{"id":13803,"date":"2025-05-25T14:56:51","date_gmt":"2025-05-25T14:56:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/die-welt-des-catull-gedichte-und-deutsche-ubersetzungen\/"},"modified":"2025-05-25T14:56:51","modified_gmt":"2025-05-25T14:56:51","slug":"die-welt-des-catull-gedichte-und-deutsche-ubersetzungen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/die-welt-des-catull-gedichte-und-deutsche-ubersetzungen\/","title":{"rendered":"Die Welt des Catull: Gedichte und deutsche \u00dcbersetzungen"},"content":{"rendered":"

Gaius Valerius Catullus, ein r\u00f6mischer Dichter, der im turbulenten Zeitalter der sp\u00e4ten Republik schrieb, hinterlie\u00df eine Sammlung von Versen, die bis heute mit verbl\u00fcffender Unmittelbarkeit nachklingen. Seine Gedichte \u2013 roh, leidenschaftlich, satirisch und zutiefst pers\u00f6nlich \u2013 bieten einen einzigartigen Einblick in das Leben, die Lieben und die soziale Welt Roms im ersten Jahrhundert v. Chr. F\u00fcr moderne Leser h\u00e4ngt der Zugang zu dieser lebendigen Stimme oft von der Qualit\u00e4t und Zug\u00e4nglichkeit von Catulls Gedichten in \u00dcbersetzung<\/strong> ab. \u00dcbersetzung ist nicht blo\u00df eine \u00dcbertragung von Worten; sie ist ein Akt der \u00dcberbr\u00fcckung von Kulturen und Jahrhunderten, der versucht, den Witz, das Metrum und die brennenden Emotionen des lateinischen Originals einzufangen.<\/p>\n

Dieser Artikel taucht in die Welt des Catull ein und erkundet seine vielf\u00e4ltigen Themen und seine anhaltende Anziehungskraft durch die Br\u00e4fte der \u00dcbersetzung. Wir werden seine gefeierten Gedichte untersuchen, vom ber\u00fcchtigten Lesbia-Zyklus bis hin zu bei\u00dfenden Schm\u00e4hschriften und ber\u00fchrenden Elegien, und dabei w\u00fcrdigen, wie geschickte \u00dcbersetzung diesen antiken Versen erlaubt, neu aufzubl\u00fchen.<\/p>\n

Gaius Valerius Catullus: Leben, Lieben und literarische Landschaft<\/h2>\n

Geboren um 84 v. Chr. in Verona, kam Catullus in einer Zeit bedeutender politischer Umw\u00e4lzungen und sozialer Ver\u00e4nderungen nach Rom. Im Gegensatz zu den gro\u00dfen Epikern fr\u00fcherer Epochen konzentrierte sich Catullus auf die Betonung pers\u00f6nlicher Erfahrung, ausgefeilter Verse und griechischer Vorbilder (insbesondere hellenistische Dichter wie Kallimachos), wie sie von der Bewegung der novi poetae<\/em> (neuen Dichter) vertreten wurde. Sein Werk zeichnet sich durch seine beeindruckende Offenheit, emotionale Intensit\u00e4t und technische Brillanz in verschiedenen Metren aus.<\/p>\n

Sein ber\u00fchmtestes Sujet ist die r\u00e4tselhafte Lesbia, von der angenommen wird, dass es sich um Clodia handelt, die Ehefrau von Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer. Der Lesbia-Zyklus zeichnet die volatile Entwicklung ihrer Aff\u00e4re nach, von ekstatische Liebe bis zu bitterer Entt\u00e4uschung. Doch Catulls Dichtung reicht weit dar\u00fcber hinaus und spricht Freunde (wie Calvus, Cinna und Veranius) an, prangert Feinde (Mamurra, Caesar, Gellius) an, trauert um Verluste (seinen Bruder) und feiert die Rituale des Lebens (Hochzeiten). Seine F\u00e4higkeit, die fl\u00fcchtigen Momente menschlicher Emotionen einzufangen, gepaart mit scharfer Sozialkritik und Obsz\u00f6nit\u00e4t, macht ihn zu einer der fesselndsten und zug\u00e4nglichsten Figuren der Antike.<\/p>\n

Die Kunst der \u00dcbersetzung: Antikes Latein zum Leben erwecken<\/h2>\n

Die \u00dcbersetzung von Catullus stellt eine einzigartige Reihe von Herausforderungen dar. Die lateinische Sprache mit ihrer flexiblen Wortstellung und reichen Flexionen unterscheidet sich stark vom Deutschen. Catullus verwendete eine Vielzahl von Metren, bei denen \u00dcbersetzer entscheiden m\u00fcssen, ob sie diese nachbilden, anpassen oder zugunsten von Freiversen aufgeben wollen. Dar\u00fcber hinaus enthalten seine Gedichte zahlreiche Anspielungen auf das r\u00f6mische Leben der damaligen Zeit, auf Mythologie und bestimmte Personen, was f\u00fcr moderne Leser Erl\u00e4uterungen erfordert. Die ber\u00fcchtigte Verwendung expliziter Sprache und scharfer Schm\u00e4hreden zwingt \u00dcbersetzer auch dazu, sich Fragen des Tons und der Werktreue zu stellen.<\/p>\n

Eine erfolgreiche \u00dcbersetzung von Catulls Gedichten<\/strong> erfasst nicht nur die w\u00f6rtliche Bedeutung, sondern auch den Geist, die Energie und das emotionale Gewicht des Originals. Sie versucht, die antike Stimme f\u00fcr ein neues Publikum h\u00f6rbar und f\u00fchlbar zu machen. A. S. Klines \u00dcbersetzung, die im Originaltext enthalten ist, ist ein solcher Versuch, Catullus zug\u00e4nglich zu machen, indem er die Gedichte in klarem, modernem Englisch pr\u00e4sentiert.<\/p>\n

