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From A Letter From Lesbia -- Dorothy Parker

Not all poets admire (or aspire to to be like) Catullus; for a different
point of view, here's a lovely poem suggested by :
(Poem #1467) From A Letter From Lesbia
 ... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
 And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
 Take any lover that you will, or may,
 Except a poet. All of them are queer.

 It's just the same -- a quarrel or a kiss
 Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
 He's always hymning that or wailing this;
 Myself, I much prefer the business type.

 That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died --
 (Oh, most unpleasant -- gloomy, tedious words!)
 I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
 The stupid fool! I've always hated birds ...
-- Dorothy Parker
Catullus may have brought about a revolution in Latin verse by
"[rejecting] the epic and its public themes ... [and using] colloquial
language to write about personal experience" [1]. But it's clear that to
some people, at least, he took the process altogether too far. Dorothy
Parker skewers the typical self-absorption of the poet quite brilliantly
-- though in a nice irony, what is her own poem but a declaration of
personal preferences?

thomas.

[1] www.poets.org, quoted at greater length in the commentary to
Catullus' fifth Song, Minstrels Poem #1463.

[Links]

One imagines that Dorothy Parker would have enjoyed reading Wendy Cope's
"Being Boring" (Poem #1444), and indeed, there's something delightfully
Cope-ish about today's poem.

Other Parkers:
Poem #150, Resume
Poem #192, Comment
Poem #486, Epitaph for a Darling Lady
Poem #560, Chant for Dark Hours
Poem #638, Song of Perfect Propriety
Poem #697, A Well Worn Story
Poem #878, Frustration
Poem #1090, Unfortunate Coincidence
Poem #1460, Love Song

Other Copes:
Poem #587, Strugnell's Rubaiyat
Poem #693, Strugnell's Haiku
Poem #859, Waste Land Limericks
Poem #1059, An Unusual Cat-Poem
Poem #1323, Strugnell's Sonnets (VI)

The sparrow referred to by Parker/Lesbia is this one:
http://www.bartleby.com/245/85.html

The Daily Telegraph ran a Catullus translation competition based on the
sparrow poem; here are the winners:
[broken link] http://www.friends-classics.demon.co.uk/poetry.htm

More dead sparrow poems:
http://www.lyrics.net.ua/song/34358
http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem1943.html

My Sweetest Lesbia -- Thomas Campion

       
(Poem #1466) My Sweetest Lesbia
 (in imitation of Catallus)

 My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
 And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
 Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive
 Into their west, and straight again revive,
 But soon as once set is our little light,
 Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

 If all would lead their lives in love like me,
 Then bloody swords and armour should not be;
 No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
 Unless alarm came from the camp of love.
 But fools do live, and waste their little light,
 And seek with pain their ever-during night.

 When timely death my life and fortune ends,
 Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends,
 But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
 And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb;
 And Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
 And crown with love my ever-during night.
-- Thomas Campion
An unabashedly hedonistic poem. Life is short, Campion says, so let us
devote it to love, not to the vain pursuit of honour and glory. And when
death comes, a life thus lived will seem more worthwhile, and more
worthy of celebration, than one lived according to the precepts of
'sager sorts'.

Notice how the 'never-ending night' of Catullus becomes a refrain with
which Campion ends his stanzas: this gives each verse a sense of
finality. Form cleaves to content, as indeed it should. Notice also how
melodic and rhythmic the lines are: this is more song than poem.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Four poems in imitation of Catullus:
Poem #1463, Song Five -- Catullus / Richard Crashaw
Poem #1464, From Catullus 5 -- Sir Walter Raleigh
Poem #1465, Come, My Celia -- Ben Jonson
Poem #1466, My Sweetest Lesbia -- Thomas Campion

Other poems by poets named Thomas:
Poem #96, During Wind and Rain  -- Thomas Hardy
Poem #199, Lord Ullin's Daughter  -- Thomas Campbell
Poem #236, Memory  -- Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Poem #251, No!  -- Thomas Hood
Poem #359, The Angler  -- Thomas Buchanan Read
Poem #461, Couplets  -- Thomas Lynch
Poem #489, Horatius  -- Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Poem #499, Lay of Ancient Rome  -- Thomas Ybarra
Poem #527, I Bended Unto Me a Bough of May -- Tom Brown
Poem #565, Now Winter Nights Enlarge -- Thomas Campion
Poem #595, The Last Man -- Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Poem #957, Whoso list to hunt -- Thomas Wyatt
Poem #1091, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard -- Thomas Grey
Poem #1274, The Time I've Lost in Wooing -- Thomas Moore
Poem #1305, Poem in Thanks -- Thomas Lux
Poem #1390, The Salutation -- Thomas Traherne

