Showing posts with label translations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label translations. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 15, 2026

Sappho 3

This obscure Sappho fragment is a strikingly modern lyric on a timely topic, fame.

Would give
Reknown --
Elite elevation --
To my one.

Hubris 
Swells me,
Might wound you,
Knowing I can't be opened,
Not able to be joined,

And most ruinous:
My breath is blessed.

-------------------------------------------

3
]δώσην
κλ]ύτων μέντ’ ἐπ[
κ]άλων κἄσλων, σ̣[
τοὶς φί]λοις, λύπης τέ μ[ε
]μ’ ὄνειδος
]οιδήσαις . ἐπιτ . [
].αν, ἄσαιο. τὸ γὰρ ν̣[όημα
τὦ]μον, οὐκ οὔτω μ̣[
]διάκηται,
]μη̣δ̣[ ] . αζε, [
]χις, συνίημ[ι
. ης κακότατο[ς
]μεν
]ν ἀτέραις με[
]η φρένας, εὔ[
]α̣τοις μάκα[ρας

Tuesday, April 14, 2026

Sappho Cymatics

Certain Sappho fragments are sound evocations for mystery school ritual practices. Here are a few of the chants. As background, Khaireto = Graces; Mousai = Muses; Aryah = Hera; Atreidae = Agamemnon + Menelaus; Ilion = Troy; Thyone's son = Dionysus; Sellana = moon. 

Call to the Initiate 
Lithely we braid the Khaireto,
Enkindle the glow of Mousai

Invocation to the Gatekeeper
Enlightened one Aryah Lady of Power
Reveal yourself so we may receive your form.
By all Atreidae kings enjoined
And Zeus, your immutable twin.

Endlessly sainted from the pull of hard breath,
Champions of Ilion on open seas --
Futile was their voyage to the rightful ports;
Without you, couldn't.

I place you and Zeus in front of my presence
And Thyone's son, high-volting with desire.
Intervene for me if I have appeased you
In the ancient way.

Now set apart ... The eligible ...
Encircle ...
Hold ...
Arrive.

Commencement
They bonded with Sellana's full load of light
And rang in silver stillness round its altar.

-------------------------------------------------

128
 δεῦτέ νυν ἄβραι Χάριτες καλλίκομοί τε Μοῖσαι

17
πλάσιον δή μ’ [εὐχομέναι φανείη,
πότνι’ Ἦρα, σὰ χ[αρίεσσα μόρφα,
τὰν ἀράταν Ἀτ[ρεΐδαι κλῆ-
τοι βασίληες·
ἐκτελέσσαντες μ[άλα πόλλ’ ἄεθλα,
πρῶτα μὲν περ Ἴ̣[λιον ἔν τε πόντῳ,
τυίδ’ ἀπορμάθεν[τες ὄδον περαίνην
οὐκ ἐδύναντο,
πρὶν σὲ καὶ Δί’ ἀντ[ίαον κάλεσσαι
καὶ Θυώνας ἰμε̣[ρόεντα παῖδα·
νῦν δὲ κ[ἄμοι πραϋμένης ἄρηξον
κὰτ τὸ πάλ̣[αιον.
ἄγνα καὶ κά̣[λα
π]αρθ[εν
ἀ]μφι.[
[      ]
[      ]
[      ]
ἔμμενα̣[ι
[ἶ]ρ̣’ ἀπίκε[σθαι.

154
πλήρης μὲν ἐφαίνετ’ ἀ σελάννα
αἰ δ’ ὠς περὶ βῶμον ἐστάθησαν

Thursday, April 9, 2026

Sappho Eros Sequence

Sappho is perhaps best known for her "erotic" fragments, which seem to have burned through the now-marred papyrus. The feeling has come down to us as "Eros," left untranslated here. Eros is the child of Póros (Resource/Plenty) and Penía (Poverty/Lack). The plenty is desire - an intense state of longing to merge with another. This aspect has come through in English but Sappho is equally interested in lack -- the bodily system failure that comes with.

Eros detaches me
Like an oak tree ripped – my wits – from glades.

Set fire to me,
Sappho, first.

I don't know which way to race – there are two minds in me.

You came, and I desired 
And you cooled my burning with thirst.

Untie my anxiety; 
Drops atop an ache bay
For all night feasting.

Soft laps ... in your lap ... wrapped in linen.

You smeared yourself until the rose was sealed
With plasma,
Strummed and stretched the flesh of mattress ...
Penetrable ...
Erupting lack.

I brushed against … but not, I suppose, the sky.

Who’s this country girl … at work on my mind ...
Girl who wears a skirt … from the country ...
Doesn't know ... how to pull the leggings up 
Above her ankles.

As for Sappho … among the doves,
Whose cold stirred the beating of their wings.

Indeed I loved you Atthi, long ago ...
When you were a girl and seemed so small, graceless.

How can the hurt go on
Kypris, when one loves
And won't release the pain
Heedlessly tearing me,
The one with buckled knees?
I want you ... Goddess ... to suffer this
But I know it too well myself.

Oh Mother I can't weave --
Desire broke me.

Eros swings loose my limbs again,
The pleasure pain serpent jurisdiction.

Across the hill
The rose
...
Glistens

Hunger
Moan

Dripping

Mm

-------------------------------------------

47
Ἔρος δ᾿ ἐτίναξέ μοι
φρένας, ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.

38
ὄπταις ἄμμε
Σαπφὼ πρώτῳ.

51
οὐκ οἶδ᾿ ὄττι θέω· δύο μοι τὰ νοήμ⟨μ⟩ατα

48
ἦλθες, ἔγω δέ σ᾿ ἐμαιόμαν,
ὂν δ᾿ ἔψυξας ἔμαν φρένα καιομέναν πόθῳ.

23
... τὰι σᾶι
παίσαν ...
δροσόεν]τας ὄχθοις
ταιν
παν]νυχίσ[δ]ην

100
ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄβροισ’ . . . λασίοισ’ εὖ ⟨ϝ’⟩ ἐπύκασσε.

94
καὶ πο̣λ̣λ̣ῳ[             ] . μύρῳ
βρενθείῳ . [            ]ρ̣υ[ . . ]ν
ἐξαλείψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣ληίῳ,
 
καὶ στρώμν[αν ἐ]πὶ μολθάκαν
ἀπάλαν πα . [         ] . . .ων
ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν           ] . νίδων,

52
ψαύην δ᾿ οὐ δοκίμωμ᾿ ὀράνω δυσπαχέα

57
τίς δ᾿ ἀγροΐωτις θέλγει νόον . . .
ἀγροΐωτιν ἐπεμμένα στόλαν  . . .
οὐκ ἐπισταμένα τὰ βράκε ᾿ ἔλκην ἐπὶ τὼν σφύρων;

42
ἡ δὲ Σαπφὼ … ἐπὶ τῶν περιστερῶν·
ταῖσι <δὲ> ψῦχρος μὲν ἔγεντ᾿ ὀ θῦμος,
πὰρ δ᾿ ἴεισι τὰ πτέρα

49
ἠράμαν μὲν ἔγω σέθεν Ἂτθι πάλαι πότα·
***
σμίκρα μοι παίς ἔμμεν᾿ ἐφαίνεο κἄχαρις.

26
πῶς̣ κε δή τις οὐ θαμέω̣ς̣ ἄσαιτ̣ο,
Κύπρι, δέσ̣π̣ο̣ι̣ν̣’̣, ὄτ̣τ̣ι̣ν̣α δὴ̣ φι̣λ̣[είη
καὶ] θέλοι μάλιστα π̣ά̣λ̣ι̣ν̣ κάλ̣[εσσαι;
ποῖ]ον ἔχησθα
νῶν] σ̣άλοισι̣ μ’ ἀλεμά̣τ̣ω̣ς̣ δ̣αΐ̣σ̣δ̣[ην
ἰμέρ]ῳ λύσαντ̣ι̣ γ̣όν̣’ ω̣μ̣ε – [
. . . ]. α . α .. [ . . ] α̣ι̣μ’ ο̣ὐ̣ π̣ρ̣ο[. . .] . ερησ[
. . . ]νε̣ερ . [ . ] αι̣
] . . . [ . . ] σέ θέλω [
. . . τοῦ]το πάθη[ν
]ι . αν, ἔγω δ’ ἐμ’ αὔτᾳ
τοῦτο σύνοιδα
] . [ . ] . τοις [ . . . .] .
]εναμ[
] . [ . ] . [

102
γλύκηα μᾶτερ, οὔτοι δύναμαι κρέκην τὸν ἴστον
πόθῳ δάμεισα παῖδος βραδίναν δι’ Ἀφροδίταν.

130
Ἔρος δηὖτέ μ’ ὀ λυσιμέλης δόνει,
γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον

74a
]ων ἔκα[
]αιπόλ[
]μ.[
]βροδο[
]ο̣νθ[
]φαιμ[

74b
]α[
]ποθο̣[
].ώβα̣[

74c
].[
]ας ἴδρω
].υζ̣αδ.[
]ι̣ν[

74d
].[.].ε[
]ν̣πο.[
]μ̣[

Wednesday, April 8, 2026

Sappho 44 (The Wedding of Hector and Andromache)

This long but heavily effaced fragment records the coherence of an historically important, divinely ordained wedding, giving maximal lyric intensity to a purely civic event. But no degree of gonzo pomp can prevent – or anticipate – the horror of what was to come for this perfect, doomed couple.

Kypris.
Crier came.
From Ida -- fast courier.
Rest of Asia -- imperishable fame.

"Hector and partners transfer the eye-turner
Thebe from the fertile and sacred place,
The gentle Man-Battle, in ships 
On the salt sea; and many bangles gold-coiled,
Subdued purple, patterned playthings,
Countless cups of silver with ivory inlay."

Nimbly he leapt when he heard, King Priam, the father,
And word swept through the city of ballrooms, for the sons of Troy 
To appoint well-turned, mule-drawn carriages for all 
Slender-ankled maidens and ladies to ride,
And away from the crowd went Priam's daughters,
Horses were harnessed by men to chariots,
Young bachelors, who stirred great dust as they drove,
Charioteers holding the reins.

Likening to Gods
They mobilized to holy Ilion
With a sweeping as sweet as flutes and kithara 
And the beating of castanets.
Piercingly the maidens sang a holy song
And it reached all the way to the ether
Echoing like a God ... down every boulevard.
Vats of wine and offering bowls ...
The resins of cassia, frankincense and myrrh
Fused the very air.

The elder women shrieked their ritual ululation;
The men aligned like a bowstring to the wail
Calling with Apollo, master of the lyre,
The one who strikes at a distance, to weave them 
Into hymn, Hector and Andromache -- like Gods.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Κυπρο̣ . [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]ας̣·
κάρυξ ἦλθ̣ε θε̣[ . . . . . . . . . .]ελε̣ [ . . . ] . θεις
Ἴδαος ταδεκα . . . φ [ . . ] . . ις τάχυς ἄγγελος
⟨ ⟩
‘ τάς τ’ ἄλλας Ἀσίας . [ . ] δε . αν κλέος ἄφθιτον·
Ἔκτωρ καὶ συνέταιρ̣[ο]ι ἄ̣γ̣οισ’ ἐλικώπιδα
Θήβας ἐξ ἰέρας Πλακίας τ’ ἀ[π̣’ ἀϊ]ν⟨ν⟩άω
ἄβραν Ἀνδρομάχαν ἐνὶ ναῦσιν ἐπ’ ἄλμυρον
πόντον· πόλλα δ’ [ἐλί]γματα χρύσια κἄμματα
πορφύρ[α] καταΰτ[με]να, ποί̣κ̣ι̣λ’ ἀθύρματα,
ἀργύρα̣ τ̣’ ἀνά̣ριθ̣μα ποτήρια κἀλέφαις.’
ὢς εἶπ’· ὀτραλέως δ’ ἀνόρουσε πάτ[η]ρ̣ φίλος·
φάμα δ’ ἦλθε κατὰ πτ̣όλιν εὐρύχο̣ρ̣ο̣ν φίλοις·
αὔτικ’ Ἰλίαδαι σατίναι[ς] ὐπ’ ἐυτρόχοις
ἆγον αἰμιόνοις, ἐ̣π̣[έ]βαινε δὲ παῖς ὄχλος
γυναίκων τ’ ἄμα παρθενίκα[ν] τ . . [ . . ] . σφύρων
χῶρις δ’ αὖ Περάμοιο θυγ[α]τρες[
ἴππ[οις] δ’ ἄνδρες ὔπαγον ὐπ’ ἀρ̣[ματ-
π[    ]ες ἠίθ̣εοι, μεγάλω[ς] τι δ̣[
δ[     ] . ἀνίοχοι φ[ . . . . . ] . [
π̣[     ]ξδα .ο[
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨Probably 6 or 7 verses are missing ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
⟨ ⟩
ἴ]κελοι θέοι[ς
] ἄγνον ἀολ[λε-
ὄ̣ρ̣ματ̣α̣ι̣ [                ] νον ἐς Ἴλιο[ν,
αὖλος δ’ ἀδυ[μ]έλης̣ [κίθαρίς]1 τ’ ὀνεμίγνυ[το
καὶ ψ[ό]φο[ς κ]ροτάλ[ων, λιγέ]ως δ’ ἄρα πάρ[θενοι
ἄειδον μέλος ἄγν[ον, ἴκα]νε δ’ ἐς α̣ἴ̣θ̣[ερα
ἄχω θεσπεσία̣ γελ̣[
πάντᾳ δ’ ἦς κὰτ ὄδο[ις
κράτηρες φίαλαί τ’ ὀ[ . . .]υεδε[ . . ] . .εακ[ . ] . [
μύρρα καὶ κασία λίβανός τ’ ὀνεμείχνυτο·
γύναικες δ’ ἐλέλυσδον ὄσαι προγενέστερα[ι,
πάντες δ’ ἄνδρες ἐπήρατον ἴαχον ὄρθιον
Πάον’ ὀνκαλέοντες ἐκάβολον εὐλύραν,
ὔμνην δ’ Ἔκτορα κ’ Ἀνδρομάχαν θεο⟨ε⟩ικέλο[ις. 

