Fragment 31 is arguably the most translated —and "untranslatable" — piece of lyric poetry in Western history. For 2,500 years, it's been the "Mount Everest" for translators due to the percussive, almost clinical way a lovesick heart describes its own physical erasure. To translate it is to grapple with a ghost: it's one of the only Sappho poems that is reasonably preserved, thanks to the critic Longinus quoting it with approval, but the words are ambiguous, the self-consciousness jarring, and the way to feel about it postponed to a much later age.
Appears to me that one’s unmoved, like the gods
That man, across from you, whoever he is,
Installed and close by, for that sweetness of voice
Overheard, obeyed –
You, having laughed, erotic charge, but not mine
Whose heart is caged in a temple of panic,
For when I see you, even briefly, my voice
Won’t work anymore,
Even my tongue muscle flops and a subtle
Fire ignites suddenly under my skin,
Whited out eyes can’t see anything at all,
Ears rung to a roar.
Sweat’s pouring out and tremors are all over
Seizing my being; I turn greener than grass
And I have died, or maybe less, or so I
Appear to myself.
Risks are required – even for one without rights ...
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φαίνεταί μοι κῆνοc ἴcοc θέοισιν
ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττιc ἐνάντιόc τοι
ἰcδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί
cαc ὐπακούει
καὶ γελαίcαc ἰμέροεν, τό μ’ ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν cτήθεcιν ἐπτόαιcεν,
ὠc γὰρ ἔc c’ ἴδω βρόχε’ ὤc με φώναι
c’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει,
ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶccα ἔαγε λέπτον
δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,
ὀππάτεccι δ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ὄρημμ’, ἐπιρρόμ
βειcι δ’ ἄκουαι,
κάδ δέ μ’ ἴδρωc κακχέεται τρόμοc δὲ
παῖcαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίαc
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ’ ὀλίγω ’πιδεύηc
φαίνομ’ ἔμ’ αὔται.
ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον, ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα
