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Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Soulful interludes Cento Taka

Walk up a country lane to farmhouse darkness the finesse the true an deep point of navigation everything bathed held in quiet glory
Become the farmer go to the fields at first light let the machinery flow through your eye gate steel formed with lines of brute power
Rubber round the glide across richest black soil these fields so common quickly turn from spurious to immeasurable splendor as told
In the farmer’s heart as he stands on his porch looks into this six foot stand dark brooding stretches endlessly away its volume weighs
On his soul as it comes in great waves into his consciousness the finest feeling of accomplishment brightness his face well done Cloyce
Gatewood you left a lot behind as you passed from this green productive land

Purposely walk along the streets of the big apple no senses it can’t activate music your taste go on a quiet early evening slip in unseen
To the concert hall look on from the shadows as the master opens the case tenderly and lovingly takes out the violin you will hear
Sounds that can only be formed in dreams it’s not possible in the realm of those that are awake you will hear the spruce plate and the
maple ribbing create such acoustic sounds only sounds of tears gently coursing that only God can hear are brought forth from the bow
And the strings take caution lean on something or set or you could fall from weak legs and a mind and heart to full overloaded with
Beauty the master uses outward physical means to bring and evoke the music of his hidden soul thank you Johann Sebastian Bach.
Or perhaps your interest lies in art paints and canvass art shows abound museums house every piece imaginable the higher beauty
Of New Mexico and its desert shapes not found on the surface no need to worry Georgia O Keefe went from these very streets her
Vision her eye that looked beyond barren waste made the desert flower before it biblical time that it bud as a rose when the prince
Shall come by the way happy birthday great prince on that note maybe your taste runs in ancient musty yesterdays the master piece
Of Rembrandt he stalked the world as a lion his brush his power his strokes exude genius timeless wonder captured executed with
Deftness enthralling praise of the crowd still is heard well at least in sweetest whispers it is a museum you know.
Great writing telling lines your delight book stores out number restaurants food for the mind far greater than the temporal treats
Consumed and then soon forgotten No man is an island John Donne (1572-1631). … "All mankind is of one author, and is one volume;
When one man dies” or the words of Henry David Thorough “most men live quiet lives of desperation”
Maybe you’re the outdoors man leave the soul of a city that flows back and forth from divine true heart and goodness to a city noted
As a volcano the pressure intense at times that’s the cost of greatness well walk among the redwoods john Muir possessed the good
Sense to set this treasure aside in fact a Golden gate is at one end of Muir Woods the Barbary Coast its greater cloak that defines
Beauty through breath taking sites cliffs that rise and border the pacific waters, detailed by a Salinas resident you might have heard of
His two stories Cannery Row Grapes of Wrath and several others made John Steinbeck an American literary giant not bad for great
Outdoors men well this completes my Cento salute. Authors and masters who elevate us all.
Norman dePlume Jan 2016
The possibility of free declamation anchored
And lucid, inescapable rhythms
Do have meaning. They're strong as rocks
In the deep-toned Aeolian mode
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
A Poet could not but be gay,
The Impotence to Tell –
Still makes a poem a surprise!
The possibility of free declamation anchored (John Ashbery, "Street Musicians," Selected Poetry, page 207)
And lucid, inescapable rhythms, (Wallace Stevens, "13 ways of looking at a blackbird")
do have meaning. They're strong as rocks. (Frank O’Hara, "Today")
In the deep-toned Aeolian mode (Lasus of Hermione )
For the listener, who listens in the snow, (Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man")
A Poet could not but be gay, (Wordsworth, "The Daffodils")
The Impotence to Tell – (Emily Dickinson, poem 407.)
still makes a poem a surprise! (Frank O’Hara, "Today")
Kelly Rose Jul 2015
Emily Dickinson – Cento

Me from Myself – to banish –
I’m Nobody! Who are you?

There is a pain – so utter
Time never did assuage
The Soul has Bandaged moments
Of Course – I prayed
Because Escape – is done-

The soul has moments of Escape –
To justify the Dream –
I took my Power in my Hand -

Creator – Shall I – bloom?
I thought if I could only Live
Somewhere – in Silence –
I dwell in Possibility –
The Impotence to Tell –
Exhilaration – is within –

Me from Myself – to banish –
I’m Nobody! Who are You?