Um weitere Arten von Versen \u00fcber Catull hinaus zu erkunden, k\u00f6nnten Sie sich f\u00fcr einige der die besten kurzen Gedichte aller Zeiten<\/a> aus verschiedenen Epochen und Kulturen interessieren.<\/p>\n

Erkundung der \u00fcbersetzten Gedichte von Catullus<\/h2>\n

Die hier pr\u00e4sentierte Sammlung bietet eine Reise durch Catulls ber\u00fchmteste und charakteristischste Werke. Nach Konvention nummeriert, offenbaren diese Gedichte die Breite seiner poetischen Interessen und seines emotionalen Spektrums.<\/p>\n

Gedicht 1: Die Widmung<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus widmet sein \u201efrisches kleines Buch\u201c Cornelius Nepos, w\u00fcrdigt dessen wissenschaftliche Arbeit und hofft, dass seine eigenen \u201eKleinigkeiten\u201c (leichten Verse) Bestand haben werden. Dieses Gedicht gibt einen Ton bescheidenen Ehrgeizes vor, der im Kontrast zur bleibenden Qualit\u00e4t seiner Verse steht.<\/p>\n

\n

To whom do I send this fresh little book of wit, just polished off with dry pumice? To you, Cornelius: since you were accustomed to consider my trifles worth something even then, when you alone of Italians dared to explain all the ages, in three learned works, by Jupiter, and with the greatest labour. Then take this little book for your own: whatever it is, and is worth: virgin Muse, patroness, let it last, for more lives than one.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"R\u00f6mischerR\u00f6mischer Autor widmet ein Buch<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 2: Tr\u00e4nen f\u00fcr Lesbias Sperling<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine liebevolle Darstellung von Lesbia, die mit ihrem Haussperling spielt. Das Gedicht f\u00e4ngt einen Moment der Z\u00e4rtlichkeit ein und deutet auf die Intensit\u00e4t der Gef\u00fchle des Sprechers f\u00fcr Lesbia hin, indem es ihre spielerische Interaktion mit dem Vogel seinem eigenen \u201estarken Verlangen\u201c gegen\u00fcberstellt.<\/p>\n

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Sparrow, my sweet girl\u2019s delight, whom she plays with, holds to her breast, whom, greedy, she gives her little finger to, often provoking you to a sharp bite, whenever my shining desire wishes to play with something she loves, I suppose, while strong passion abates, it might be a small relief from her pain: might I toy with you as she does and ease the cares of a sad mind!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 2b: Atalanta<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, elliptisches Gedicht, das auf den Mythos von Atalanta und den goldenen \u00c4pfeln verweist. Es wird oft als ein kurzes, suggestives Bild von Begehren und Nachgeben interpretiert, vielleicht ein Fragment oder ein Begleitst\u00fcck.<\/p>\n

\n

It\u2019s as pleasing to me as, they say, that golden apple was to the swift girl, that loosed her belt, too long tied.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"MythologischeMythologische Szene mit Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 3: Der Tod von Lesbias Sperling<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine ber\u00fchmte Klage \u00fcber den Tod von Lesbias Sperling, die die vertraute Anwesenheit des Vogels mit seinem Abstieg in die Unterwelt kontrastiert. Der Ton ist traurig und \u00fcbertrieben, was die Tiefe der Trauer Lesbias (und des Sprechers) hervorhebt und den Vogel als geliebten Begleiter personifiziert. Diese \u00fcbertriebene Trauer unterstreicht die Hingabe des Sprechers an Lesbia.<\/p>\n

\n

Mourn, O you Loves and Cupids and such of you as love beauty: my girl\u2019s sparrow is dead, sparrow, the girl\u2019s delight, whom she loved more than her eyes. For he was sweet as honey, and knew her as well as the girl her own mother, he never moved from her lap, but, hopping about here and there, chirped to his mistress alone. Now he goes down the shadowy road from which they say no one returns. Now let evil be yours, evil shadows of Orcus, that devour everything of beauty: you\u2019ve stolen lovely sparrow from me. O evil deed! O poor little sparrow! Now, by your efforts, my girl\u2019s eyes are swollen and red with weeping.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Figur,Figur, die mit der Unterwelt in Verbindung steht<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 4: Sein Boot<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Dieses Gedicht, scheinbar \u00fcber ein Boot, verwandelt sich in eine Metapher f\u00fcr das Leben oder die Erfahrungen des Sprechers. Das Boot erz\u00e4hlt seine Geschichte, vom Holz auf einem Berg bis zum Segeln auf gef\u00e4hrlichen Meeren, um schlie\u00dflich sicher zu ruhen. Es reflektiert Reisen, Geschwindigkeit und das schlie\u00dfliche ruhige Altern.<\/p>\n

