I Hate and I Love Read online

  Catullus

  * * *

  I HATE AND I LOVE

  Translated by Peter Whigham

  Contents

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  32

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  GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS

  Born c. 84 BCE

  Died c. 54 BCE

  Taken from Peter Whigham’s translation of The Poems, first published in 1966.

  CATULLUS IN PENGUIN CLASSICS

  The Poems

  1

  To whom should I present this

  little book so carefully polished

  but to you, Cornelius, who have always

  been so tolerant of my verses,

  you

  who of us all has dared

  to take the whole of human history

  as his field

  – three doctoral and weighty volumes!

  Accept my book, then, Cornelius

  for what it’s worth,

  and may the Muse herself

  turn as tolerant an eye upon these songs

  in days to come.

  5

  Lesbia

  live with me

  & love me so

  we’ll laugh at all

  the sour-faced strict-

  ures of the wise.

  This sun once set

  will rise again,

  when our sun sets

  follows night &

  an endless sleep.

  Kiss me now a

  thousand times &

  now a hundred

  more & then a

  hundred & a

  thousand more again

  till with so many

  hundred thousand

  kisses you & I

  shall both lose count

  nor any can

  from envy of

  so much of kissing

  put his finger

  on the number

  of sweet kisses

  you of me &

  I of you,

  darling, have had.

  6

  Your most recent acquisition, Flavius,

  must be as unattractive as

  (doubtless) she is unacceptable

  or you would surely have told us about her.

  You are wrapped up with a whore to end all whores

  and ashamed to confess it.

  You do not spend bachelor nights.

  Your divan, reeking of Syrian unguents,

  draped with bouquets & blossoms etc.

  proclaims it,

  the pillows & bedclothes indented in several places,

  a ceaseless jolting & straining of the framework

  the shaky accompaniment to your sex parade.

  Without more discretion your silence is pointless.

  Attenuated thighs betray your preoccupation.

  Whoever, whatever she is, good or bad,

  tell us, my friend –

  Catullus will lift the two of you & your love-acts into the heavens

  in the happiest of his hendecasyllables.

  7

  Curious to learn

  how many kiss-

  es of your lips

  might satisfy

  my lust for you,

  Lesbia, know

  as many as

  are grains of sand

  between the oracle

  of sweltering Jove

  at Ammon &

  the tomb of old

  Battiades the First,

  in Libya

  where the silphium grows;

  alternatively,

  as many as

  the sky has stars

  at night shining

  in quiet upon

  the furtive loves

  of mortal men,

  as many kiss-

  es of your lips

  as these might slake

  your own obsessed

  Catullus, dear,

  so many that

  no prying eye

  can keep the count

  nor spiteful tongue fix

  their total in

  a fatal formula.

  8

  Break off

  fallen Catullus

  time to cut losses,

  bright days shone once,

  you followed a girl

  here & there

  loved as no other

  perhaps

  shall be loved,

  then was the time

  of love’s insouciance,

  your lust as her will

  matching.

  Bright days shone

  on both of you.

  Now,

  a woman is unwilling.

  Follow suit

  weak as you are

  no chasing of mirages

  no fallen love,

  a clean break

  hard against the past.

  Not again, Lesbia.

  No more.

  Catullus is clear.

  He won’t miss you.

  He won’t crave it.

  It is cold.

  But you will whine.

  You are ruined.

  What will your life be?

  Who will ‘visit’ your room?

  Who uncover that beauty?

  Whom will you love?

  Whose girl will you be?

  Whom kiss?

  Whose lips bite?

  Enough. Break.

  Catullus.

  Against the past.

  9

  Veraniolus,

  first of friends,

  have you returned

  to your own roof

  your close brothers

  & your mother

  still alive? In-

  deed it’s true you’re

  back again &

  safe & sound

  among us all.

  So now I’ll watch

  & listen to your

  anecdotes of

  Spanish men &

  Spanish places

  told as only

  you can tell them.

  I shall embrace

  your neck & kiss

  you on the mouth

  & on the eyes,

  Veraniolus …

  Of all light-hearted

  men & women

  none is lighter-

  hearted than Cat-

  ullus is to-day.