KRose
July 30, 2015
Something fun to do with your favorite poets
Jaanam Jaswani May 2014
Row words through the riverous air -
The poison in your papers

Pituitary glands in the sun -
Solar sweat

The ripping in your repetition;
The cracking in your cranium.
Evan Stephens Apr 2019
We who went into the 4 a.m. of the world
regretting nothing but an unfinished song.

We who were murdered in the darkest lanes
and at the corner of the street.

I was much further out than you thought,
starless and fatherless, a dark water -

rescue me from this ocean.
In this part of the story I am the one who

changes minute by minute.
Beauty is the sole business of poetry -

I go on loving you like water but
every night fire breaks out from windows in Üsküdar.
In a Cento, every line comes from a different poem. In this one, the sequence of poets is:
Ezra Pound;
Nazim Hikmet;

Faiz Ahmed Faiz;
T. S. Eliot;

Stevie Smith;
Sylvia Plath;

Nizar Qabbani;
Pablo Neruda;

W. B. Yeats;
Robinson Jeffers;

John Ashbery;
Necip Fazıl Kısakürek.
Julia May 2013
And I just wanna tell you,
You forgave and I won't forget.
Some day, you will go away from this.

So glide away on soapy heels,
And promise not to promise anymore.
You've gotta be kind to yourself.

Now my only chance to talk to you
Is through my prayers;
I only wanted to tell you I care.
But I am blind,
I cannot find the heart I gave to you.
This piece is composed entirely of song lyrics. I pulled lyrics from "I Almost Do" by Taylor Swift, "I Will Wait" by Mumford and Sons, "Men of Snow", "The Chain", and "Glass" by Ingrid Michaelson, "Me and You" by She and Him, and "Through My Prayers" by the Avett Brothers. The title is from Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars", though I'm not quite sold on it.
Ashley Centers Sep 2013
We are standing in line outside of something
often rebuked, yet always back returning.
I heard laughter and forgotten consonants,
its unrelenting memories of happiness
but inward grows a soberness, an awe.
Poverty gnashing its teeth like a blind cat at their lives.
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
Norman dePlume Jan 2016
I went to the river last night
Dreamed of being a river and sleeping like a river
You searched for a **** who was like a river
Along the East River and the Bronx
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
River! that in silence windest
On its way to a rendezvous with some river
"The Piers" is a Cento made of lines from Jimmy Santiago Baca;s "Voz de la Gente;" Federico Garcia Lorca's "Ode to Walt Whitman;" Whitman's "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry;" and lines from Longfellow and Ashbery.
(c) 2016.
Olivia Frederick Oct 2014
"No, just stop. No, just stop. No, just stop."
How long did I live like that?
"I'm out of money."
"Most people would **** for that score."
This is for the other woman.

You enjoy breathing,
beauty and truth.
We do live in a place where the rain hits the windows.
I'll be there.

The future is on the next page.
It's so loud in there right now.
He looks ancient.
Getting what you want destroys you.
Lines of conversation taken from fellow college students/professors/other
Jaanam Jaswani Jan 2015
I've always enjoyed thinking about the reasoning of our existence
Man was made in God's image
Then came woman to comfort man
Which u did by the way. Thank you
If eve never ate the Apple, man would have been immortal
So most men blame women for not making us live forever

But she did anyway
It made God decide a place in the heavens for us
So in a way, even the first woman knew exactly what she was doing
She did an exceptional job
props to adam for deciding that he's human enough to ask for help.
All morning, as I sit thinking of you,
the Monarchs are passing.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
The twenty-winged cloud of yellow butterflies
floats into the field.
The irregular postage stamp of death;
a black moth the size of my left
thumbnail is all I’ve trapped in the damask.
Certainly, we all felt
this vastly hollowed-out distress.
from what i have tasted of desire
twas a divine insanity

the sky is torn across
thy voice is on the rolling air
tis moonlight, summer moonlight
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’
sung asleep with lullabies
groping, guessing, yet progressing
all the sweet pulsing aches

i remember the history well:  and enjoy fully the delights of love –
become so still you hear the blood flowing through your veins -
my wildest force, will you return?