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This boat you see, friends, will tell you that she was the fastest of craft, not to be challenged for speed by any vessel afloat, whether driven by sail or the labour of oars. The threatening Adriatic coast won\u2019t deny it, nor the isles of the Cyclades, nor noble Rhodes, nor fearful Bosphorus, nor the grim bay of the Black Sea where, before becoming a boat, she was leafy wood: for on the heights of Cytorus she often hissed to the whispering leaves. The boat says these things were well known to you, and are, Amastris and box-wood clad Cytorus: she says from the very beginning she stood on your slope, that she dipped her oars in your water, and carried her owner from there over so many headstrong breakers, whether the wind cried from starboard or larboard, or whether Jupiter struck at the sheets on one side and the other, together: and no prayers to the gods of the shore were offered for her, when she came from a foreign sea here, as far as this limpid lake. But that\u2019s past: now hidden away here she ages quietly and offers herself to you, Castor and his brother, heavenly Twins.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 5: Lasst uns leben und lieben: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Vielleicht das ber\u00fchmteste von Catulls Gedichten, \u201eVivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus\u201c (Lasst uns leben, meine Lesbia, und lieben), ist eine leidenschaftliche Bitte, die Liebe angesichts gesellschaftlicher Missbilligung und der K\u00fcrze des Lebens zu umarmen. Die Betonung unz\u00e4hliger K\u00fcsse wird zu einer Art, Konventionen zu trotzen und die unermessliche Intensit\u00e4t ihrer Liebe zu messen. Dies ist ein typisches romantisches Gedicht<\/a>.<\/p>\n

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Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love, and all the words of the old, and so moral, may they be worth less than nothing to us! Suns may set, and suns may rise again: but when our brief light has set, night is one long everlasting sleep. Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more, another thousand, and another hundred, and, when we\u2019ve counted up the many thousands, confuse them so as not to know them all, so that no enemy may cast an evil eye, by knowing that there were so many kisses.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 6: Flavius\u2019s M\u00e4dchen: an Flavius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein spielerisches und suggestives Gedicht, das sich an einen Freund, Flavius, richtet, der offensichtlich in eine leidenschaftliche, geheime Aff\u00e4re verwickelt ist. Catullus beschreibt humorvoll die verr\u00e4terischen Anzeichen von Flavius‘ n\u00e4chtlichen Aktivit\u00e4ten und fordert ihn auf, sich zu bekennen, damit Catullus seine Liebe in Versen verewigen kann.<\/p>\n

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Flavius, unless your delights were tasteless and inelegant, you\u2019d want to tell, and couldn\u2019t be silent. Surely you\u2019re in love with some feverish little whore: you\u2019re ashamed to confess it. Now, pointlessly silent, you don\u2019t seem to be idle of nights, it\u2019s proclaimed by your bed garlanded, fragrant with Syrian perfume, squashed cushions and pillows, here and there, and the trembling frame shaken, quivering and wandering about. But being silent does nothing for you. Why? Spread thighs blab it\u2019s not so, if not quite what foolishness you commit. How and whatever you\u2019ve got, good or bad, tell us. I want to name you and your loves to the heavens in charming verse.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 7: Wie viele K\u00fcsse: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine Fortsetzung von Gedicht 5. Lesbia fragt, wie viele K\u00fcsse \u201egenug\u201c w\u00e4ren. Catullus antwortet mit extravaganten Vergleichen \u2013 Sandk\u00f6rner in Libyen, Sterne am Nachthimmel \u2013 was darauf hindeutet, dass sein Begehren unermesslich und jenseits menschlicher Z\u00e4hlungen ist, um sie vor neidischen Blicken zu sch\u00fctzen.<\/p>\n

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Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours would be enough and more to satisfy me. As many as the grains of Libyan sand that lie between hot Jupiter\u2019s oracle, at Ammon, in resin-producing Cyrene, and old Battiades sacred tomb: or as many as the stars, when night is still, gazing down on secret human desires: as many of your kisses kissed are enough, and more, for mad Catullus, as can\u2019t be counted by spies nor an evil tongue bewitch us.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"KopfKopf einer antiken Gottheit<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 8: Rat: an sich selbst<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein ergreifender innerer Monolog, vielleicht die ber\u00fchmteste Darstellung seines Kampfes, seine verheerende Liebe zu Lesbia zu \u00fcberwinden. Catullus ringt mit dem Schmerz der Ablehnung und fordert sich selbst auf, stark zu sein und weiterzumachen, w\u00e4hrend er gleichzeitig Lesbias zuk\u00fcnftiges Bedauern und ihre Einsamkeit imaginiert.<\/p>\n

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Sad Catullus, stop playing the fool, and let what you know leads you to ruin, end. Once, bright days shone for you, when you came often drawn to the girl loved as no other will be loved by you. Then there were many pleasures with her, that you wished, and the girl not unwilling, truly the bright days shone for you. And now she no longer wants you: and you weak man, be unwilling to chase what flees, or live in misery: be strong-minded, stand firm. Goodbye girl, now Catullus is firm, he doesn\u2019t search for you, won\u2019t ask unwillingly. But you\u2019ll grieve, when nobody asks. Woe to you, wicked girl, what life\u2019s left for you? Who\u2019ll submit to you now? Who\u2019ll see your beauty? Who now will you love? Whose will they say you\u2019ll be? Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite? But you, Catullus, be resolved to be firm.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 9: Zur\u00fcck aus Spanien: an Veranius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein freudiges Willkommen f\u00fcr seinen Freund Veranius, der von einer Reise nach Spanien zur\u00fcckkehrt. Das Gedicht f\u00e4ngt die W\u00e4rme der Freundschaft, die Gier auf Reiseberichte und die einfache Freude des Wiedersehens ein.<\/p>\n

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Veranius, first to me of all my three hundred thousand friends, have you come home to your own house your harmonious brothers, and old mother? You\u2019re back. O happy news for me! I\u2019ll see you safe and sound and listen to your tales of Spanish places that you\u2019ve done, and tribes, as is your custom, and hang about your neck, and kiss your lovely mouth and eyes. O who of all men is happier than I the gladdest and happiest?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 10: Klare Worte f\u00fcr Varus\u2019s M\u00e4dchen: an Varus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine humorvolle Anekdote, die erz\u00e4hlt, wie Catullus mit Varus eine Prostituierte besucht, wo er f\u00e4lschlicherweise mit dem Reichtum prahlt, den er in Bithynien erworben hat. Seine L\u00fcge wird entlarvt, als sie bittet, seine imagin\u00e4ren S\u00e4nftentr\u00e4ger auszuleihen, was zu einem am\u00fcsanten Moment der Verlegenheit f\u00fchrt.<\/p>\n

