i. Back in Rome
Go on without me, book, but with my blessing,
back to our home town, the exile trespassing
(for you’re not forbidden, banned where I am barred
although plain, scuffed, as black as my mourner’s heart)
but if your page is smeared, your words left undefined,
those blots are from tears and now the tears are mine.
Go on, retrace my paths, tread the streets for me,
between the lines, in the cracks, set my feet free.
And if, in the crowd, there's one, just one, who asks,
tell them: ‘yes, through me he still lives, still breathes - just
but without the good health he enjoyed before.’
Then snap shut: remember, less is always more;
you see, in this no-man’s land, the soul’s slow death,
my books might be read but my sins stay scarlet.
But if they’re quick to judge, here’s your alibi:
poetry should be drawn down from clear cold skies
not scrawled under clouds in the eye of the storm;
poetry requires calm, quiet recollection,
should taste of the stars and yet smell of the lamp
not salt-soured seas, harsh winds, rust of wintry damp.
Poetry’s writing without fear: words can’t be coaxed
when the knife is always pricking at your throat.
Show pity, then, all critics, be indulgent;
that this verse exists should cause astonishment;
(put Homer in my place, give him these dangers
and watch his high art fade, great voice grow fainter).
Besides, if you scrutinise this title page
you’ll find nothing Amoral. That price is paid.
I know there are Gods who can be merciful
still I dread the hand that brought me to my fall;
for I've felt the crack of skies, roar of thunder
so I fear the storm always at my shoulder.
(from Tristia I.1)
back to our home town, the exile trespassing
(for you’re not forbidden, banned where I am barred
although plain, scuffed, as black as my mourner’s heart)
but if your page is smeared, your words left undefined,
those blots are from tears and now the tears are mine.
Go on, retrace my paths, tread the streets for me,
between the lines, in the cracks, set my feet free.
And if, in the crowd, there's one, just one, who asks,
tell them: ‘yes, through me he still lives, still breathes - just
but without the good health he enjoyed before.’
Then snap shut: remember, less is always more;
you see, in this no-man’s land, the soul’s slow death,
my books might be read but my sins stay scarlet.
But if they’re quick to judge, here’s your alibi:
poetry should be drawn down from clear cold skies
not scrawled under clouds in the eye of the storm;
poetry requires calm, quiet recollection,
should taste of the stars and yet smell of the lamp
not salt-soured seas, harsh winds, rust of wintry damp.
Poetry’s writing without fear: words can’t be coaxed
when the knife is always pricking at your throat.
Show pity, then, all critics, be indulgent;
that this verse exists should cause astonishment;
(put Homer in my place, give him these dangers
and watch his high art fade, great voice grow fainter).
Besides, if you scrutinise this title page
you’ll find nothing Amoral. That price is paid.
I know there are Gods who can be merciful
still I dread the hand that brought me to my fall;
for I've felt the crack of skies, roar of thunder
so I fear the storm always at my shoulder.
(from Tristia I.1)
Translated by Josephine Balmer
Page(s) 62
magazine list
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