you flicker, i cannot touch you
dont feel sorry for me
i will take the sun in my mouth
you flicker, i cannot touch you - sylvia plath
dont feel sorry for me - charles bukowski
i will take the sun in my mouth - e.e.cummings
from what i have tasted of desire robert frost
twas a divine insanity emily dickinson

all the sweet pulsing aches ernest hemingway
groping, guessing, yet progressing cs lewis
the sky is torn across dylan thomas
thy voice is on the rolling air alfred lordy tennyson
tis moonlight, summer moonlight emily bronte
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’ dante aligheri
sung asleep with lullabies robert herrick

my wildest force, will you return? thomas wolfe
become so still you hear the blood flowing through your veins - mirabai
i remember the history well: ben okri
and enjoy fully the delights of love - czelaw-milosz
Yllise Apr 2014
Language can be used to unify
representing our cultural groupings
of religion,
caste,
region

Language is power,
the power to name
It is the most potent instrument of culture

Language is sweet tongued
riddles in speech
beautifully balanced rhythm
in original language
A widespread...language game

A game with hidden rules:
indigenous structures and rhythms
referring by analogy to something else
with hidden meanings which must be searched for

Take our language away and
We have fallen apart
A foreign tongue will send tremors of fear into every heart
“Oh Lord, save Thy people”
The great Evil has come:
Language of the small and elite
the petty-bourgeoisie readership

It has established a kind of presence
It has created its own momentum.
It doesn’t go anywhere.
There’s nothing you can do with it to make it sing.
It’s heavy. It’s wooden.

A strategy of language manipulation
The darkness drops again

Translation is a battleground,
mere anarchy loosened upon the world
The neutralizing alternative
interlanguage,
mimicking
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun

Take our language and our center cannot hold
Things fall apart.

Or construct the lens through which understanding takes place:
What is it in your dialect?
The result is incredible.
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
The fundamental things apply
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head,
is Achilles possible side by
side with powder and lead?
1 Herman Hupfeld, "As Time Goes By"
2 Oscar Wilde, "Portia"
3-4 Karl Marx, "A Contribution to a Critique of Political Economy"
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
"Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?"1
The Rose Is Obsolete,
But,2 her perfect feet,3
A poem should not mean / But be4
An axe to break the frozen sea
within us.5
1 Robert Browning
2 William Carlos Williams
3 Christian Bök
4 Archibald MacLeish
5 Franz Kafka
Edoardo Alaimo Apr 2023
Una nuvola arriva e copre,
Un ombra davanti al sole
Dalle tenebre
Diffonde la luce

Ha le forme di un tocco angelico
Forse un dio, premuroso,
O un suo messaggero,
Che abbaglia gli indifferenti

Ti avrò pensata una, due volte,
O forse cento o forse mille
Ogni volta era pura magia
Con le tue braccia a me avvolte

Ti avrò pensata urlando,
Piangendo e mentre ero felice.
Allo specchio mi son detto,
Rifarei tutto quel che andiam sognando
Thoughts on a plane,
while I was going to a research center
the clouds had just the right shape.

NEVER close your love in a box,
When you feel like it
Just give it all, expand, explode.

2023-04-24
Edoardo
VS Sep 2014
Tuas parcas impressões não me comovem
Irrito-me a cada interrupção gentil que tu fazes e
Devoro a mim mesmo em lúgubre fome,
A lamentar o que de bom poderia ter feito
Se e se

Mas

Às três da tarde
Apodreço numa cadeira áspera
Quase tão fétido quanto a fruta do vômito
Passada do ponto de colheita

Às cinco da tarde
Eu já sou molho estragado
Setenta por cento aglomerado literal de leucócitos degenerados
Pus integral

Ao cair do sol,
Sou um alface hidropônico
Pronto para ser vendido, lavado e comido por ti
Interruptor imbecil.