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Varus drags me into his affairs out of the Forum, where I\u2019m seen idling: to a little whore I immediately saw, not very inelegant, not unattractive, who, when we came there, met us with varied chatter, including, how might Bithynia stand now, what\u2019s it like, and where might the benefit have been to me in cash. I told her what\u2019s true, nothing at all, while neither the praetors nor their aides, return any the richer, especially since our Praetor, Memmius, the bugger, cared not a jot for his followers. \u2018But surely,\u2019 they said, you could have bought slaves they say are made for the litter there.\u2019 I, so the girl might take me to be wealthy, said \u2018no, for me things weren\u2019t so bad, that coming across one bad province, I couldn\u2019t buy eight good men.\u2019 But I\u2019d no one, neither here nor there, who might even raise to his shoulder the shattered foot of an old couch. At this she, like the shameless thing she was, said \u2018I beg you, my dear Catullus, for the loan of them, just for a while: I\u2019d like to be carried to Serap\u2019s temple.\u2019 \u2018Wait\u2019 I said to the girl, \u2018what I just said was mine, isn\u2019t actually in my possession: my friend Cinna, that\u2019s Gaius, purchased the thing for himself. Whether they\u2019re his or mine, what difference to me? I use them just as well as if I\u2019d bought them myself. But you are quite tasteless, and annoying, you with whom no inexactness is allowed.\u2019<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"AntikesAntikes Relief: Figuren vor einer Gottheit<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 11: Worte gegen Lesbia: an Furius und Aurelius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein brutaler und ber\u00fchmter Abschied von Lesbia, \u00fcberbracht durch Freunde, die beauftragt werden, seine bittere Botschaft zu \u00fcbermitteln. Das Gedicht kontrastiert exotische, weit entfernte Orte mit Lesbias Promiskuit\u00e4t und gipfelt in der kraftvollen Metapher ihrer Liebe als eine Blume, die durch einen vorbeifahrenden Pflug zerst\u00f6rt wurde. Es markiert eine scharfe Kehrtwendung gegen\u00fcber fr\u00fcheren liebevollen Gedichten.<\/p>\n

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Furius and Aurelius, you friends of Catullus, whether he penetrates farthest India, where the Eastern waves strike the shore with deep resonance, or among the Hyrcanians and supple Arabs, or Sacians and Parthian bowmen, or where the seven-mouthed Nile colours the waters, or whether he\u2019ll climb the high Alps, viewing great Caesar\u2019s monuments, the waters of Gallic Rhine, and the furthest fierce Britons, whatever the will of the heavens brings, ready now for anything, tell my girl this in a few ill-omened words. Let her live and be happy with her adulterers, hold all three-hundred in her embrace, truly love-less, wearing them all down again and again: let her not look for my love as before, she whose crime destroyed it, like the last flower of the field, touched once by the passing plough.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 12: H\u00f6rt auf, die Servietten zu stehlen! : an Asinius Marrucinus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein leichtf\u00fc\u00dfiges, aber spitzes Gedicht, das einen Freund, Asinius Marrucinus, tadelt, weil er bei gesellschaftlichen Anl\u00e4ssen Servietten stiehlt. Catullus scherzt dar\u00fcber, besteht aber auf der R\u00fcckgabe seiner Servietten, die sentimentale Geschenke von anderen Freunden sind.<\/p>\n

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Asinius Marrucinus, you don\u2019t employ your left hand too well: in wine and jest you take neglected table-linen. Do you think that\u2019s witty? Get lost, you fool: it\u2019s such a sordid and such an unattractive thing. Don\u2019t you believe me? Believe Pollionus your brother, who wishes your thefts could be fixed by money: he\u2019s a boy truly stuffed with wit and humour. So expect three hundred hendecasyllables or return my napkin, whose value doesn\u2019t disturb me, truly, it\u2019s a remembrance of my friends. Fabullus and Veranius sent me the gift, napkins from Spain: they must be cherished as my Veranius and Fabullus must be.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 13: Einladung: an Fabullus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine charmante Einladung an einen Freund, Fabullus, zum Abendessen. Catullus gibt humorvoll zu, dass er selbst weder Essen noch Wein hat, bietet aber etwas Besseres: gute Gesellschaft, Witz, Lachen und ein besonderes Parf\u00fcm, das ihm von Lesbia geschenkt wurde, so exquisit, dass es Fabullus w\u00fcnschen lassen wird, er w\u00e4re \u201eganz Nase\u201c.<\/p>\n

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You\u2019ll dine well, in a few days, with me, if the gods are kind to you, my dear Fabullus, and if you bring lots of good food with you, and don\u2019t come without a pretty girl and wine and wit and all your laughter. I say you\u2019ll dine well, and charmingly, if you bring all that: since your Catullus\u2019s purse alas is full of cobwebs. But accept endearments in return for the wine or whatever\u2019s sweeter and finer: since I\u2019ll give you a perfume my girl was given by the Loves and Cupids, and when you\u2019ve smelt it, you\u2019ll ask the gods to make you, Fabullus, all nose.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 14: Was f\u00fcr ein Buch! : an Calvus den Dichter<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine humorvolle Beschwerde an seinen Freund, den Dichter Calvus, weil dieser ihm w\u00e4hrend des Saturnalienfestes eine schreckliche Gedichtsammlung als Geschenk geschickt hat. Catullus scherzt, dass ein solches Buch ein Fluch sei und verspricht, sich zu r\u00e4chen, indem er Calvus ebenso schreckliche Werke anderer schlechter Dichter schickt.<\/p>\n