Monday, April 6, 2026

Sappho 132

Names were more than labels in 7th-century BCE Greece; they were "instruction manuals" for a child's desired qualities. Sappho named her daughter Kleis (Κλέις), which literally translates to "Key," the heavy, L-shaped bronze clasp used to shift a massive door bolt in archaic Lesbos. She named her -- as was common at the time -- after her own mother, to evoke the matrilineal keykeeper to the access gate not only of the home but a higher value than the one represented by wealthy and decadent Lydia.

There's mine a luminous child, called Key, the same name as my mother's,
​Who carries the auric luster in her form of golden flowers;
I would not exchange her for all of Lydia or her lucre.

------------------------------------------------

132 
 ἔστι μοι κάλα πάις χρυσίοισιν ἀνθέμοισιν
ἐμφέρη⟨ν⟩ ἔχοισα μόρφαν Κλέις ἀγαπάτα,
ἀντὶ τᾶς ἔγωὐδὲ Λυδίαν παῖσαν οὐδ’ ἐράνναν . . .

Friday, April 3, 2026

The Cicada (Sappho 101)

We’re accustomed to believe spiritual power is vested in objects: the lucky rabbit’s foot, the Roman cross that transformed ego death into a literal one. But it was the opposite impulse in Sappho’s day; objects had to be neutralized first so they wouldn’t overwhelm the initiate with the energy they carried, so that both object and initiate would be receptive to divine attention. The mystery schools anointed the objects to survive being seen by the Goddess. 

The object in question for the fragment 101 set is an elaborately patterned, exquisitely weaved murex-purple hand cloth ("handkerchief" is used here because English has lost the memory of such a sacred vehicle of reception) from Phokaia, a syndicate of independent city states that dominated the 600-700 BCE luxury market in the highly networked Mediterranean trade. Whether the cloths were passed by initiates (my guess) or acquired as material objects (the consensus), they certainly needed to be "saged" (in the modern parlance) before the initiates could be "possessed" by the Goddess frequency. Murex production alone, as indicated yesterday, was a particularly rank and brutal process. This "gentling" was done by breath. 

And this breath in turn evokes the cicada, whose invisible tymbal discharge at 400 beats a second only happens when time is thick, in the heat and stillness. The sun calls it from an underground home to tell us when to pay attention — not unlike that high-pitched ringing we may hear inside our ears. Plato’s Phaedrus myth remembered it that cicadas were once humans who sang when the Muses were born. They sang so unreservedly they forgot to eat, and were transformed into beings of pure voice. After death, they “report” to the Muses which humans honor each Muse  — who can remain lucid when the high-frequency "music" overwhelms.

This fragment offers a tantalizing glimpse of archaic mystery school practices — it almost reads to modern eyes as a how-to manual — one broken either by time or intention. 

Turn me the Aphrodite:
Infuse my breath into the moistened
Purple handkerchief, entrusted
To us from the masters of Phokaia
To touch to our cheeks.

Activate the cicada voice
Carried on keen wings,
Seeping its high-frequency song,
Powered up when the sun hangs down
Low, to hover up the cry in transmission.

----------------------------------------------------

101
πρὸς τὴν Ἀφροδίτην·
χερρόμακτρα δὲ καγγόνων
πορφύρα καταΰτμενα
τατιμάσεις ἔμπεμψ’ ἀπὺ Φωκάας
δῶρα τίμια καγγόνων
 
101A
ἐπὶ τοῦ τέττιγος·
πτερύγων δ’ ὔπα
κακχέει λιγύραν ἀοίδαν,
ὄπποτα φλόγιον καθέ-
ταν ἐπιπτάμενον καταυδείη

Thursday, April 2, 2026

The Purple of Sappho 98

Purple has always been the color of enlightenment and the enlightened ones. It is Aphrodite's color and the Greek mystery religion cultivators bound it to song, scent and movement to enact her frequency. But the rich dyes of that age came from murex, a gland in the sea snail that only turned purple when exposed to the sun. This photochemically converted it into 6,6′‑dibromoindigo, an unusually deep, refractive and unstable purple that can shift toward red, blue, or black depending on angle and wear. Thus the purple of Sappho changed its behavior in response to light — it was alive, that is, to spirit. 

Purple also exposed the holy — as it does today when spied between the cracks. But in those days it was palpable. It allowed the wearer to be seen as a Goddess, knowledge the Romans later used to project themselves as Gods  and punish any non-elite who wore the color with death. It took 12,000 snails to produce 1.4 grams of dye, making murex highly prized as a kind of condensed sunlight. And it became, as Sappho recounts in this fragment, a controlled substance. The Persian ransack of Sardis cut off the Lydian snail trade to all but the elect ... but not the spiritually elect. In fact, Cleanaktidai — the local mafia of the time — could be heard as Illuminati without veering too far from the Greek. Sappho portrays the capture lyrically, balancing hope and grief for her daughter Kleis. 

... Mom — who bore me to life

Incorruptible in her prime,
She plaited her hair in purple
To coil highest truth around her feeling.

She existed without a doubt.
But my daughter has hair so gold
It is a torch even brighter than the sun.

Fresh flowers heavy with vapor
Spun spiral to form fit her head
And now something has happened to the mitra:

The iridescent purple 
Gone from the Ionian ports.

I can braid you, Kleis, in patterns
But have no means to change that fact;
The mitra is for the Mytilenians.

Exile can't hold luminescence ...
These things of the Cleanaktidai ...
Mementoes ...  they have flowed horribly away.

------------------------------------------------------

98a
. . ] . θος· ἀ γάρ με γέννα[τ
 
σ]φ̣ᾶς ἐπ’ ἀλικίας μέγ[αν
κ]όσμον, αἴ τις ἔχη φόβα⟨ι⟩ς̣[
π̣ορφύρ̣ῳ κατελιξαμέ[να πλόκῳ,
 
ἔ̣μμεναι μά̣λα τοῦτο δ̣[ή·
ἀ̣λλ’ ἀ ξανθοτέραις ἔχη[
τ̣αὶς κόμαις δάϊδος προ[
 
σ]τεφάνοισιν ἐπαρτία[ις
ἀ̣νθέων ἐριθαλέων·
μ]ι̣τράναν δ’ ἀρτίως κλ[
 
π̣οικίλαν ἀπὺ Σαρδίω[ν
. . . ] . αονίας πόλ{ε}ις1
 
98b
σοὶ δ’ ἔγω Κλέι ποικίλαν
οὐκ ἔχω πόθεν ἔσσεται
μιτράν⟨αν⟩· ἀλλὰ τῲ Μυτιληνάῳ
. . . . . . .
παι . α . ειον ἔχην πο . [
αἰκε̣ . η̣ ποικιλασκ . . . . [
 
ταῦτα τὰς Κλεανακτίδα̣[ν
φύγας̣  . . ι̣σαπολισεχει 
μνάματ’· .ἴ̣δε γὰρ αἶνα διέρρυε̣[ν

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Sappho on Adonis (fragments)

More repackaging of fragments a la a philologist, this time with a recurring theme of Adonis, the doomed mortal who became Aphrodite's lover.
 