Voltar-me-ei ao mar
Ao esgoto
Num estado de paz surda

A solidão é um inspirar sufocado
Sufoca
Oxida as ideias
É tortura comodamente induzida

Se hoje fervilho, é sorte
Pura boa-aventurança;
Pois do profundo cócito
Fui e voltei

E cá estou
Inteiro
Longe dos dentes de Deus.
Karijinbba Mar 2020
Roses spices and onions skins off
Richie ride me back home
there's nowhere to hide from your love.
~~~~~
I thought I could find a place not to think of you for one day, so I went to the kitchen for a soup there was nothing to eat but pasta sauce and there you were
in front of me up in the spices
I had to use in place of meat on bone for boiling a soup.

Heating up battled water added cento tomato and the sauce
all kinds of spices; parsely real sea salts garlic pepper a pinch of taco spice wild cilantro, a garlic squized and cloves
(no basil)
cayene pepper did the magic
lemon juice added the final punch for my Mexican soup;
added a few granes bazmati rice found, added a white onion slice and blessed as I felt
"I cried me a river for you" and
The White Cliffs of Dover
songs came to mind to console
me as I broke shrinking down
the stinking onion was me
and noone to share my soup
I turned stove top off to go
wipe face off and
entering the bedroom I tripped
knees on the red floor unconsolable crying.

Yes the room was filled with
roses wild and roses red!
and again you made my day.
I felt so blessed to have
held so many of your treasures
in arms to see my hands half full with roses
and half full with bittersweet spices beheld.
Upon my bed a heart was carved
inscribed in tiny little
red rose buds and purple hearts
in your words "I love you"

I craweled to reach the bed careful not to disturb the million roses nor bleed feet with their thurns as they layed artisticly everywhere room full of roses,
I wept there caressed by your roses spices and songs
hugged all night long.
by insomnia bug

Oh please my darling Old Richie "ride me back home."
there's nowhere to hide
from your love.
~~~~~~~~~
Karijinbba-03/2020.
Copy Rights
Thank you for your healing romantic love even if you now this love to another you give only because it fell from my hands.
I love you more.
Alex Nov 2018
It makes my flesh crawl to hear you
Yesterday, you know.
He should’ve been at the funeral
Friends and relatives of the missing gathered
Like a flame made weak by lies.
The good news was pounced upon and passed on
It couldn’t be a coincidence
The man's head had been sawed open
You didn’t close the door.
You let them in.
You killed him.
Shelley Apr 2019
My baby is a headfuck
Is someone getting the best of you?
I tried so hard and got so far

And now the end is near
Turn around bright eyes
It’s time to say goodbye

I want to break free
It’s my life, it’s now or never
Take me, anywhere, far away, from here

Made a wrong turn once or twice
I’m hanging by a moment
There’s still tomorrow, hold on, hold on

With a rebel yell
Like a champagne supernova in the sky
It’s time to try defying gravity

And you can tell everybody
I’m moving on up
And you’re gonna hear me roar

I’m free as a bird
I believe in a thing called love
And I’m feeling good
Kelly Rose Apr 2017
Cento of the Poetry of Gutter Punk

Could you…take me as I am?

Feel the tremble of the parchment
I close my eyes
In the shadows of the Spruce
They weep like the willows
Walk on by as you’ve done before
Into the darkness
As my madness wept in black tears
A bleeding soul, fractured light
I slice the silver from my blade
****, ****, ****, life
And this ******* masquerade
Could you…take me as I am?
Eyes closed wide to the focus
On the sight
In the witching of night
‘Neath the misted sky
Walk with me through the dancing shadows
Could you…take me as I am?
The woe was seeded deep,
Deep in poetry
I tasted your tears
As they dripped and mixed with mine
Could you…take me as I am?
Silent steps through forlorn sands
That even in darkness we can love again
Could you…take me as I am?
Shadows don’t leave, they stay
Never, can you touch what I have
See what I have seen
Could you…take me as I am?