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If I didn\u2019t love you more than my eyes, most delightful Calvus, I\u2019d dislike you for this gift, with a true Vatinian dislike: Now what did I do and what did I say, to be so badly cursed with poets? Let the gods send ill-luck to that client who sent you so many wretches. But if, as I guess, Sulla the grammarian gave you this new and inventive gift, that\u2019s no harm to me, it\u2019s good and fine that your efforts aren\u2019t all wasted. Great gods, an amazing, immortal book! That you sent, of course, to your Catullus, so he might immediately die, on the optimum day, in the Saturnalia! No you won\u2019t get away with this crime. Now when it\u2019s light enough I\u2019ll run to the copyists bookstalls, I\u2019ll acquire Caesius, Aquinus, Suffenus, all of the poisonous ones. And I\u2019ll repay you for this suffering. Meanwhile farewell take yourself off, there, whence your unlucky feet brought you, cursed ones of the age, worst of poets.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 15: Eine Warnung: an Aurelius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus vertraut einen jungen Mann, vielleicht seinen Geliebten, der Obhut seines Freundes Aurelius an, \u00e4u\u00dfert aber sofort tiefes Misstrauen gegen\u00fcber Aurelius‘ sexuellem Raubtierverhalten. Das Gedicht ist eine deutliche Warnung, die drastische Bilder verwendet, vor jeder Verletzung des Jungen.<\/p>\n

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I commend myself and my love to you, Aurelius. I ask for modest indulgence, so, if you\u2019ve ever had a desire in your mind you\u2019ve pursued chastely and purely, keep this boy of mine modestly safe, I don\u2019t speak to the masses \u2013 nothing to fear from those who pass to and fro in the streets occupied with their business \u2013 truly the fear\u2019s of you and your cock dangerous to both good and bad boys. Shake it about as you please, and with as much force as you please, wherever you choose, outside: I except him from that, with modesty, I think. But if tempests of mind, and mad passion impel you to too much sin, you wretch, so you fill my boy\u2019s head with deceptions, then let misery, and evil fate, be yours! Of him whom, with feet dragged apart, an open door, radishes and mullets pass through.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 16: Ein Tadel: an Aurelius und Furius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein scharfz\u00fcngiger Angriff auf Aurelius und Furius, die Catulls Verse offenbar als zu explizit oder weibisch kritisiert haben, basierend auf ihrem Inhalt (mit Bezug auf die \u201etausend K\u00fcsse\u201c aus Gedicht 5). Catullus argumentiert, dass ein Dichter selbst keusch sein sollte, seine Verse jedoch ausschweifend und witzig sein k\u00f6nnen, ohne seine eigene M\u00e4nnlichkeit zu beeintr\u00e4chtigen. Er endet mit einer schockierenden Drohung in grober Sprache.<\/p>\n

\n

I\u2019ll fuck you and bugger you, Aurelius the pathic, and sodomite Furius, who thought you knew me from my verses, since they\u2019re erotic, not modest enough. It suits the poet himself to be dutifully chaste, his verses not necessarily so at all: which, in short then, have wit and good taste even if they\u2019re erotic, not modest enough, and as for that can incite to lust, I don\u2019t speak to boys, but to hairy ones who can\u2019t move their stiff loins. You, who read all these thousand kisses, you think I\u2019m less of a man? I\u2019ll fuck you, and I\u2019ll bugger you.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 17: Die Stadt Cologna Veneta<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Dieses Gedicht richtet sich an eine Stadt (Cologna Veneta), die f\u00fcr eine wackelige Br\u00fccke bekannt ist. Catullus hofft auf eine neue Br\u00fccke, w\u00fcnscht sich aber auch, einen bestimmten \u201egeistlosen\u201c Mitb\u00fcrger in den Schlamm darunter fallen zu sehen, wobei er die Gef\u00fchllosigkeit des Mannes gegen\u00fcber seiner jungen Frau mit dem lebhaften Potenzial der Stadtbr\u00fccke kontrastiert. (Anmerkung: Nr. 18-20 gelten als unecht und sind hier ausgelassen).<\/p>\n

\n

O Cologna, who want a long bridge to sport on, and are ready to dance, though you fear the useless bridge-props with their much-patched standing timber, lest they tumble and lie in deep mud: let a good bridge be made for you as you desire where even leap-frogging priests are safe: but Cologna, give me that greatest gift, a good laugh. I want a fellow-citizen of mine to go head over heels straight into the deep mire from your bridge, since truly the whole pool and the putrid marsh is the blackest and deepest of chasms. The man\u2019s totally dull, knows no more than a two-year-old child, asleep in its father\u2019s trembling arms. Who, though he\u2019s married a girl in her first flowering, a girl more delicate than a pretty little kid, needing to be tended more carefully than choicest grapes, let\u2019s her play as she wishes, doesn\u2019t care a fig, hasn\u2019t risen to the occasion, but like an alder in a Ligurian ditch, crippled by the axe, feels as much of it all as if there were no woman there: Such is his stupor he doesn\u2019t see, or hear me, he, who doesn\u2019t know who he is, or whether he is or not. Now I want to toss him headlong from your bridge, if it\u2019s possible suddenly to raise that stupefied dullness, and abandon that indolent mind in the heavy bog, as mules cast shoes into tenacious depths.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 21: Gierig: an Aurelius.<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein weiterer Angriff auf Aurelius, dem Catullus sexuelle \u00dcbergriffe auf seine Freunde, insbesondere auf den in Gedicht 15 erw\u00e4hnten jungen Mann, vorwirft. Catullus verwendet harte, explizite Sprache, um seinen Abscheu auszudr\u00fccken und Aurelius zu warnen.<\/p>\n