The moon has now entered the void,
The Pleiades follow, sweeping
Low and moving the small hours on.
I, when I sleep, do so alone.

He died there Cythera foam form,
Gorgeous Adonis, what can be done?
Clap on your breasts, illumined girls,
Tear open your pious blouses.

Mourn for Adonis.

Leda they say once laid an egg
From a solar womb, hyacinthine
And occulted, an egg pure enough
To be shadow free.

------------------------------------------------------

168B

δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληΐαδες· μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, παρὰ δ’ ἔρχετ’ ὤρα,
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.

140

κατθνάσκει, Κυθέρη’, ἄβρος Ἄδωνις· τί κε θεῖμεν;
καττύπτεσθε, κόραι, καὶ κατερείκεσθε κίθωνας.

168

ὦ τὸν Ἄδωνιν

166

φαῖσι δή ποτα Λήδαν ὐακίνθινον
… ὤιον εὔρην πεπυκάδμενον

167

ὠΐω πόλυ λευκότερον

Cretan Goddess (Sappho 2)


A nice Veneralia surprise for me that fragment 2 is in Sapphic stanzas and is about my favorite subject, the divine feminine.

Diffuse here from Cretas to this very shrine
That’s sanctified to you, by graceful apples
In the sacred grove, where we burn frankincense.
Altars are smoking.

And the cold water flows its song through branches,
The floor all roses dances in the shadow,
Leaves convulse in extra-sensory death as
Your possession pours.

In the meadow spring releases its being,
The horse grazes whole heart into the earth,
Ecstasy breezes, the vapour of the goddess,
Honey plasma breathes.

Cretan Aphrodite! Pour your nectar gold
As our tongues yield softly to each sensation
And we taste of the ubiquitous ocean
In your gnosis cup.

----------------------------------------------------------------

[Δεῦρύ μ'] ἄλλοι, Κρή[σ]ιαν πρὸς ἄλσος
[να]ίϊον, ὄππ[α]ι [τ]εάϊνον τ[ε] μέλιννον
[ἄλ]σος, ἐν δὲ βῶμοι θυμιά[η]νοι
λιβανώτῳ·

ἐν δ᾽ ὕδωρ ψῦχρον κελάδει δι᾽ ὔσδων
μαλίνων, βρόδοισι δὲ πᾶς ὀ χῶρος
ἐσκίαστ᾽, αἰθύσσομένων δὲ φύλλων
κῶμα κατέρρει·

ἐν δὲ λείμων ἰππόβοτος τέθαλεν
ἠρίνοισιν ἄνθεσιν, αἰ δὲ λῆναι
μέλλιχα πνέοισιν [---]
[ἔνθα σὺ Κύπρι]

βροσίαις ἐν χρυσίαισιν [κύλικες]
ἁβρώως [ ]
νέκταρ ἐγκεκραιμένον [ ]
[---]

Fuller interpretive synthesis at The Digital Sappho

Tuesday, March 31, 2026

Sappho's Wedding Song


I took the conventional road of seeing the scraps of Sappho's Epithalamia as separate expressions, only to find out it's all one coherent, ritually-correct, deliciously subversive satire.

Evening star, you remember the scattered and bring them back to us,
Bring sheep, bring goats, bring us ... mothers, but then you take their child away,
The most beautiful of the stars.

Something sweet reddens, the last quince, up at the last of the branches.
Do the hands that would caress and turn it for harvest just forget?
No, of course they couldn't forget, not entirely — just couldn't reach.

Blown by Zephyrs to high altitudes, bruised purple by the blue,
The feet that don't know shepherd hyacinth in the tread of their boots.

The preeminent Lesbian singer in the Mediterraine;
Do I still throw myself upon my virgin?
Oh holy, oh full of grace,
"Mine to give," says her dad.

The fair fiancee, tell everyone, arrives,
A child of Kronos, violet mounds.
They set the table for desire.
Enshrine them, Muses and Graces!
With songs to move the heart and minds,
Light-ray tones.

An offering:
Communal joy,
Twin fortunes with favor
To capture the bay,
Receive the earth.
Sailors may
Choose high winds
And dry land,
Where she sets sail ...
The cargo.
Many accomplishments ...
Flow from the shore.

Before the gate, to keep the bride inside
Her room, 10 cobblers and 5 cows
For the doorman's sandals, 7 fathoms long.

Big enough to let the groom in
To the hymen.
Carpenters to raise the roof high;
To the hymen.
For the bridegroom is as long as the God of War;
To the hymen.
Better hung than gargantuan men,
To the hymen.

The bride with perfect rhythm 
Enters the bridal chamber.
Now ...
Me.

All night long
The maidens sing
In the customary way,
Things of love and brides with violet mounds.

The bridegroom's men are quarrelsome.
Such phobias unsettle the lyre
Suspended like the golden sandals of dawn.

Wake up every eager buck now,
Sow your oats with your own boys groom, go
Until the light-sounding bird cracks --
Only then, the sandman.

As to how bad it will be
Go, let us see!
The sovereign mistress of dawn,
Strong in gold, nods.

Happy groom, the wedding you prayed for is done.
You perspire your desire all over your lovely face.
You are blessed above all by Aphrodite's fertile glance.
There is no other girl like her ... that one,
Honey in her eyes.

“Virginity, Virginity, where have you gone?”
“No longer will I come for you, no longer will I come.”

To what, beloved groom, would I place you in comparison?
The new shoot that bows in the evening — this is my comparison!

O not another girl now, O bridegroom, such as she.
Be happy, nympha, be wealthy ... hombre!
May you endure, bride -- at your command, groom?

Gods at the door, carved in marble;
Leave your blood with the evening star
Like Adonis, who died.

------------------------------------------------------------------

104a
Ἔσπερε πάντα φέρων ὄσα φαίνολις ἐσκέδασ’ Αὔως
φέρεις ὄιν, φέρεις αἶγα, φέρεις {ἄπυ} μάτερι παῖδα.
 
104b
ἀστέρων πάντων ὀ κάλλιστος . . .
 