Come, My Celia -- Ben Jonson

       
(Poem #1465) Come, My Celia
 Come, my Celia, let us prove
 While we may, the sports of love;
 Time will not be ours forever;
 He at length our good will sever.
 Spend not then his gifts in vain.
 Suns that set may rise again;
 But if once we lose this light,
 'Tis with us perpetual night.
 Why should we defer our joys?
 Fame and rumor are but toys.
 Cannot we delude the eyes
 Of a few poor household spies,
 Or his easier ears beguile,
 So removed by our wile?
 'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal;
 But the sweet theft to reveal.
 To be taken, to be seen,
 These have crimes accounted been.
-- Ben Jonson
This poem, while clearly based on Catullus' fifth Song, is also more
than a little reminiscent of Marlowe's "Passionate Shepherd" [1], from
the rhymes used in the opening couplet to the underlying philosophy of
'carpe diem', seize the day [2]. It seems likely that Marlowe, like
Jonson, was inspired [3] by the Latin lyricist whose ode was the
starting point for this week's theme.

Note that I use the word 'inspired': unlike Richard Crashaw, or even Sir
Walter Raleigh, who were both content to simply translate part or all of
Catullus' song, Jonson introduces some significant changes of his own.
Gone are the censurious old men and their scandal-mongering; gone also
is the awkward business of mixing up three thousand three hundred kisses
for purposes of deception. In their place is a new idea: that affairs
themselves are are somehow less objectionable than their public display.
In other words, Jonson's poem embodies the 11th commandment: "Thou Shalt
Not Get Caught" <grin>.

thomas.

[1] Poem #997, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
        -- Christopher Marlowe

[2] See also:
Poem #158, To His Coy Mistress -- Andrew Marvell
Poem #633, Odes: Book 1, Verse 11 -- Horace
Poem #1341, Carpe Diem, Baby -- James Hetfield

[3] In response to yesterday's poem, John Taber wrote in with a very
insightful and informative comment about how imitation was prized and
originality deprecated in pre-Romantic poetry. You can read it, along
with the Raleigh poem and commentary that prompted it, on the Minstrels
website under Poem #1464.

From Catullus V -- Sir Walter Raleigh

       
(Poem #1464) From Catullus V
 The sun may set and rise,
 But we, contrariwise,
 Sleep, after our short light,
 One everlasting night.
-- Sir Walter Raleigh
Typically, Raleigh seizes upon the most fatalistic aspect of Catullus'
love song, and converts it into an epigram that is no less poignant for
being less than staggeringly original. I don't have much more to say,
and this commentary is already twice as long as the poem being commented
on, so I'll stop here :)

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Ben Jonson:
Poem #301, The Noble Nature
Poem #313, Gypsy Songs
Poem #340, To Celia
Poem #724, Hymn to Diana

John Donne:
Poem #330, A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
Poem #384, Song
Poem #403, A Lame Beggar
Poem #465, The Sun Rising
Poem #796, Death Be Not Proud (Holy Sonnets: X)
Poem #866, The Canonization
Poem #1002, The Bait
Poem #1168, The Good Morrow

and others:
Poem #149, Bethsabe's Song  -- George Peele
Poem #957, Whoso list to hunt -- Thomas Wyatt
Poem #1001, The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd -- Sir Walter Raleigh
Poem #1289, The Lie -- Sir Walter Raleigh
Poem #1336, Of Human Knowledge -- John Davies

Song Five -- Gaius Valerius Catullus

Guest poem submitted by TJ:
(Poem #1463) Song Five
 Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
 and let us judge all the rumors of the old men
 to be worth just one penny!
 The suns are able to fall and rise:
 When that brief light has fallen for us,
 we must sleep a never ending night.
 Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred,
 then another thousand, then a second hundred,
 then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.
 Then, when we have made many thousands,
 we will mix them all up so that we don't know,
 and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out
 how many kisses we have shared.
-- Gaius Valerius Catullus
I noticed that there wasn't any Catullus anywhere in the Archive, so I
thought that I'd toss some your way.  I include the Latin just in case
anybody is interested, there's a certain texture to the language that i
find wonderful.

