28 Delos “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.