105a
οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ’ ὔσδῳ,
ἄκρον ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῳ, λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηες·
οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ’, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐδύναντ’ ἐπίκεσθαι.
 
105b
οἴαν τὰν ὐάκινθον ἐν ὤρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες
πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος . . .

103
] . εν τὸ γὰρ ἐννεπε[ . ]η προ̣β
] . ατε τὰν εὔποδα νύμφαν [
]τ̣α παῖδα Κ̣ρ̣ο̣νίδα τὰν ἰόκ[ολπ]ον[  
] . ς ὄργαν θεμένα τὰν ἰόκ[ολ]π̣ος α[
] . . ἄγναι Χάριτες Πιέριδέ[ς τε] Μ̣οῖ̣[σαι  
] . [ . ὄ]π̣π̣οτ’ἀοιδαι φρέ̣ν[ . . . ]αν . [
]σ̣αιοισα λιγύραν [ἀοί]δ̣αν
 
106
πέρροχος ὠς ὄτ’ ἄοιδος ὀ Λέσβιος ἀλλοδάποισιν
 
107
ἦρ’ ἔτι παρθενίας ἐπιβάλλομαι;

108
ὦ καλή, ὦ χαρίεσσα·
 
109
‘δώσομεν,’ ἦσι πάτηρ

20
]επιθ̣ε̣σμα[
]ε γάνος δὲ και̣ . . [
]
τ]ύχαι συν ἔσλαι
λί]μ̣ενος κρέτησαι,
γ]ᾶς μελαίνας
]
]έλοισι ναῦται
]μ̣εγάλαις ἀήται[ς
]α κἀπὶ χέρσω
]
´.]μοθεν πλέοι.[
]δε τὰ φόρτι ᾿ εἰκ[
]νατιμ᾿ ἐπεὶ κ.[
]
]ρεόντι πόλλ̣α̣ι̣[
]αιδέκα̣ [
]ει
]
]ι̣ν ἔργα
]χέρσω[
].α
]
.]..[
 
110
θυρώρῳ πόδες ἐπτορόγυιοι,
τὰ δὲ σάμβαλα πεμπεβόηα,
πίσσυγγοι δὲ δέκ’ ἐξεπόναισαν.
 
111
Ἴψοι δὴ τὸ μέλαθρον,
 ̓ Υμήναον,
ἀέρρετε, τέκτονες ἄνδρες·
̓ Υμήναον.
γάμβρος (εἰσ)έρχεται ἶσος Ἄρευι,
̓ Υμήναον.
ἄνδρος μεγάλω πόλυ μέσδων.
̓ Υμήναον.

103Β
]ρηον θαλάμω τ̣ωδεσ̣[
]ι̣̣ς εὔποδα νύμφαν ἀβ̣[
].νυνδ[
]ν μοι· [
]ας γε̣ . [

30
νυκτ[ . . . ] . [
πάρθενοι δ[
παννυχίσδοι̣[σ]α̣ι̣[
σὰν ἀείδοιε̣ν φ[ιλότατα καὶ νύμ-

103 (Con't)
γά]μβρον, ἄσαροι γ̣ὰρ̣ ὐ̣μαλι̣κ[
]σε φόβαισι θεμέν̣α λύρα . [
. . . η χρυσοπέδι̣λ̣⟨λ⟩[ο]ς Αὔως   

30 (Con't)
φας ἰοκόλπω.
ἀλλ᾿ ἐγέρθε̣ι̣ς ἠϊθ[έοις
στεῖχε σοὶς ὐμάλικ̣[ας, ὠς ἐλάσσω
ἤπερ ὄσσον ἀ λιγ̣ύφω̣[νος ὄρνις
ὔπνον [ἴ]δωμεν.  

6
ὡς δα.[
      κακ̣κ̣[
ατρ[
κτα̣ .[
.].[
      θα[
Στεῖχ[ε
ὠς ἴδω̣[μεν
τ̣ὰς ἐτ.[
      πότνια [δ’ Αὔως
χρυσόπ̣[αχυς
καππο[
.ανμ[
      κ̣ᾶρα . [
    ].[
 
112
ὄλβιε γάμβρε, σοὶ μὲν δὴ γάμος ὠς ἄραο
ἐκτετέλεστ’, ἔχῃς δὲ πάρθενον ἂν ἄραο . . .
σοὶ χάριεν μὲν εἴδος, ὄππατα δ’ . . .
μέλλιχ’, ἔρος δ’ ἐπ’ ἰμέρτῳ κέχυται προσώπῳ
. . . τετίμακ’ ἔξοχά σ’ Ἀφροδίτα
 
113
οὐ γὰρ
ἀτέρα νῦν πάις, ὦ γάμβρε, τεαύτα
 
114
(νύμφη).παρθενία, παρθενία, ποῖ με λίποισ’ ἀποίχῃ;
(παρθενία). οὐκέτι ἤξω πρὸς σέ, οὐκέτι ἤξω.
 
115
τίῳ σ’, ὦ φίλε γάμβρε, καλῶς ἐικάσδω;
ὄρπακι βραδίνῳ σε μάλιστ’ ἐικάσδω.
 
116
χαῖρε, νύμφα, χαῖρε, τίμιε γάμβρε, πόλλα
 
117
χαίροις ἀ νύμφα, χαιρέτω δ’ ὀ γάμβρος
 
117A
ξοάνων προθύρων·
 
117B
Ἔσπερ’  ̓Υμήναον
ὦ τὸν Ἀδώνιον

Friday, March 27, 2026

Sappho 96


As I explore these Sapphic fragments I notice they are not broken things at all but concentrated. Emotion lives on in words that demand release, even, in this case, when release is never granted. Fragment 96 actually scans as a complete poem in the Sapphic style.
  
Sardis.
I've held you many times there,
As if we are alive.

Visible frequency of the divine —
Who took the most joy out of my song.
 
Now she stands out, glows among the Lydians
As when the sunset burns
And the rosy-fingered moon turns sovereign 
 
And has everything, every star, in its hold,
Presses its brilliance on the brine
And every flower plowed into the worked earth.
 
All the dew has been beautifully poured, roses
Have already bloomed, sweet clover
And tender chervil are yielding in the dark;
 
So fragile Attis roves through my memory.
My heart is devoured for someone
Vulnerable, in some direction, feeling something.
 
I came to this place, we did not. Not unknown
What's pointed to, what has a name.
My wailings release what is left in between.
 
It's not within our hands to model the Gods
For the beauty from desire 
Has no match ... and what I have of you, to hold.

Peitho works with persuading hands 
To pour Aphrodite's nectar.
And I get vapour ... for all my desire.

Remembered and gone ...
My anointed friends wait in Geraistion.
I will go.

----------------------------------------------------------

]Σαρδ . [ . .]
πόλ]λακι τυίδε̣ [ν]ῶν ἔχοισα
ὠσπ . [ . . .] . ωόμεν, . [ . . .] . . χ[ . .]

