As long as Bacchus has the rule 
Of sense and cogitation, 
Apollo rushes into me, 
Dispensing inspiration. 
 
To each and every person 
Nature gives employment, 
But when I’m on the wagon, 



 Rojcewicz 31

No poems gain deployment, 
Yet just one little serving-lad 
Restores my true enjoyment, 
For I hate thirst and abstinence 
Like funereal annoy-ment. 
 
Each and every mortal 
Is granted a possession, 
Making verses from good wine 
Defines my own progression. 
A tavern cellar’s choicest cask 
Blesses my profession, 
A grand vintage vivifies 
Lyrical expression. 
 
  



32 Delos

Archipoeta, Excerpts from Confessio (circa 1164) 
 
Poculis accenditur  
animi lucerna, 
cor inbutum nectare  
volat ad superna; 
mihi sapit dulcius  
vinum de taberna 
quam quod aqua miscuit  
presulis pincerna. 
 
Loca vitant publica 
quidam poetarum, 
et secretas eligunt 
sedes latebrarum, 
student, instant, vigilant, 
nec laborant parum, 
et vix tandem reddere 
possunt opus clarum. 
 
Ieunant et abstinent 
poetarum chori, 
vitant rixas publicas 
et tumultus fori, 
et, ut opus faciant 
quod non possit mori, 
moriuntur studio 
subditi labori. 
 
Mihi nunquam spiritus 
poetrie datur, 
nisi prius fuerit 
venter bene satur; 
dum in arce cerebri 
Bachus dominatur, 
in me Phebus irruit, 
et miranda fatur. 
 
Unicuique proprium 
dat natura munus, 
ego numquam potui 
scribere ieiunus. 
Me ieiunum vincere 
posset puer unus, 
sitem et ieiunum 
odi tanquam funus. 
Unicuique proprium 



 Rojcewicz 33

dat natura donum; 
ego versus faciens 
bibo vinum bonum, 
et quod habent purius 
dolia cauponum, 
tale vinum generat 
copiam sermonem. 
 
 
Commentary: 
The Archpoet (Archipoeta) wrote in Latin in the Twelfth Century CE. Helen 
Waddell has called his Confessio  (circa 1164) the greatest drinking song in 
the world (Medieval Latin Lyrics, 1929, p. 339). Although his name is unknown, 
the internal evidence of his poems shows that he was in the retinue of the 
Archbishop of Cologne, who was also Chancellor to Emperor Frederick 
Barbarossa. In contrast to the quantitative meter of classic Latin verse, the 
Archpoet’s verse is accentual, like much of modern poetry. Many of us are 
familiar with this rhythm, used by the medieval wandering Goliard poets, from 
the songs in Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, where this poem is known by its first 
line, Estuans intrinsecus. The word confessio in Medieval Latin means “credo, 
acknowledgement, declaration of faith, acknowledgment of beliefs”; I have 
rendered the title as Profession of Beliefs. I translated only excerpts from the 
Confessio (stanzas 13-18), not the entire thirty stanzas.  
  



34 Delos

“Art” after Théophile Gautier, L’Art 
 

Translation and Commentary: Stephen Rojcewicz 
 
 
Yes, art emerges great 
From hardened forms that rebel: 

Onyx, slate, 
Marble, verse, villanelle. 
 
Instead of phantom shackles, 
In order to advance straight, 

Tackle, 
Muse, close-contoured restraints. 
 
Scorn the easy patterns 
Like shoes built extra-wide, 

Fashions 
In which any foot can slide. 
 
Sculptor, reject and shun 
Impressionable clay 

Which thumb 
Can shape while the mind’s astray. 
 
Struggle with Carrara, 
With Paros marble, dure 

And rare, 
Guarantors of the pure. 
 
Where Syracuse bequeaths 
Its resolute bronze 

There breathes 
The proud, precision stroke. 
 
With delicate technique 
Pursue in a vein of agate 

The faint streak 
Of Apollo’s portrait. 
 
Abstain from aquarelles, 
And find, painter, subtle 

Pastels 
Through the enameler’s kiln. 
 
Color sirens with blue glaze, 
Contorting their tails 



 Rojcewicz 35

Hundreds of ways, 
Monsters of heraldic shields; 
 
Portray with triplex aura 
The Virgin and her Son, 

A sphere 
With crucifix above. 
 
Everything passes. Powerful art alone 
Prevails for eternity. 

Busts of stone 
Will outlast any city. 
 
The austere medallion found 
By a provincial laborer 

Under ground 
Reveals an emperor. 
 
The gods themselves decay, 
But sovereign lines 

Will stay, 
More rugged now than bronze. 
 
Sculpt, chisel, engrave! 
Let your amorphous dream lock 

An eternal shape 
Within the resistant block. 
 
  



36 Delos

Théophile Gautier: L’Art, from Émaux et Camées (1852) 
 
Oui, l’oeuvre sort plus belle  
D’une forme au travail  
 Rebelle, 
Vers, marbre, onyx, émail. 
 
Point de contraintes fausses ! 
Mais que pour marcher droit 
 Tu chausses, 
Muse, un cothurne étroit. 
 
Fi du rhythme commode,  
Comme un soulier trop grand, 
 Du mode 
Que tout pied quitte et prend ! 
 
Statuaire, repousse 
L’argile que pétrit 
 Le pouce 
Quand flotte ailleurs l’esprit : 
 
Lutte avec le carrare, 
Avec le paros dur 
 Et rare, 
Gardiens du contour pur ; 
 
Emprunte à Syracuse 
Son bronze où fermement 
 S’accuse 
Le trait fier et charmant ; 
 
D’une main délicate 
Poursuis dans un filon 
 D’agate 
Le profil d'Apollon. 
 
Peintre, fuis l’aquarelle, 
Et fixe la couleur 
 Trop frêle 
Au four de l’émailleur. 
 
Fais les sirènes bleues,  
Tordant de cent façons  
 Leurs queues, 
Les monstres des blasons ; 
 



 Rojcewicz 37

Dans son nimbe trilobé  
La Vierge et son Jésus, 
 Le globe 
Avec la croix dessus. 
 
Tout passe. – L’art robuste  
Seul a l'éternité. 
 Le buste 
Survit à la cité. 
 
Et la médaille austère  
Que trouve un laboureur  
 Sous terre 
Révèle un empereur. 
 
Les dieux eux-mêmes meurent,  
Mais les vers souverains  
 Demeurent 
Plus forts que les airains. 
 
Sculpte, lime, cisèle ;  
Que ton rêve flottant  
 Se scelle 
Dans le bloc résistant ! 
 
 
Commentary: 
Théophile Gautier’s poem, L’Art, praises the emergence of art from the 
process of overcoming the difficulties inherent in the material (structured poetic 
forms, marble, onyx, enamel, etc.). My translation is somewhat loose, 
attempting to echo the original meter and rhyme scheme. One stanza 
particularly impressed me:  
 Et la médaille austère  
 Que trouve un laboureur  
  Sous terre 
 Révèle un empereur. 
Literally, it reads: “the austere coin/medal that a [farm] laborer finds under 
ground reveals an emperor.” While many ancient coins have been found by 
farmers ploughing their land, this sentence applies as well to the work of the 
poetry translator, that laborer who ploughs up original texts, trying to find an 
equivalent that would reveal for a contemporary audience the beauty and the 
significance of the poem. 
 
 