\n

Aurelius, father of hungers, you desire to fuck, not just these, but whoever my friends were, or are, or will be in future years. not secretly: now at the same time as you joke with one, you try clinging to him on every side. In vain: now my insidious cock will bugger you first. And, if you\u2019re filled, I\u2019ll say nothing: Now I\u2019m grieving for him: you teach my boy, mine, to hunger and thirst. So lay off: while you\u2019ve any shame, or you will end up being buggered.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 22: Leute, die im Glashaus sitzen: an Varus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus verspottet den Dichter Suffenus, der sich f\u00fcr einen raffinierten Schriftsteller h\u00e4lt, aber schreckliche Gedichte verfasst. Catullus nutzt dies als Beispiel f\u00fcr Selbstt\u00e4uschung und merkt an, dass jeder seinen eigenen blinden Fleck hat (\u201ewir sehen den Pack auf unserem eigenen R\u00fccken nicht\u201c).<\/p>\n

\n

Varus, that Suffenus, thoroughly known to us, is a man who\u2019s charming, witty, urbane, and the same man for ages has penned many verses. I think he\u2019s written a thousand, ten thousand, or more, not those that are done on cheap manuscript paper: but princely papyri, new books, new roller ends, new red ties for the parchment, lead-ruled and smoothed all-over with pumice. When you read them, that lovely urbane Suffenus turns into a goat-herd or a ditch-digger: he\u2019s so altered and strange. What should we think of it? He who might just now have been playing the fool, being witty with the thing, the same man\u2019s crude, crude as a bumpkin, he mentions his poems as well, nor is there ever likewise anything as happy as the poems he writes: he delights in himself so, is so amazed by himself. Of course we\u2019re all deceived in the same way, and there\u2019s no one who can\u2019t somehow or other be seen as a Suffenus. Whoever it is, is subject to error: we don\u2019t see the pack on our own back.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 23: Armut: an Furius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein satirisches Gedicht, das sich an seinen unglaublich armen Freund Furius richtet. Catullus schl\u00e4gt humorvoll vor, dass Furius‘ Armut eine Art Reichtum oder Gesundheit sei, da er nichts zu verlieren habe und aufgrund von Nahrungsmangel k\u00f6rperlich \u201eausgetrocknet\u201c sei. Der Humor ist d\u00fcster und basiert auf lebhaften, wenig schmeichelhaften physischen Beschreibungen.<\/p>\n

\n

Furius, you who\u2019ve neither slaves nor cash nor beetles nor spiders nor fire, truly have a father and step-mother, whose teeth can chew like flints: that\u2019s fine for you, and your father and your father\u2019s wooden wife. No wonder: since you\u2019re all well, good digestion, nothing to fear, no flames, no weighty disasters, no wicked deeds, no threat of poison, no chance of further dangers. And you\u2019ve a body drier than bone or whatever is most desiccated by heat and cold and hunger. Why wouldn\u2019t you be well and happy? You\u2019ve no sweat, no phlegm, or mucus, or evil cold in the head. To this cleanliness add more cleanliness, your arse is purer than a little salt-cellar, and doesn\u2019t crap ten times in a year: and your shit\u2019s harder than beans or pebbles. So if you rub it and crush it between your fingers, you can\u2019t stain a single finger: it all suits you so happily Furius, don\u2019t despise it, or consider it nothing, and cease to beg for that hundred sestertia you always ask for: sufficiency is riches.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 24: Furius\u2019s Armut: an Iuventius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich an Iuventius, einen seiner jungen m\u00e4nnlichen Geliebten, und warnt ihn vor Furius, wobei er dessen extreme Armut betont, obwohl dieser scheinbar ein anst\u00e4ndiger Mensch ist. Die Wiederholung unterstreicht den zentralen Punkt des Mangels an Reichtum bei Furius.<\/p>\n

\n

Iuventius, who are our pride, not just now, for all times that have been, or will be hereafter in later years, rather surrender Midas\u2019s riches to him, who has no slaves or cash, than allow yourself to be loved by him. \u2018Why, isn\u2019t he a decent man?\u2019 you ask. He is: but this decent man has no slaves or cash. Ignore it: disparage it as you may: he still has no slaves and no money.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 25: Gib mir meine Sachen zur\u00fcck: an Thallus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine harte und obsz\u00f6ne Schm\u00e4hrede, gerichtet an Thallus, der Catullus‘ Besitzt\u00fcmer gestohlen hat. Catullus kontrastiert Thallus‘ Zartheit und Weiblichkeit mit seinem r\u00e4uberischen Verhalten und droht ihm mit Peitschenhieben, wenn er die gestohlenen Gegenst\u00e4nde nicht zur\u00fcckgibt.<\/p>\n

\n

Thallus the sodomite, softer than rabbit\u2019s fur or goose grease, or the little tip of the ear, or an old man\u2019s slack penis mouldy with spider-webs, and that same Thallus more rapacious than a wild storm, when the sea-goddess reveals the yawning breakwaters, return my cloak, you pounced on, and Spanish napkin, and Bithynian painted ware, absurd man, that you \u2018own\u2019 openly like heirlooms. Now, unglue them from your talons, and return them, lest those soft little flanks and tender fingers are shamefully written over with the mark of the lash, and you toss immoderately, like a paltry boat caught in a heavy sea, in a raging wind.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 26: Die Hypothek: an Furius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, witziges Gedicht \u00fcber Furius‘ Villa. Anstatt den Elementen ausgesetzt zu sein, behauptet Catullus, dass sie nur finanziellen Schwierigkeiten ausgesetzt sei \u2013 einer enormen Schuld.<\/p>\n