σε θέᾳ σ’ ἰκέλαν ἀρι-
γνώτᾳ, σᾳ δὲ μάλιστ’ ἔχαιρε μόλπᾳ.
 
νῦν δὲ Λῦδαισιν ἐμπρέπεται γυναί-
κεσσιν ὤς ποτ’ ἀελίω
δύντος ἀ βροδοδάκτυλος σελάννα
 
πάντα περρέχοισ’ ἄστρα· φάος δ’ ἐπί-
σχει θάλασσαν ἐπ’ ἀλμύραν
ἴσως καὶ πολυανθέμοις ἀρούραις·
 
ἀ δ’ ἐέρσα κάλα κέχυται τεθά-
λαισι δὲ βρόδα κἄπαλ’ ἄν-
θρυσκα καὶ μελίλωτος ἀνθεμώδης·
 
πόλλα δὲ ζαφοίταισ’ ἀγάνας ἐπι-
μνάσθεισ’ Ἄτθιδος ἰμέρῳ
λέπταν ποι φρένα κ[ᾶ]ρ̣[ι σᾷ] βόρηται·
 
κῆθι δ’ ἔλθην ἀμμ . [ . .] . .ισα τό̣δ’ οὐ
νῶντ’ ἀ[ . .]υστονυμ̣[ . . .] πόλυς
γαρύει̣ [ . . .]αλον̣[ . . . . . .] .ο̣ μέσσον·
 
ε]ὔ̣μαρ[ες μ]ὲ̣ν οὐκ̣ ἄμ̣μι θέαισι μόρ-
φαν ἐπή[ρατ]ον ἐξίσω-
σθ̣αι συ[ . .]ρ̣ο̣ς ἔχηισθ’ ἀ[ . . .] .νίδηον
 
]το̣[ . . . .]ρατι-
μαλ[                           ] . ερος
καὶ δ[ . ]μ̣[                  ]ος Ἀφροδίτα
 
καμ̣[                       ] νέκταρ ἔχευ’ ἀπὺ
χρυσίας [                        ]ν̣αν
.. . . .]απουρ̣[                    ]χέρσι Πείθω

[                                 ]θ[. . .]ησενη
[                                           ]ακις
[                                        ]. . . . . .αι
 
[                               ]ες τὸ Γεραίστιον
[                               ]ν̣ φίλαι
[                                ]υ̣στον οὐδενο[
 
[                                ]ερον ἰξο[μ

This fragment can be examined at The Digital Sappho

Sappho 95


Modern translations of Sappho can probably be summed up by how Ezra Pound famously or infamously translated or violated only the first three of four words or parts of words from fragment 95, landing at Gongula, while every contemporary translator (except, it turns out, me) start there, as if what's before it is (and what's after the few intact lines are) untrustworthy, domain of scholars not its effaced creator. But damn if I don't hear Sappho's voice.  

Ooh

Air …
Delay.
Gongyla.

Surely it’s a sign.
Appears to be.
The foreigner comes.

Master Hermes, I said,
By Aphrodite at least, I swear:
There's no enjoyment for me above the earth,

Dying by desire has its hold,
The cold and sensuous lotus
Along the margins of the river of woe.

To see …
Unbound …
No one.

------------------------------------------------

οὐ [

ᾖρ’ ἀ [
δηρατ.
Γογγυλα .

ἦ τι σᾶμ’ ἐθε .
παισι μάλιστα .
μας γ’ εἴσηλθ’ ἐπ .

εἶπον· ̔ὦ δέσποτ’ ἐπ .
ο]ὐ μὰ γὰρ μάκαιραν̣ [ἔγωγ’
ο]ὐδὲν ἄδομ’ ἔπερθα γᾶ [ς ἔοισα,

κατθάνην δ’ ἴμερός τις [ἔχει με
καὶ λωτίνοις δροσόεντας [ὄ-
χ̣ [θ]οις ἴδην Ἀχέρ [οντος

. ] . . δεσαιδ . . ] . ν̣δετον̣ [
μητισ̣ε̣ [


This fragment can be found at The Digital Sappho

Sappho 94


There are break-up poems and there's this Sappho break-up poem, still next-level despite inventing the genre. The papyrus has lost much of its words, but what it hides only adds to the shock.

It's honest this ardor of death.
Oh the leaving, shatters on the marble floor.

Can't be told one time, many more.
Our mark, our passion, permanent.
"Sappho, when I leave it's with your will."

But I answered her, obedient,
"Be glad that you got rid of me,
Remember your witness, how you were pursued.

The other you, the other I,
We suffered the beautiful." 

Palace of our lavender rose
Enclosed by crocus, the garland 
You slipped on, willing, we were all-encompassed.

My necklaces harnessed your heart
In weaves around the supplest neck.
How you toss off lightly the beauty you've made.

So much ... oil, it breathes with our rose.
You smeared yourself 'til you were sealed,
Made royal.

You melted into the pillows
... Yielding ...
Accomplished your longing.

It wasn't me ... it wasn't you,
It was a temple from which we were excluded.

No sacred grove ...
Dancing ...
The sound of falling.

-------------------------------------------------------

τεθνάκην δ’ ἀδόλως θέλω·
ἄ με ψισδομένα κατελίμπανεν
 
πόλλα καὶ τόδ’ ἔειπέ̣ [μοι·
̔ ὤιμ’ ὠς δεῖνα πεπ[όνθ]αμεν,
Ψάπφ’, ἦ μάν σ’ ἀέκοισ΄ ἀπυλιμπάνω.’
 
τὰν δ’ ἔγω τάδ’ ἀμειβόμαν·
̔ χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄμεθεν
μέμναισ’, οἶσθα γὰρ ὤς σε πεδήπομεν·
 
αἰ δὲ μή, ἀλλά σ’ ἔγω θέλω
ὄμναισαι [. . . .] . [. . .] . .αι
[            ] καὶ κάλ’ ἐπάσχομεν·
 
πο̣[λλοις γὰρ στεφάν]οις ἴων
καὶ βρ[όδων κρο]κ̣ίων τ’ ὔμοι
κα . .[           ] πὰρ ἔμοι περεθήκαο,
 
καὶ πό̣[λλαις ὐπα]θύμιδας
πλέκ[ταις ἀμφ’ ἀ]πάλᾳ δέρᾳ
ἀνθέων ἔ̣[βαλες] πεποημμέναις,
 
καὶ πο̣λ̣λ̣ῳ[             ] . μύρῳ
βρενθείῳ . [            ]ρ̣υ[ . . ]ν
ἐξαλείψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣ληίῳ,

καὶ στρώμν[αν ἐ]πὶ μολθάκαν
ἀπάλαν πα . [         ] . . .ων
ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν           ] . νίδων,

κωὔτε τις[           οὔ]τ̣ε̣ τι
ἶρον οὐδυ[                  ]
ἔπλετ’ ὄππ̣[οθεν ἄμ]μες ἀπέσκομεν,
 
οὐκ ἄλσος . [                χ]ό̣ρος
    ]ψόφος
 . . .οιδιαι

Thursday, March 26, 2026

Sappho's Ode to Aphrodite (#1)


Hat tip Dionysus of Halicarnassus for allowing us to read the one remaining complete poem of Sappho.