  11

  Furius, Aurelius, friends of my youth,

  whether I land up in the Far East,

  where the long-drawn roll of the Indian Ocean

  thumps on the beach,

  or whether I find myself surrounded by Hyrcanians,

  the supple Arabs, Sacians, Parthian bowmen,

  or in the land where the seven-tongued Nile

  colours the Middle Sea,

  whether I scale the pinnacles of the Alps

  viewing the monuments of Caesar triumphant,

  the Rhine, the outlandish seas of

  the ultimate Britons,

 
; whatever Fate has in store for me,

  equally ready for anything,

  I send Lesbia this valediction,

  succinctly discourteous:

  live with your three hundred lovers,

  open your legs to them all (simultaneously)

  lovelessly dragging the guts out of each of them

  each time you do it,

  blind to the love that I had for you

  once, and that you, tart, wantonly crushed

  as the passing plough-blade slashes the flower

  at the field’s edge.

  13

  I shall expect

  you in to dine

  a few days hence

  Fabullus mine,

  and we’ll eat well

  enough, my friend,

  if you provide

  the food & wine

  & the girl, too,

  pretty & willing.

  I, Catullus,

  promise you

  wine & wit &

  all the laughter

  of the table

  should you provide

  whatever food

  or wine you’re able.

  For, charmed Fabullus,

  your old friend’s purse

  is empty now

  of all but cobwebs!

  In return, the

  distillation

  of Love’s essence

  take from me, or

  whatever’s more

  attractive or

  seductive than

  Love’s essence. For

  Venus & her

  Cupids gave my

  girl an unguent,

  this I’ll give to

  you, Fabullus, and

  when you’ve smelt it

  all you’ll want the

  gods to do is

  make you one

  gigantic nose

  to smell it, always, with.

  14

  If, my irrepressible Calvus, I didn’t

  happen to love you more than my eyes

  this hoax gift of yours would have made me

  as cross as Vatinius …

  What have I done to deserve

  such (& so many) poets?

  I am utterly demoralised.

  May the gods scowl on whoever

  sent you this clutch of offenders

  in the first place.

  – A grateful client?

  I smell Sulla, the pedagogue.

  A recherché & freshly culled volume,

  such as this, could well come from his hands.

  And that’s as it should be – a meet &

  acceptable sign that your efforts

  (on his behalf) are not wasted.

  But the collection itself is implacably bad.

  And you, naturally, sent it along to Catullus

  – your Saturnalian bonne-bouche –

  so that Gaius, on this of all days,

  might suffer the refinements of tedium.

  No. Little Calvus. You won’t run away

  with this – for tomorrow, when the shops open,

  I shall comb the bookstalls for Caesius, Aquinus,

  Suffenus – all who excel in unpleasantness –

  and compound your present with interest.

  Until then, hence from my home, hence

  by the ill-footed porter who brought you.

  Parasites of our generation. Poets I blush for.

  32

  Call me to you

  at siesta

  we’ll make love

  my gold & jewels

  my treasure trove

  my sweet Ipsíthilla,

  when you invite

  me lock no doors

  nor change your mind

  & step outside

  but stay at home

  & in your room

  prepare yourself

  to come nine times

  straight off together,

  in fact if you

  should want it now

  I’ll come at once

  for lolling on

  the sofa here

  with jutting cock

  and stuffed with food

  I’m ripe for stuffing

  you,

  my sweet Ipsíthilla.

  34

  Moving in her radiant care

  chaste men and girls moving

  wholly in Diana’s care

  hymn her in this.

  Latona’s daughter, greatest

  of the Olympian race, dropped

  at birth beneath the olive trees

  on Delian hills,

  alive over mountain passes,

  over green glades and

  sequestered glens,

  – in the talkative burn,

  Juno Lucina in the groans

  of parturition, Hecat, fear-

  ful at crossed ways, the nymph

  of false moonlight.

  You whose menstrual course

  divides our year, stuff

  the farmer’s harvest barn

  with harvesting.

