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A Lambert chuckle was it, resting deep
Into frightful circle of trees, thereof, opening
Lantern of hope dies, shall I be more esteemed?
Rumbling with the grave of a sinner, tears wiped or not?
Shrugged is the gestures, of a dead man talking
Twittering in moans, voices of the wild mixed
Shallow timber puffs symphonies of death out loud
The decay is here’ where the deceased live no more
The final decay arrives; you shall see the color of her eyes!
The devil lives in them and smiles; Ah, the chanting
Ryan Nov 16
I walk amongs these corpses
and I smell their hearts
resting in those vines,
twisted.
but when I see your lips curl into that half smile,
this blue haze slides across my iris,
these birds listen and break their necks
to hear the song play.
This song was played by the moon,
who hangs amongs the stars,
but shines even brighter.
Atlas Moth Nov 9
For my English III class
             Mr. P
had sprawled                        out
S
       T
    A
                  C
       K
S
       of books       in t h e front      of his
                 classroom.
He had a short lecture and introduction to blackout poetry, then
everyone shot out of their chairs to find a page they wanted

I was the last to go up, the first book I found had a beautiful picture and I decided to use it

                             Months later
the assignment was completed and in the gradebook, he said if we wanted we could keep them

Now as I lay in my room at 2:34 AM on a
  Friday I sit and think about it.
   It wasn't long ago when I created it,
       but it also had been enough time for me to leave the public school entirely to could be                    
                          homeschooled
The­ only thing I regret was not saying goodbye to him
       in person


                    And getting that poem
I can't get my mind off of it, of everything.
So now I just write in weird, confusing ways to explain
To get my words out down
Erwinism Oct 22
Here I am,
a tangle of roots
buried deep
and reaching down
deeper,
looking for a sign of life.

But no,
I sprawl and
twist around,
widdershins,
round and round
the battering thump
breaking the walls
under my flesh.

My waking hours
remember,
thick with the weight
of words left unsaid,
an iron on my tongue.
Unmoved.
Unperturbed.
Stagnant and decaying,
until I’m a stranger
to my own voice.
A crow lost in a cornfield
lulled by a scarecrow’s
siren song.

Like a crow,
plumes as dark
as a saint ‘s hope
wandering in the arms of limbo.
Wings bruised
for hammering obstinate bars,
voice hoarse for singing the blues
over dissonant chords.

Over and over again.
“Like a broken record,” they say.
Singing the same old song.
I have been.
Songs like plastic bags
of cans that digs into a tender
palm until the blood supply is cut.

What does the sky
Feel like on my wings
The stretch of endless blue
Soft wind threading through my feathers?
Tell me, the feeling has long escaped me.
Emptiness ringing in my ear
in the space between
where song once lived

Time has a way
Of erasing memories,
Of erasing wounds
and hardening them into scars,
of stepping into clear water
and muddying it.

Now the air is stale,
silence dense,
solitude burning red,
my bones rubbing against
my soul,
Leaving blisters and scuffs.

These heavy eyes,
the sky’s allure has faded from their gaze.
they have learned to shrink
into this smallness.
no horizon here
only walls,
and the dust taste of dullness
is vapid.

How I miss
how the sun makes
the salt on my skin rise,
or how the rain can seep
into my thoughts until
it colors it sad.

Now, there’s just fields of
milky grayness, playing labyrinth
until I reach the end,
only to be devoured again.

And sadness is too mundane a word,
at most it’s an espresso
that keeps you awake,
A defibrillator,
that jolt that makes eternity
an agony.

I am but a riddle I cannot solve
Louise Oct 17
With your hair that glows golden
under the glimmering sun...
With your eyes that glistens
under summer heat's touch...
you are as soft as a cloud
on a weary traveler's mouth!

And with your skin that never burns,
but touch that makes the sun envy with red...
And with your laughter that glimmers,
the sands shall never again darken...
you are as sweet as day,
the morning sun at bay
after a night of gray!