On rainbow throne hear my plea Aphrodite,
Immortal girl of Zeus, the spider trickster,
I won’t yield to anguish nor to nausea
Mistress, seat of breath.

But come near now, as you have come here before,
'Cos my voice warbles hearkening from afar
For when you heard you left your father’s domain
And came with your gold,

War chariot yoked, a torso who’s carried
By sparrows around the black and fertile world,
Wings whirring through the friction, breaking through from
The aethers of sky –

To arrive so quickly, can-do hummingbird
Cucumber cool, smooth smile, all perennial
To ask, of my personal emergency,
“What’s the mess this time?”

What I mostly want, to make suffering stop
In a heart that’s been ransacked, partitioned:
“Take her hand. Make her want to love me again.
I know that you can.”

“If she flees, is it not true, she will pursue?
If she’ll not receive your gifts, she will bestow;
And if she cannot love you, unwillingly
She will. She was born.”

Then come here now and loosen the bonds of birth.
Free me from the everlasting servitude
And let my heart now burn to be completed,
Partner in our crime.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

ποικιλόθρον᾽ ἀθάνατ᾽ Ἀφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε
μὴ μ᾽ ἄσαισι μηδ᾽ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον,

ἀλλὰ τυίδ᾽ ἔλθ᾽, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα
τὰς ἔμας αὔδας ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες,

ἄρμ᾽ ὐποζεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ᾽ ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δίννεντες πτέρ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ὠράνω
αἴθερος διὰ μέσσω·

αἶψα δ᾽ ἐξίκοντο· σὺ δ᾽, ὦ μάκαιρα,
μειδιάσαισ᾽ ἀθανάτῳ προσώπῳ
ἤρε᾽ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημμι,

κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω
ἄψ σ᾽ ἄγην ἐς σὰν φιλότατα,
τίς σ᾽, ὦ Ψάπφ᾽, ἀδίκηει;

καὶ γὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ᾽, ἀλλὰ δώσει,
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει
κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.

ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον,
σὺ δ᾽ αὔτα σύμμαχος ἔσσο.

Sappho 58


For centuries, fragment 58 existed only as a series of scraps that seemed to end with a mythological Tithonus rotting in the arms of the Dawn—a grim memento mori on the betrayal of the body. ​However, in 2004, archaeologists at the University of Cologne identified a new scrap of 3rd-century BC papyrus that had been used as mummy cartonnage (essentially ancient recycled cardboard). This discovery didn't just add lines, it revivified the poem’s soul, shifting its focus from biological decay to the aesthetic inheritance of an artist. Still fragmentary, the "complete" poem offers a translation opportunity into the more loquacious English to better capture the Sapphic stanza "gallop" of the original Aeolic Greek.

Violet bandeau of muses, on my students,
Girls, who love song, and tune a clear shell tone on
The tortoise lyre, skin now corrugated,
Hairs have turned, from black.

Lioness no longer light, gone in the knees
Which used to traipse as nebulous as fawns.
I moan and groan but there's nothing to be done;
It's impossible.

Sunrise armed with roses as the story goes,
Eros bears us ferociously to the end,
Beautiful and young it's all the same game trap,
Immortal ash wife.

The codicil holds that death is what follows
But I believe only in exquisite things
And as long as my desire is for the sun
Brilliance is my cut.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

. . . ἰ]ο̣κ[ό]λ̣πων κάλα δῶρα, παῖδεϲ,
. . .τὰ]ν̣ φιλάοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν·
. . . π̣οτ̣’ [ἔ]ο̣ντα χρόα γῆραϲ ἤδη
. . . ἐγ]ένοντο τρίχεϲ ἐκ μελαίναν·

βάρυϲ δέ μ’ ὀ [θ]ῦμο̣ϲ̣ πεπόηται, γόνα δ’ [ο]ὐ φέροιϲι,
τὰ δή ποτα λαίψηρ’ ἔον ὄρχηϲθ’ ἴϲα νεβρίοιϲι.
τὰ ⟨μὲν⟩ ϲτεναχίϲδω θαμέωϲ· ἀλλὰ τί κεν ποείην;
ἀγήραον ἄνθρωπον ἔοντ’ οὐ δύνατον γένεϲθαι.

καὶ γάρ π̣[ο]τ̣α̣ Τίθωνον ἔφαντο βροδόπαχυν Αὔων
ἔρωι φ̣ ̣ ̣α̣θ̣ε̣ιϲαν βάμεν’ εἰϲ ἔϲχατα γᾶϲ φέροιϲα[ν],
ἔοντα̣ [κ]ά̣λ̣ο̣ν καὶ νέον, ἀλλ’ αὖτον ὔμωϲ ἔμαρψε
χρόνωι π̣ό̣λ̣ι̣ο̣ν̣ γῆραϲ, ἔχ̣[ο]ν̣τ̣’ ἀθανάταν ἄκοιτιν.

. . . ιμέναν νομίϲδει
. . . αιϲ ὀπάϲδοι
⸤ἔγω δὲ φίλημ’[11]ἀβροϲύναν, . . .⸥ τοῦτο καί μοι
τὸ λά⸤μπρον ἔρωϲ ἀελίω καὶ τὸ κά⸥λον λέ⸤λ⸥ογχε. 

[Nagy text]

Wednesday, March 25, 2026

Sappho 16


Fragment 16 is one of only five reasonably complete fragments that remain from Sappho, who Plato called "the 10th muse," the inventor of lyric poetry as we know it, whose influence lasted for centuries. How conveniently ironic this erasure was of a woman - a woman for whom the word Lesbian was coined in fact. This incomplete poem -- another one where (especially in stanza 2) translations go to die -- provides a hint why her poems were burned by popes. One can only guess how provocative what is missing must be.

Some say men will come, flex arms or lay the ground
Or from boats they say, over black the earth realm.
Immensely it satisfies them, but I say
It’s what turns you on.