  Sacred, by whatever name invoked

  in whatever phase you wear, turn

  upon our Roman brood, of old

  your shielding look.

  37

  Nine posts, five doors, up the Clivus

  Victoriae, stands an

  unsavoury resort … unsavoury

  habitués inside,

  who think that only they have cocks,

  that only they can ruffle

  a pudendum, the rest of us

  as apt as goats. I could

  cheerfully bugger you all while

  you wait, kicking your heels.

  Your numbers, a hundred or so,

  leave me undaunted. Think

  of the man-power involved! And

  think of me now, scribbling

  each of your names in black letters

  on the house-front. For she

  whom once I loved as no other

  girl has been loved lives here.

  Who has fled from my touch & sight.

  Whom I fought for & could

  not keep … A mixed bunch – successful,

  respectable men swap

  places with dregs from the back-streets.

  She is open to all.

  And one, who outdoes his home-grown

  rabbits – Egnatius,

  the Spaniard with the beard, known for

  his wild dundrearies &

  glistening teeth, assiduously

  (with native urine) scrubbed.

  38

  Angst,

  ennui & angst

  consume my days & weeks,

  and you have not written

  or done anything to soothe my illness.

  I am piqued.

  So much for our friendship.

  Ah! Cornificius,

  a word from you would cure everything,

  though more full of tears

  than a line from Simonides.

  39

  Because he has bright white teeth, Eg-

  natius whips out a

  tooth-flash on all possible

  (& impossible) occasions.

  You’re in court. Counsel for defence

  concludes a moving per-

  oration. (Grin.) At a funeral,

  on all sides heart-broken

  mothers weep for only sons. (Grin.)

  Where, when, whatever the

  place or time – grin. It could be a

  sort of ‘tic’. If so, it’s

  a very vulgar tic, Egnatius,

  & one to be rid of.

  A Roman, a Tiburtine or

  Sabine, washes his teeth.

  Well-fed Umbrians & over-

  fed Etruscans wash theirs

  daily. The dark Lanuvians

  (who don’t need to), & we

  Veronese, all wash our teeth …

  But we keep them tucked in.

  We spare ourselves the nadir of

  inanity
– inane

  laughter. You come from Spain. Spaniards

  use their morning urine

  for tooth-wash. To us that blinding

  mouthful means one thing &

  one only – the quantity of

  urine you have swallowed.

  40

  Whatever could have possessed you

  to impale yourself on my iambics?

  What ill-disposed deity inveigled you

  Ravidus, into this one-sided contest?

  Was it a letch for celebrity,

  at no matter what cost?

  – then you shall have it:

  ‘Ravidus, loving in the place Catullus loves,

  is lastingly nailed in this lampoon.’

  43

  O elegant whore!

  with the remarkably long nose

  unshapely feet

  lack lustre eyes

  fat fingers

  wet mouth

  and language not of the choicest,

  you are I believe the mistress

  of the hell-rake Formianus.

  And the Province calls you beautiful;

  they set you up beside my Lesbia.

  O generation witless and uncouth!

  45

  Phyllis Corydon clutched to him

  her head at rest beneath his chin.

  He said, ‘If I don’t love you more

  than ever maid was loved before

  I shall (if this the years not prove)

  in Afric or the Indian grove

  some green-eyed lion serve for food.’

  Amor, to show that he was pleased,

  approvingly (in silence) sneezed.

  Then Phyllis slightly raised her head

  (her lips were full & wet & red)

  to kiss the sweet eyes full of her:

  ‘Corydon mine, with me prefer

  always to serve unique Amor:

  my softer flesh the fire licks

  more greedily and deeper sticks.’

  Amor, to show that he was pleased,

  approvingly (in silence) sneezed.

  So loving & loved so, they rove

  between twin auspices of Love.

  Corydon sets in his eye-lust

  Phyllis before all other dust;

  Phyllis on Corydon expends

  her nubile toys, Love’s dividends.

  Could Venus yield more love-delight

  than here she grants in Love’s requite?

  46

  Now spring bursts

  with warm airs