Kelly Rose
© April 12, 2017

This is a collage of brilliant lines from poems of Gutter Punk, whose poetry always touches something deep within me.
L'ultima cicala stride
sulla scorza gialla dell'eucalipto
i bambini raccolgono pinòli
indispensabili per la galantina
un cane alano urla dall'inferriata
di una villa ormai disabitata
le ville furono costruite dai padri
ma i figli non le hanno volute
ci sarebbe spazio per centomila terremotati
di qui non si vede nemmeno la proda
se può chiamarsi cosí quell'ottanta per cento
ceduta in uso ai bagnini
e sarebbe eccessivo pretendervi
una pace alcionica
il mare è d'altronde infestato
mentre i rifiuti in totale
formano ondulate collinette plastiche
esaurite le siepi hanno avuto lo sfratto
i deliziosi figli della ruggine
gli scriccioli o reatini come spesso
li citano i poeti. E c'è anche qualche boccio
di magnolia l'etichetta di un pediatra
ma qui i bambini volano in bicicletta
e non hanno bisogno delle sue cure
Chi vuole respirare a grandi zaffate
la musa del nostro tempo la precarietà
può passare di qui senza affrettarsi
è il colpo secco quello che fa orrore
non già l'evanescenza il dolce afflato del nulla
Hic manebimus se vi piace non proprio
ottimamente ma il meglio sarebbe troppo simile
alla morte ( e questa piace solo ai giovani)
Ricordi quand'eri saggina,
coi penduli grani che il vento
scoteva, come una manina
di ***** il sonaglio d'argento?
Cadeva la brina; la pioggia
cadeva: passavano uccelli
gemendo: tu gracile e roggia
tinnivi coi cento ramelli.
Ed oggi non più come ieri
tu senti la pioggia e la brina,
ma sgrigioli come quand'eri
saggina.
Restavi negletta nei solchi
quand'ogni pannocchia fu colta:
te, colsero, quando i bifolchi
v'ararono ancora una volta.
Un vecchio ti prese, recise,
legò; ti privò della bella
semenza tua rossa; e ti mise
nell'angolo, ad essere ancella.
E in casa tu resti, in un canto,
negletta qui come laggiù;
ma niuno è di casa pur quanto
sei tu.
Se t'odia colui che la trama
distende negli alti solai,
l'arguta gallina pur t'ama,
cui porti la preda che fai.
E t'ama anche senza, ché ai costi
ti sbalza, ed i grani t'invola,
residui del tempo che fosti
saggina, nei campi già sola.
Ma più, gracilando t'aspetta
con ciò che in tua vasta rapina
le strascichi dalla già netta
cucina.
Tu lasci che t'odiino, lasci
che t'amino: muta, il tuo giorno,
nell'angolo, resti, coi fasci
di stecchi che attendono il forno.
Nell'angolo il giorno tu resti,
pensosa del canto del gallo;
se al ***** tu già non ti presti,
che viene, e ti vuole cavallo.
Riporti, con lui che ti frena,
le paglie ch'hai tolte, e ben più;
e gioia or n'ha esso; ma pena
poi tu.
Sei l'umile ancella; ma reggi
la casa: tu sgridi a buon'ora,
mentre impaziente passeggi,
gl'ignavi che dormono ancora.
E quanto tu muovi dal canto,
la rondine è ancora nel nido;
e quando comincia il suo canto,
già ode per casa il tuo strido.
E l'alba il suo cielo rischiara,
ma prima lo spruzza e imperlina,
così come tu la tua cara
casina.
Sei l'umile ancella, ma regni
su l'umile casa pulita.
Minacci, rimproveri; insegni
ch'è bella, se pura, la vita.
Insegni, con l'acre tua cura
rodendo la pietra e la creta,
che sempre, per essere pura,
si logora l'anima lieta.
Insegni, tu sacra ad un rogo
non tardo, non bello, che più
di ciò che tu mondi, ti logori
tu!
Evan Stephens May 2019
Sing whatever is well made,
every man that sings a song:

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
of night and light and the half-light,
you are more beautiful than any one.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire,
I swear before the dawn comes round again
to love you in the old high way of love.