𝘗𝘦𝘳 𝘡𝘰ë;
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳
𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘭 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘢,
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘢.
𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘹 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪 𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭
𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴,
𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘪 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴... ♡
From Manila and Malapascua to Mar Mediterrani,
Happy birthday Zoë! 💋
Feliç aniversari Zoë! 💋
Louise Oct 17
With your eyes that lights up as you smile,
you could stretch a beach by another mile...
With your hair that falls like the forest light,
you make a nocturnal excited for sunrise...
You are a prize without a price!

Your dreams are a promised destination,
with your warmth that heals
under the island sky...
Your skin is a timeless celebration,
with your cheeks that redden
under the summer's touch...
You are a revelation and a surprise!

𝘗𝘦𝘳 𝘔𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘢;
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 é𝘴 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘦𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯,
𝘪 𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.
𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘹 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴,
𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘳-𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭 𝘮ó𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘋é𝘶.
𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘹𝘰𝘴
𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪 𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴
𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴,
𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘴ó𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘴!

From Baler and Badian to Barcelona,
Happy birthday Mireia! 💋
Feliç aniversari Mireia! 💋
These are modern English translations by Michael R. Burch of seven Latin poems written by the ancient Roman female poet Sulpicia, who was apparently still a girl or very young woman when she wrote them.



I. At Last, Love!
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

It's come at last! Love!
The kind of love that, had it remained veiled,
would have shamed me more than baring my naked soul.
I appealed to Aphrodite in my poems
and she delivered my beloved to me,
placed him snugly, securely against my breast!
The Goddess has kept her promises:
now let my joy be told,
so that it cannot be said no woman enjoys her recompense!
I would not want to entrust my testimony
to tablets, even those signed and sealed!
Let no one read my avowals before my love!
Yet indiscretion has its charms,
while it's boring to conform one’s face to one’s reputation.
May I always be deemed worthy lover to a worthy love!

A signatis tabellis was a letter written on wooden tablets and sealed with sealing-wax.



II. Dismal Journeys, Unwanted Arrivals
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

My much-hated birthday's arrived, to be spent mourning
in a wretched countryside, bereft of Cerinthus.
Alas, my lost city! Is it suitable for a girl: that rural villa
by the banks of a frigid river draining the fields of Arretium?
Peace now, Uncle Messalla, my over-zealous chaperone!
Arrivals of relatives aren't always welcome, you know.
Kidnapped, abducted, snatched away from my beloved city,
I’d mope there, prisoner to my mind and emotions,
this hostage coercion prevents from making her own decisions!

Arretium is a town in Tuscany, north of Rome. It was presumably the site of, or close to, Messalla’s villa. Sulpicia uses the term frigidus although the river in question, the Arno, is not notably cold. Thus she may be referring to another kind of lack of warmth! Apparently Sulpicia was living with her overprotective (in her eyes) Uncle Messalla after the death of her father, and was not yet married.



III. The Thankfully Abandoned Journey
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Did you hear the threat of that wretched trip’s been abandoned?
Now my spirits soar and I can be in Rome for my birthday!
Let’s all celebrate this unexpected good fortune!



IV. Thanks for Everything, and Nothing
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Thanks for revealing your true colors,
thus keeping me from making further fool of myself!
I do hope you enjoy your wool-basket *****,
since any female-filled toga is much dearer to you
than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius!
On the brighter side, my guardians are much happier,
having feared I might foolishly bed a nobody!

Upper-class Roman women did not wear togas, but unfree prostitutes, called meretrices or ancillae, did. Here, Sulpicia is apparently contrasting the vast difference in her station to that of a slave who totes heavy wool baskets when not sexually servicing her masters. Spinning and wool-work were traditional tasks for virtuous Roman women, so there is a marked contrast here. Sulpicia doesn’t mention who is concerned about her, but we can probably intuit Messalla was one of them.



V. Reproach for Indifference
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Have you no kind thoughts for your girl, Cerinthus,
now that fever wilts my wasting body?
If not, why would I want to conquer this disease,
knowing you no longer desired my existence?
After all, what’s the point of living
when you can ignore my distress with such indifference?