\n

Furius, your little villa\u2019s not exposed to the southerlies, or the westerlies, the savage north-wind, or the easterly breeze, but truly to fifteen thousand two hundred cash. O terrifying and destructive wind!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 27: Falernischer Wein<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, feierliches Gedicht \u00fcber das Trinken von starkem Falernischem Wein, einer gesch\u00e4tzten r\u00f6mischen Sorte. Catullus lobt den Wein und lehnt Wasser ab, erkl\u00e4rt es nur f\u00fcr die \u201eStrengen\u201c oder Abstinenzler geeignet und widmet das Getr\u00e4nk Bacchus, dem Gott des Weins.<\/p>\n

\n

Serving-boy fill for me stronger cups of old Falernian, since Postumia, the mistress\u2019s, laws demand it, she who\u2019s juicier then the juicy grape. But you water, fatal to wine, away with you: far off, wherever, be off to the strict. This wine is Bacchus\u2019s own.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischer Figur<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 28: G\u00fcnstlingswirtschaft: an Veranius und Fabullus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus dr\u00fcckt sein Entsetzen dar\u00fcber aus, dass zwei unerw\u00fcnschte Personen, Porcius und Socration, von Piso, dem Provinzgouverneur, bevorzugt werden und \u00fcppig speisen, w\u00e4hrend seine w\u00fcrdigen Freunde Veranius und Fabullus k\u00e4mpfen. Es ist eine Beschwerde gegen Ungerechtigkeit und schlechtes Urteilsverm\u00f6gen in gesellschaftlichen Kreisen.<\/p>\n

\n

Followers of Piso, needy retinue, with suitable and ready packs, Veranius, the best, and you, my Fabullus, what possessions do you carry? Haven\u2019t you borne hunger and cold enough with that good-for-nothing? Do any small gains show in the expense accounts, considering that I, following my praetor, repay what was spent, with small gain? O Memmius, truly, and daily, slowly buggered me backwards with that whole tree of his. But, as far as I can see, your case is the same: now you\u2019re stuffed by no less a circumcised cock. Seek out the noble ones, my friends! But, to you, may the gods and goddesses bring much evil luck, disgraces to Romulus and Remus.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 29: Der Katamite<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine harte politische Satire, gerichtet an Julius Caesar und dessen angeblichen Geliebten, Mamurra (\u201eMentula\u201c oder \u201eSchwanz\u201c). Catullus verurteilt Caesar daf\u00fcr, dass er den Reichtum der Provinzen (aus Gallien und Britannien) f\u00fcr Mamurras Extravaganz verschwendet, und fragt, wie die R\u00f6mer solch eine Korruption von ihrem F\u00fchrer tolerieren k\u00f6nnen. Dieses Gedicht ist ein starkes Beispiel f\u00fcr Catulls Bereitschaft, selbst die m\u00e4chtigsten Figuren anzugreifen.<\/p>\n

\n

Who could see it, who could endure it, unless he were shameless, greedy, a gambler? Mamurra owns riches that Transalpine Gaul and furthest Britain once owned. Roman sodomite, do you see this and bear it? And now shall the man, arrogant, overbearing, flit through all of the beds like a whitish dove or an Adonis? Roman sodomite, do you see this and bear it? You\u2019re shameless, greedy, a gambler. Surely it wasn\u2019t for this, you, the unique leader, were in the furthest western isle, so that this loose-living tool of yours might squander two or three hundred times its worth? What is it but perverted generosity? Hasn\u2019t he squandered enough, or been elevated enough? First his inheritance was well and truly spent, then the booty from Pontus, then Spain\u2019s, to make three, as the gold-bearing Tagus knows: now be afraid for Gaul\u2019s and Britain\u2019s. Why cherish this evil? What\u2019s he good for but to devour his rich patrimony? Was it for this, the city\u2019s wealthiest, you, father-in law, son-in-law, wasted a world?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 30: Untreue: an Alfenus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine Klage, die sich an einen Freund, Alfenus, richtet, der offenbar Catullus‘ Vertrauen missbraucht und ihn in einer Zeit des Leidens verlassen hat. Catullus stellt die menschliche Loyalit\u00e4t und das Vertrauen in Frage, dr\u00fcckt seinen Schmerz \u00fcber die zerbrochene Bindung aus und warnt Alfenus, dass die G\u00f6tter sich an seine Untreue erinnern werden.<\/p>\n

\n

Alfenus, negligent, false to the concord of pals, have you no sympathy now with your gentle friend? The impious deeds of deceitful men don\u2019t please the gods. You neglect me and abandon me to miserable illness. Ah, say, what should men do, in whom should they trust? Surely you, unjustly, commanded my trust, seduced me to love, as if it were all quite safe for me. Now you withdraw, and all your vain actions and words you let slip on the winds, with the airy clouds. If you forget, the gods will remember, Faith remembers, so that whatever you do, you\u2019ll soon repent of your deeds.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 31: Sirmio<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine herzliche Hommage an Sirmio, Catulls Villa am Gardasee. Das Gedicht dr\u00fcckt seine immense Freude und Erleichterung aus, nach Reisen ins Ausland nach Hause zur\u00fcckzukehren. Es ist ein seltener Moment purer Zufriedenheit und Wertsch\u00e4tzung f\u00fcr einen bestimmten Ort.<\/p>\n

