68
Borne down with bitter misfortune
you send me this letter, Manlius,
blotted with tears,
it comes like flotsam
from a spumy sea -
from the shipwreck of your affairs -
a cry from the undertow...
and that you,
whom Venus deprives
of soft sleep,
whom the Greek Muse
no longer tempts,
who turn restlessly
in an empty bed,
call me 'my friend',
that you look to Catullus
for love-gifts of Venus
& of the Holy Muses
is a gift in itself,
but your own tears blind you to mine.
I am not neglectful of friendship,
but we two squat in the same coracle,
we are both swamped by the same stormy waters,
I have not the gifts of a happy man...
Often enough,
when a man's toga first sat on my shoulders
I chased love & the Muses,
in the onset of youth
the tart mixtures of Venus
seeming sweet,
but a brother's death
drove a man's kickshaws
into limbo -
I have lost you my brother
and you death has ended
the spring season
of my hapiness,
Our house is buried with you
& buried the laughter you taught me.
There are no thought of love nor of poems
in my head
since you died.
Hence, Manlius
the reproach in your Roman letter
leaves me unmoved:
"Why loiter in Verona,
Catullus, where
for men of our circle
cold limbs in an empty bed
are the rule -
not the exception?"
Forgive me, my friend
but the dalliance of love
that you look for
has been soured by mourning.
As for a poem...
our tastes call for my Greek books,
and those are at home
where we both live
and where our years pile up,
in Rome...
I have few copies of anything by me.
One case only has followed me North.
There is nothing curmudgeonly here -
on whom do you think
I would sooner lavish
love-gifts of Venus
& gifts of the Holy Muses
than you?
You have turned to a friend
& the friends hands are empty...
How can I give what I have not got?
[...]
[Abridged]
Catullus
(Translation by Peter Whigham)
you send me this letter, Manlius,
blotted with tears,
it comes like flotsam
from a spumy sea -
from the shipwreck of your affairs -
a cry from the undertow...
and that you,
whom Venus deprives
of soft sleep,
whom the Greek Muse
no longer tempts,
who turn restlessly
in an empty bed,
call me 'my friend',
that you look to Catullus
for love-gifts of Venus
& of the Holy Muses
is a gift in itself,
but your own tears blind you to mine.
I am not neglectful of friendship,
but we two squat in the same coracle,
we are both swamped by the same stormy waters,
I have not the gifts of a happy man...
Often enough,
when a man's toga first sat on my shoulders
I chased love & the Muses,
in the onset of youth
the tart mixtures of Venus
seeming sweet,
but a brother's death
drove a man's kickshaws
into limbo -
I have lost you my brother
and you death has ended
the spring season
of my hapiness,
Our house is buried with you
& buried the laughter you taught me.
There are no thought of love nor of poems
in my head
since you died.
Hence, Manlius
the reproach in your Roman letter
leaves me unmoved:
"Why loiter in Verona,
Catullus, where
for men of our circle
cold limbs in an empty bed
are the rule -
not the exception?"
Forgive me, my friend
but the dalliance of love
that you look for
has been soured by mourning.
As for a poem...
our tastes call for my Greek books,
and those are at home
where we both live
and where our years pile up,
in Rome...
I have few copies of anything by me.
One case only has followed me North.
There is nothing curmudgeonly here -
on whom do you think
I would sooner lavish
love-gifts of Venus
& gifts of the Holy Muses
than you?
You have turned to a friend
& the friends hands are empty...
How can I give what I have not got?
[...]
[Abridged]
Catullus
(Translation by Peter Whigham)
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