Painfully easy to imagine longing
For everyone, but a woman was the mold
Of perfect allure, Helen and her husband,
The best of all men,

Him she left behind, and for Troy put to sea
Kissing off her daughter and her family,
Kissing what’s not there, completely swept away …

[…] swayed […] 
[…] reminds me of my Anactoria
No longer here

I would rather watch her swirl across the flames
Lighting with a glance my incandescent eyes
Than the Lydian archers raining their fire
On distant cities.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

[ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων ϲτρότον οἰ δὲ πέϲδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖϲ’ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν
[ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιϲτον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ-
-τω τιc ἔραται·

[πά]γχυ δ’ εὔμαρεc ϲύνετον πόηϲαι
[π]άντι τ[ο]ῦ̣τ’, ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περϲκέ̣θ̣ο̣ι̣σ̣α
κ̣άλ̣λο̣c̣ [ἀνθ]ρ̣ώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα
τ̣ὸν̣ [πανάρ]ιϲτον

κ̣αλλ[ίποι]σ̣’ ἔβα ’c Τροΐαν πλέοι̣[ϲα
κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδοc οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων
π̣ά[μπαν] ἐμνάϲθη, ἀλλὰ παράγ̣α̣γ̣’ α̣ὔταν

[. . .]ϲαν [. . .]
[. .]μ̣ε̣ νῦν Ἀνακτορί[αc ὀ]ν̣έ̣μναι-
[-ϲ’ οὐ ] παρεοίϲαc,

[τᾶ]c <κ>ε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα
κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προϲώπω
ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα †κανοπλοιϲι
[πεϲδομ]άχενταc.

Tuesday, March 24, 2026

Sappho 31


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 as an example of "the sublime," but the words are disoriented, 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 locks up and subtle
Fire ignites suddenly under my flesh,
Whited out eyes can’t see anything at all,
Ears rung to a roar.

Sweat’s pouring out and tremors are everywhere 
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 ...

-------------------------------------------------------------

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

Saturday, March 7, 2026

7 by Susana Thenon


"I am stretching language, breaking it, pushing to the limit all the possibilities that Spanish can offer me, even with incompatibilities.” 

Love

If I hated you
The world would not bend:
Never does the world make sane
The ones who hate.

My preference is to love you
And all catastrophizes around us:
The voices, the hands, the faces,
They all want to stone us.


Search

I caress my instinct
Embargo it
With the other dogs

I dwell
I savor the mortal
On the point of a pool noodle


Leftovers

Soon
In all you encounter
A reason more powerful
And you silent submit
Pared of a rising smile.
Your balance is rebellious,
Your being
Human,
The taste of death
Fills you
Like a city you recently left.


Resident of the Abyss

(She touched her the mans)
In the witching moon, barely.
Remembered nothing mattered
Although her shadow still races
The perimeters of night.
(...)
She tied the ache of being suffocated
To her throat and recalled
How she went to the errant hue,
Nibbling without eyes in night shades and
Heard silence purr
And the odor of time that came with her tide.
Night.
(She cut her the mans).


Unrelenting Age

Why must it never be
Our hands
That can rise, that can voice
The wound, at the stargate of thunder?


The Impossible Dwelling

Firmament of mine.
I sleep in your silence as inside a tree.
Soft salt, I will love you without end.
In yonic flower and unknown name.


Distances VII

This is the place.
There's no way out.
The air is a wall of mirrors
And the voice is detained
Before birth.

Hold the fire to your breast
Lest the cold
Be the key legatee.
The bridge is of threads
Across the abyss to the nameless:
Cross but don't look
Keep the center unvoiced 
So the eye of the void
Cannot learn your song.

-------------------------------------------------

"Yo estoy estirando el lenguaje, rompiéndolo, llevando al máximo todas las posibilidades que puede ofrecerme el español aún con incoherencias"

20-II-58
(uncollected at death)

Si te odiara,
el mundo no se inmutaría:
nunca el mundo se ensaña
con los que odian.

En cambio te amo
y todo es catástrofe alrededor:
las voces, las manos, los rostros,
todos quieren apedrearnos.


12-VI-57
(uncollected at death)

Me acaricio el instinto
y lo largo
junto a los otros perros.

Me duelo,
pruebo la muerte
con la punta del miedo.


12-VII-57
(uncollected at death)

De pronto,
en todo encuentras
una razón más poderosa
y te sometes en silencio
pero sin sonrisa.
Pierdes tu rebelde equilibrio de
ser
humano
y un gusto a cosa muerta
te puebla,
como una ciudad recientemente abandonada.

Habitante de la nada
(From "Habitante de la nada", 1959)

(ella se tocó las manos).
En la madrugada, apenas.
Recordó que nada importa
aunque su sombra siga corriendo
alrededor de la noche.
(...)
Ató la angustia a su cuello
y recordó su color equivocado.
Mordió a ciegas en la sombra y
oyó gritar al silencio.
Y aprendió a reírse
del olor a tiempo que daba su sangre.
Noche.
(ella se cortó las manos).


Edad sin tregua
(From "Edad sin tregua", 1958)

¿Por qué no han de ser nunca nuestras manos
las que se alcen, las que proclamen la voz
del asco, el advenimiento del trueno?


La morada imposible
(From "La morada imposible", 1959)

fundamento mío.
yo duermo en tu silencio como en un árbol.
suave sal te amaré sin fin.
en tu florecer y en tu nombre.


Distancias VII
(From "Distancias", 1984)

He aquí el lugar.
No hay salida.
El aire es un muro de vidrio
y la voz se detiene
antes de ser.

Cuida el fuego,
no sea que el frío
herede la llave.
Hay un puente de hilos
sobre el abismo del nombre:
crúzalo sin mirar,
callando el centro,
para que el ojo del abismo
no aprenda tu canción.

Wednesday, March 4, 2026

The Spellcast


From the Spanish of Mara Romero Torres

Hey heretics of centuries far
Wounds still open as sigils,
No embargos on earth to mother
And the acoustic of light signals,
Equilibrium floats in silence smothered.

My voice among the ancients
Is spellcast in the witches dream time in between
A nook for the cornered soul
Whereby time is detained
And the word is turned to flesh burning.

Don't spit away the way out
Because the labyrinth unlocks.
Remain still those who predate the grail
Until the echo names you.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Hechizo

​Hay heridas que pueden quedar abiertas durante siglos.
Sin embargo, la tierra sigue pariendo,
y existe la acústica de la luz.
Y el equilibrio flotante del silencio.

​Mi voz en los clásicos
es un hechizo en la madrugada.
Un rincón para el alma
donde el tiempo se detiene
y la palabra se hace carne.

​No busques la salida,
porque el laberinto es la llave.
Quédate en el centro del grito
hasta que el eco te nombre.

The Guitar


From the Spanish of Federico Garcia Lorca

The gush from the gash
Of guitar.
The chalices shatter
At dawn.
The gush from the gash
Of guitar.
The gag is useless.
Tongue impossible
To hold.
Monotonous lament,
Weep of water,
Wail of wind
Over snowfall.
Tongue impossible
To hold.
It mourns for
Distant things.
Exhausted sands
Demanding white camellias.
Its cries are blanks,
Afternoon without tomorrow,
And the first bird
Stilled on its perch.
Oh guitar!
Trade my heart
For five spades.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

LA GUITARRA - POEMA DE LA SEGUIRIYA GITANA (Cante Jondo)

Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil callarla.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada
Es imposible
callarla,
Llora por cosas
lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama
¡Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.