Page 50 - WTP Vol. VII #6

the murky pain. 43
Horace’s Odes, Book IV, 11
— translated by Art Beck
I have a jar of Alban that’s at least
nine years old, and in my garden, Phyllis, the parsley and wild ivy are winding into crowns to tie your dazzling hair.
The house is silly
with silverplate, and the altar, encircled with chaste, sacred branches, is parched
for the sacrificed blood of the lamb we’ll eat. Our hands are in such a hurry. Boys
and girls together
running around in circles. The neglected, smoldering fire almost smokes us out. But, you need to
know the occasion for this happy summons: tomorrow’s the Ides of April,
sea-born Venus’ month,
a feast day, I swear, observed more solemnly,
than my very own birthday, because it’s Maecenes’ birthday, my patron, the dawn of my abundance...
And yes, I’ve heard: Telephus, who you’ve been so wild for, has been taken, like a spoil of war, by a noble brat. Between her money and lasciviousness, he’s grateful to be tied, fettered,
defeated. Hope
tumbles to earth like burnt up Phaeton.
Or to hold out another weighty example, the magic horse Pegasus found earth-born Bellephron a serious burden. You
need to always,
if you’re going to keep your dignity, discriminate, in life, between what you can and can’t ever get. Well
then, come – last love of my
life – because,
truly, no other woman will ever set me on fire again – but stop – to memorize this – so I can hear it in your voice. Poetry can ease
art BEck