VI. Her Apology for Errant Desire
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Let me admit my errant passion to you, my love,
since in these last few days
I've exceeded all my foolish youth's former follies!
And no folly have I ever regretted more
than leaving you alone last night,
desiring only to disguise my desire for you!



Sulpicia on the First of March
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“One might venture that Sulpicia was not over-modest.” – MRB

Sulpicia's adorned herself for you, O mighty Mars, on your Kalends:
come admire her yourself, if you have the sense to observe!
Venus will forgive your ogling, but you, O my violent one,
beware lest your armaments fall shamefully to the floor!
Cunning Love lights twin torches from her eyes,
with which he’ll soon inflame the gods themselves!
Wherever she goes, whatever she does,
Elegance and Grace follow dutifully in attendance!
If she unleashes her hair, trailing torrents become her train:
if she braids her mane, her braids are to be revered!
If she dons a Tyrian gown, she inflames!
She inflames, if she wears virginal white!
As stylish Vertumnus wears her thousand outfits
on eternal Olympus, even so she models hers gracefully!
She alone among the girls is worthy
of Tyre’s soft wool dipped twice in costly dyes!
May she always possess whatever rich Arabian farmers
reap from their fragrant plains’ perfumed fields,
and whatever flashing gems dark India gathers
from the scarlet shores of distant Dawn’s seas.
Sing the praises of this girl, Muses, on these festive Kalends,
and you, proud Phoebus, strum your tortoiseshell lyre!
She'll carry out these sacred rites for many years to come,
for no girl was ever worthier of your chorus!

Sulpicia is one of the few female poets of ancient Rome whose work survives, and she is arguably the most notable. Other ancient female poets associated with the Roman Empire include Perilla, a Latin lyric poetess whom Ovid deemed second only to Sappho but may have been a scripta puella (a "written girl" and male construct); Aelia Eudocia, a Byzantine empress; Moero, another Byzantine poetess; Claudia Severa, remembered today for two surviving literary letters (and one of those a fragment); Eucheria, who has just one extant poem; Faltonia Betitia Proba, a Latin Roman Christian poet of the late empire who left a Virgilian cento with many lines copied directly from Virgil with "minimal" modification; Julia Balbilla, who has four extant epigrams; and Caecilia Trebulla, who has three. There was also a second Sulpicia, known as Sulpicia II, who lived during the reign of Domitian, for whom only two lines of iambic trimeters survive.

Alas, it seems there was little little effort wasted on preserving the work of female poets in male-dominated Rome!

The original Sulpicia was the author of six short poems (some 40 lines in all) written in Latin during the first century BC. Her poems were published as part of the corpus of Albius Tibullus. Sulpicia's family were well-off Roman citizens with connections to Emperor Augustus, since her uncle Valerius Messalla Corvinus served as a commander for Augustus and was consul in 31 BC.

My translations were suggested by Carolyn Clark, to whom I have dedicated them. Her dissertation "Tibullus Illustrated: Lares, Genius and Sacred Landscapes" includes a discussion of Sulpicia on pages 364-369 and is highly recommended.

Keywords/Tags: Sulpicia, Latin, Latin Poems, English Translations, Rome, Roman, Cerinthus, Albius Tibullus, Uncle Valerius Messalla Corvinus, birthday, villa, Augustus
MetaVerse Sep 22
Abracadabara,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
English Victorian
Poet of note,

Beautiful, lyrical,
Somber with gravitas,
Superpoetical
Poetry wrote.
aidan Sep 24
teaching is tough
and rough
and cruel

where even some
feel like a fool.

ironic yes, and surely so!
but might i ask
and wont you know?

perhaps you won’t
thats fine with i!

but how come -
teachers want to
cry?
MetaVerse Sep 20
John Milton,
The Paris Hilton
Of 17th century English puritanical verse,
Never (as far as I know) dressed as a **** nurse.
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