Next fall Carcanet, which rivals Faber in prestige among the British publishing houses, will bring out Len Krisak's translations of Horace. By way of reintroducing the judge of this year's sonnet bake-off, here are three of those translations.
HORACE, III.30
I've made a monument outlasting bronze
And taller than the pharaohs' strongest stones.
The raging North Wind and devouring rains
Can't ruin it, nor all the countless chains
Of years, as time escapes us, flying by.
The one great part of me will never die
And face the goddess Libitina. Here
On in, the future's praise will grow each year.
As long as priest and Vestal climb The Hill,
Then where Aufidus roars, they'll know me still;
Where Daunus ruled a rustic land as dry
As dust, this poor boy's fame will reach the sky.
I will be known—the only man who found
Aeolian poems their Italian sound.
Melpomene, accept such hard-earned praise
And freely crown my head with Delphic bays.
HORACE, I.1
Maecenas, you who stem from ancient royal stock:
You are my dearest glory and my fortress-rock.
Now, some men love collecting, on their chariot hames,
The dust that they’ve stirred up at the Olympic games.
(The victory palm; the smoking wheels that graze the turn:
These raise them—lords of earth—to heights for which they yearn.)
Others exult if mobs of fickle plebes strain
To lift them to the Triple Honors they’d attain.
Some love to gloat about the meager barnyard stores
They've swept up from the wastes of Libya’s threshing floors,
While men who love to hoe the soil of family farms
Could never be induced to put themselves in harm’s
Way, sailing Cyprian ships in the Myrtoan seas—
Even if heirs to Attalus’s wealth of keys.
The merchant who’s afraid of southwest gales that measure
Themselves against Icarian waves first sings of leisure
And little village fields, but soon refits his shattered
Ships (for he learns how much his money really mattered).
Then there’s the man for whom old Massic wine is fine.
(To snatch a little nap is never out of line,
Either. He stretches out his limbs beneath a green
Arbutus by a wellhead sacred and serene.)
Many will thrill to hear the mingled martial sounds
Of clarion and cornet upon the legion grounds,
Loving the wars that mothers hate. Beneath cold skies,
The hunter will forget his tender marriage ties
The second that his faithful dogs sniff out a hart,
Or Marsian boars tear all his fine-meshed nets apart.
But ivy will translate me to the gods—that prize
For poets’ temples. In the dancing Satyrs’ eyes,
And in the temperate glades, the Nymphs will see me rise
Above the rout—that is, unless Euterpe tries
Denying me her flute, and Polyhymnia fails
To tune the Lesbian lyre. But if my plea prevails,
And thanks to you, my name as bard is written down,
Then I shall touch the stars with that exalted crown.
HORACE, IV .13
Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers...and answered them,
Lyce. The gods say that you're growing old, and yet
You want to stay some sexy femme
Fatale, and drink as much as you can get,
And party—drunk. You'd like to still drive young men wild
With your vibrato, thrilling Cupid? Cupid's fire
Has Chia blushing like a child
(She's beautiful, and plays a lovely lyre).
Well, Cupid always will pass up a dry old oak.
He flew right by you when he saw those teeth were stained.
Hell, now you're just a hag—a soak,
A white-haired bag whose face grew walnut-grained.
Now, no maroon-red robe from Cos, no precious stones,
Can get you back to where and when the good old days
Were yours. Time's locked them up and owns
Them now; in calendars, old youth decays.
So where's your Venus now? And where's that pale, pink cheek?
Say where that lush sashay has gone. And where is she
Who breathed out love each time she'd speak?
Who stole my soul from me when I was free?
You came after Cynara died. What arts, what grace
Have you got now? The Fates who cut Cynara short
Have pickled you and cured that face
So you'll live long enough for men who court
Young girls to call you crow. And it’ll be the truth.
They’ll laugh at you, a burnt-out torch prepared to lie
Down on the ashes of your youth,
Consumed with that which she was nourished by.
I shall have more to say about Mr. Krisak as this thread and the associated sonnet threads develop. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy these very fresh versions of Horace.
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