I know that I shall meet my fate
though now it seems impossible, and so
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
the time for you to taste of that salt breath -
What is there left to say?
Poems: Under Ben Bulben; Come Gather Round Me, Parnellites; No Second Troy; He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven; Broken Dreams; Sailing to Byzantium;  The Fascination of What's Difficult; Adam's Curse; An Irish Airman Foresees his Death; The Folly of Being Comforted; The Lake Isle of Innisfree; To a Shade; The Curse of Cromwell
ymmiJ Feb 2021
waking at night
only my dreams wander
how cold it is!
From these three Basho Poems:

waking at night;
the lamp is low,
the oil freezing

sick on my journey
only my dreams wander  
these desolate moors

the leeks
newly washed white-
how cold it is!
L'ultima cicala stride
sulla scorza gialla dell'eucalipto
i bambini raccolgono pinòli
indispensabili per la galantina
un cane alano urla dall'inferriata
di una villa ormai disabitata
le ville furono costruite dai padri
ma i figli non le hanno volute
ci sarebbe spazio per centomila terremotati
di qui non si vede nemmeno la proda
se può chiamarsi cosí quell'ottanta per cento
ceduta in uso ai bagnini
e sarebbe eccessivo pretendervi
una pace alcionica
il mare è d'altronde infestato
mentre i rifiuti in totale
formano ondulate collinette plastiche
esaurite le siepi hanno avuto lo sfratto
i deliziosi figli della ruggine
gli scriccioli o reatini come spesso
li citano i poeti. E c'è anche qualche boccio
di magnolia l'etichetta di un pediatra
ma qui i bambini volano in bicicletta
e non hanno bisogno delle sue cure
Chi vuole respirare a grandi zaffate
la musa del nostro tempo la precarietà
può passare di qui senza affrettarsi
è il colpo secco quello che fa orrore
non già l'evanescenza il dolce afflato del nulla
Hic manebimus se vi piace non proprio
ottimamente ma il meglio sarebbe troppo simile
alla morte ( e questa piace solo ai giovani)
Ricordi quand'eri saggina,
coi penduli grani che il vento
scoteva, come una manina
di ***** il sonaglio d'argento?
Cadeva la brina; la pioggia
cadeva: passavano uccelli
gemendo: tu gracile e roggia
tinnivi coi cento ramelli.
Ed oggi non più come ieri
tu senti la pioggia e la brina,
ma sgrigioli come quand'eri
saggina.
Restavi negletta nei solchi
quand'ogni pannocchia fu colta:
te, colsero, quando i bifolchi
v'ararono ancora una volta.
Un vecchio ti prese, recise,
legò; ti privò della bella
semenza tua rossa; e ti mise
nell'angolo, ad essere ancella.
E in casa tu resti, in un canto,
negletta qui come laggiù;
ma niuno è di casa pur quanto
sei tu.
Se t'odia colui che la trama
distende negli alti solai,
l'arguta gallina pur t'ama,
cui porti la preda che fai.
E t'ama anche senza, ché ai costi
ti sbalza, ed i grani t'invola,
residui del tempo che fosti
saggina, nei campi già sola.
Ma più, gracilando t'aspetta
con ciò che in tua vasta rapina
le strascichi dalla già netta
cucina.
Tu lasci che t'odiino, lasci
che t'amino: muta, il tuo giorno,
nell'angolo, resti, coi fasci
di stecchi che attendono il forno.
Nell'angolo il giorno tu resti,
pensosa del canto del gallo;
se al ***** tu già non ti presti,
che viene, e ti vuole cavallo.
Riporti, con lui che ti frena,
le paglie ch'hai tolte, e ben più;
e gioia or n'ha esso; ma pena
poi tu.
Sei l'umile ancella; ma reggi
la casa: tu sgridi a buon'ora,
mentre impaziente passeggi,
gl'ignavi che dormono ancora.
E quanto tu muovi dal canto,
la rondine è ancora nel nido;
e quando comincia il suo canto,
già ode per casa il tuo strido.
E l'alba il suo cielo rischiara,
ma prima lo spruzza e imperlina,