 "Carmen Quinque"

 Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
 rumoresque senum severiorum
 omnes unius aestimemus assis!
 soles occidere et redire possunt:
 nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
 nox est perpetua una dormienda.
 da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
 dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
 deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
 dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
 conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
 aut ne quis malus inuidere possit,
 cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

        -- Gaius Valerius Catullus

I remember having to translate all of this stuff by myself in my high
school Latin class years ago.  At the time it was a chore, but now
looking at it just for the enjoyment, it's quite wonderful.  Poor
Catullus, he was always going back and forth on Lesbia, love to hate,
hate to love.  I highly recommend him for the conflicted sort.

Regards,
TJ.

[Biography]

Very little is objectively known of the life of Gaius Valerius Catullus.
It is believed that he was born in Verona in 84 B.C. to a wealthy and
well-connected family. Catullus' father was a friend of Julius Caesar.
He died in Rome in 54 B.C. at the age of thirty. From his poems it is
known that he went to Bithynia as an aide to the governor of that
province in 57-56 B.C. We also know from Cicero that Catullus was one of
the "neoteric" or new poets. Whereas the majority of poets in Rome at
that time produced epic poems, often commissioned by aristocratic
families, Catullus and other neoteric rejected the epic and its public
themes. The neoteric poets used colloquial language to write about
personal experience. Their poems are mostly smaller lyrics that are
characterized by wit and erudition. Aside from these facts, what is
known of the life of Catullus comes from the thoughts expressed in his
poems.

The knowledge of Catullus' poems comes from a single manuscript that
survived the Dark Ages. This manuscript was discovered in Verona in
around 1305 and disappeared again at the end of the century. Two copies
of it, however, were made and one survives in the Bodleian Library in
Oxford. The other copy, which was believed to be owned by Petrarch, was
also lost. The surviving copy contains 116 poems in three sections:
sixty shorter poems written mostly in Greek lyric meters, primarily
hendecasyllabic or eleven-syllable lines; eight long poems; and a set of
short epigrams.

The shorter poems are often extremely playful and personal. Catullus
speaks directly to his friends in a casual voice. For instance, the
dedication poem begins with the lines "To whom am I giving my charming,
new, little book / polished just now with the dry pumice stone? /
Cornelius, to you: for you were the one / who thought this rubbish was
something ..." The short lyrics are often funny, and on occasion
extremely crude. He also used these poems to explore the limits of
friendship and love. He wrote twenty-five poems to a woman he named
Lesbia, offering both erotic banter as well as heartbreak at her
infidelity and their eventual breakup. English poets such as Ben Jonson
and Christopher Marlowe wrote imitations of these poems, particularly
poem five, which begins "Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love."

The longer poems deal with many of the same concerns. They also
chronicle the death of his brother at Troy and Catullus' visit to his
grave. In this poem, Catullus speaks frankly of loss and the inability
to express such a loss. Many people consider it to be one of the finest
elegies ever written. The remaining group of poems consists of short
epigrams that offer satiric observations on the life in Rome.

Although nearly lost, Catullus' poems had a profound impact on later
poets. This influence can be seen not only in Latin love poets such as
Horace or Ovid, but also in English Renaissance poets such as Robert
Herrick. John Milton spoke Catullus' "Satyirical sharpness, or naked
plainness." Catullus has also been praised as a lyricist by twentieth
century poets, and translated by writers as diverse as Thomas Campion,
William Wordsworth, and Louis Zukofsky.

        -- www.poets.org

[thomas adds]

While searching the web for background information on today's poem, I
discovered that Ben Jonson, Walter Raleigh and Thomas Campion have all
written their own poems inspired partly or wholly by Catullus' fifth
Song. I plan to run these 'spinoff' poems as a theme over the next week.

The 17th century poet Richard Crashaw also wrote a poem based on
Catullus, but where Jonson, Raleigh and Campion all use the original as
merely a starting point for their own excursions, Crashaw's version is a
literal (and somewhat dry) translation:

 Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
 and let us count the opinion of censurious old men as a penny.
 Suns can set and rise again:
 our brief light only sets
 and then there is an endless night for sleeping.
 Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
 then another thousand, and a second hundred,
 then a thousand and a hundred over and over again
 then when we will have kissed that many thousand times,
 even we will not know how many,
 and no one who wishes us ill because he is envious, can hold against us
 the kisses he cannot count.

        -- Gaius Valerius Catullus / tr. Richard Crashaw

thomas.