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Number 51
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Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
        spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis,
eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
        vocis in ore.

lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
        lumina nocte.

Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est:
otio exsultas nimiumque gestis:
otium et reges prius et beatas
        perdidit urbes.

.................................
Catullus, after Sappho
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.................................
Candida Diva
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She clasps at his glory
as though it were a trinket in her jewel chest,
toys with it a little while,
abandons it with all the rest, then seeks
more dazzling entertainments,
lets the maidens shine her skin,
comb her gleaming hair into the latest style.
She dons fine garments, goes
with slow excited step,
swaying a little, even trembling,
stepping out of her double doors
into the threshold of the night where
she holds the shadows to her breast.

But linger awhile, he pleads.
She laughs, albeit sweetly,
offers him this crumb,
"But the hours with you
I mark with a whiter stone."
He wants to believe
and does not ask if the smoothness
of the phrase was practiced
on everyone--worn like
marble stones in front of her door.
He likes to think
this is his story.

When first she came
to his borrowed room,
her sandal--shining like silver--
paused in midair-- a bad omen--
before she placed her white foot
across his threshold
into their epic love affair.
He calls her Venus. Cybele. Lesbia.
Mistress. Lady. White Goddess.
Whorish Slut (that was to come later).
Iron plow that heedless digs
the lily from the field--
and when none of this works--
chaste and modest matron
(hyperbole if there ever was one).

2000 years later she glides
in and out of his poems--unhurried--
enticing in her self-containment
(he has never owned all of her),
brave in her quiet defiance.
Conventions fall in her path
like scattered flowers.
Her image never appears
in simplicity--shrouded in veils--
mysteries of her emotions,
perceived by him in desperate bewilderment.
The words she carved on tablets lie
crumbled in some monastery's dust.

.................................
Therese Leigh
.................................

 
Poem by Catullus is in the public domain.
Poem by Therese Leigh Copyright © Therese Leigh
April 1996

...a poem in this room by Kenneth Wolman...
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