così come tu la tua cara
casina.
Sei l'umile ancella, ma regni
su l'umile casa pulita.
Minacci, rimproveri; insegni
ch'è bella, se pura, la vita.
Insegni, con l'acre tua cura
rodendo la pietra e la creta,
che sempre, per essere pura,
si logora l'anima lieta.
Insegni, tu sacra ad un rogo
non tardo, non bello, che più
di ciò che tu mondi, ti logori
tu!
Ricordi quand'eri saggina,
coi penduli grani che il vento
scoteva, come una manina
di ***** il sonaglio d'argento?
Cadeva la brina; la pioggia
cadeva: passavano uccelli
gemendo: tu gracile e roggia
tinnivi coi cento ramelli.
Ed oggi non più come ieri
tu senti la pioggia e la brina,
ma sgrigioli come quand'eri
saggina.
Restavi negletta nei solchi
quand'ogni pannocchia fu colta:
te, colsero, quando i bifolchi
v'ararono ancora una volta.
Un vecchio ti prese, recise,
legò; ti privò della bella
semenza tua rossa; e ti mise
nell'angolo, ad essere ancella.
E in casa tu resti, in un canto,
negletta qui come laggiù;
ma niuno è di casa pur quanto
sei tu.
Se t'odia colui che la trama
distende negli alti solai,
l'arguta gallina pur t'ama,
cui porti la preda che fai.
E t'ama anche senza, ché ai costi
ti sbalza, ed i grani t'invola,
residui del tempo che fosti
saggina, nei campi già sola.
Ma più, gracilando t'aspetta
con ciò che in tua vasta rapina
le strascichi dalla già netta
cucina.
Tu lasci che t'odiino, lasci
che t'amino: muta, il tuo giorno,
nell'angolo, resti, coi fasci
di stecchi che attendono il forno.
Nell'angolo il giorno tu resti,
pensosa del canto del gallo;
se al ***** tu già non ti presti,
che viene, e ti vuole cavallo.
Riporti, con lui che ti frena,
le paglie ch'hai tolte, e ben più;
e gioia or n'ha esso; ma pena
poi tu.
Sei l'umile ancella; ma reggi
la casa: tu sgridi a buon'ora,
mentre impaziente passeggi,
gl'ignavi che dormono ancora.
E quanto tu muovi dal canto,
la rondine è ancora nel nido;
e quando comincia il suo canto,
già ode per casa il tuo strido.
E l'alba il suo cielo rischiara,
ma prima lo spruzza e imperlina,
così come tu la tua cara
casina.
Sei l'umile ancella, ma regni
su l'umile casa pulita.
Minacci, rimproveri; insegni
ch'è bella, se pura, la vita.
Insegni, con l'acre tua cura
rodendo la pietra e la creta,
che sempre, per essere pura,
si logora l'anima lieta.
Insegni, tu sacra ad un rogo
non tardo, non bello, che più
di ciò che tu mondi, ti logori
tu!
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
L'ultima cicala stride
sulla scorza gialla dell'eucalipto
i bambini raccolgono pinòli
indispensabili per la galantina
un cane alano urla dall'inferriata
di una villa ormai disabitata
le ville furono costruite dai padri
ma i figli non le hanno volute
ci sarebbe spazio per centomila terremotati
di qui non si vede nemmeno la proda
se può chiamarsi cosí quell'ottanta per cento
ceduta in uso ai bagnini
e sarebbe eccessivo pretendervi
una pace alcionica
il mare è d'altronde infestato
mentre i rifiuti in totale
formano ondulate collinette plastiche
esaurite le siepi hanno avuto lo sfratto
i deliziosi figli della ruggine
gli scriccioli o reatini come spesso
li citano i poeti. E c'è anche qualche boccio
di magnolia l'etichetta di un pediatra
ma qui i bambini volano in bicicletta
e non hanno bisogno delle sue cure
Chi vuole respirare a grandi zaffate
la musa del nostro tempo la precarietà
può passare di qui senza affrettarsi
è il colpo secco quello che fa orrore
non già l'evanescenza il dolce afflato del nulla
Hic manebimus se vi piace non proprio
ottimamente ma il meglio sarebbe troppo simile
alla morte ( e questa piace solo ai giovani)

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