\n

Sirmio, jewel of islands, jewel of peninsulas, jewel of whatever is set in the bright waters or the great sea, or either ocean, with what joy, what pleasure I gaze at you, scarcely believing myself free of Thynia and the Bithynian fields, seeing you in safety. O what freedom from care is more joyful than when the mind lays down its burden, and weary, back home from foreign toil, we rest in the bed we longed for? This one moment\u2019s worth all the labour. Hail, O lovely Sirmio, and rejoice as I rejoice, and you, O lake of Lydian waters, laugh with whatever of laughter lives here.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 32: Siesta: an Ips\u00edthilla<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine sexuell explizite Einladung an eine Frau namens Ips\u00edthilla zu einem Siesta-Rendezvous. Catullus macht eine unverbl\u00fcmte Anfrage nach mehreren sexuellen Begegnungen, ausgedr\u00fcckt mit charakteristischer Direktheit und einem Hauch von Humor (\u201eein Loch in meinem Rock und Mantel machen\u201c).<\/p>\n

\n

Please, my sweet Ips\u00edthilla, my delight, my charmer: tell me to come to you at siesta. And if you tell me, help it along, let no-one cover the sign at your threshold, nor you choose to step out of doors, but stay at home, and get ready for nine fucks, in succession, with me. Truly, if you should want it, let me know now: because lying here, fed, and indolently full, I\u2019m making a hole in my tunic and cloak.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 33: Ein Vorschlag: an Vibennius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzer, derber Angriff auf einen Vater (Vibennius) und Sohn, denen Catullus vorwirft, Diebe und sexuell Abartige zu sein, die mit Badeh\u00e4usern in Verbindung gebracht werden. Catullus schl\u00e4gt vor, dass sie aufgrund ihres ber\u00fcchtigten Rufs ins Exil gehen sollten.<\/p>\n

\n

O first of the bath-house thieves Vibennius the father, with sodomite son (since the father\u2019s right hand is dirtier, and the son\u2019s arse more all-consuming), why not go into exile, to some vile place? Seeing the father\u2019s pillage is known to us all, and the son\u2019s hairy arse, you can\u2019t sell for a farthing.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 34: Lied: an Diana<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein Hymnus, gewidmet Diana, der G\u00f6ttin der Jagd, des Mondes und der Geburt. Dieses Gedicht ist ein formelles, ehrf\u00fcrchtiges St\u00fcck, das sich stark von Catulls pers\u00f6nlicheren und satirischen Werken unterscheidet. Es demonstriert seine F\u00e4higkeit, in verschiedenen Stilen und f\u00fcr verschiedene Anl\u00e4sse zu schreiben.<\/p>\n

\n

Under Diana\u2019s protection, we pure girls, and boys: we pure boys, and girls, we sing of Diana. O, daughter of Latona, greatest child of great Jove, whose mother gave birth near the Delian olive, mistress of mountains and the green groves, the secret glades, and the sounding streams: you, called Juno Lucina in childbirth\u2019s pains, you, called all-powerful Trivia, and Luna, of counterfeit daylight. Your monthly passage measures the course of the year, you fill the rustic farmer\u2019s roof with good crops. Take whatever sacred name pleases you, be a sweet help to the people of Rome, as you have been of old.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren in einer Landschaft<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 35: Kybele: an Caecilius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus bittet ein St\u00fcck Papier, seinen Freund, den Dichter Caecilius, nach Verona zu rufen. Er erw\u00e4hnt, dass eine gelehrte Frau tief in Caecilius verliebt ist, nachdem sie sein unvollendetes Gedicht \u00fcber die G\u00f6ttin Kybele gelesen hat. Dies zeigt, wie Catullus sich mit zeitgen\u00f6ssischen literarischen Kreisen und Themen auseinandersetzt.<\/p>\n

\n

Paper, I\u2019d like you to say to Caecilius, that tender poet, that friend of mine, leave Lake Como, come now to Verona, abandon the town there and the shore. Because there are certain thoughts that I want him to hear of, from his friend and yours. So, if he\u2019s wise, he\u2019ll eat up the road, though some lovely girl calls to him asks his return, clasping both hands round his neck, and begging delay. Who, if the truth\u2019s been told me now love\u2019s him with violent desire. For, since the moment she read his unfinished Lady of Dindymus, the poor little thing has been eaten by fire to the core of her bones. I forgive you, girl, more learned than the Sapphic Muse: it\u2019s truly lovely, Caecilius\u2019s unfinished Great Mother Cybele.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"DarstellungDarstellung einer Gottheit<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 36: Brandopfer: an Volusius\u2019s Kot<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich an die schrecklichen \u201eAnnalen\u201c des Dichters Volusius und nennt sie \u201ePapyrus-Kot\u201c. Er erz\u00e4hlt von einem Gel\u00fcbde, das sein M\u00e4dchen (Lesbia) abgelegt hat, die schlechteste Poesie als Opfergabe zu verbrennen, wenn Catullus aufh\u00f6rt, w\u00fctende Verse \u00fcber sie zu schreiben. Da sie Volusius‘ Werk f\u00fcr das schlechteste hielt, erf\u00fcllt er sarkastisch das Gel\u00fcbde. Dies ist eine literarische Kritik, getarnt als religi\u00f6ser Akt.<\/p>\n

\n

Annals, of Volusius, papyrus droppings, discharge my girl\u2019s votive offering. Since, by sacred Venus and Cupid, she promised, that if I were given back to her, and I left off launching wild iambics, she\u2019d offer the gods the choicest words, of the worst of limping poets, consumed with malignant wood. And the girl thought this was the worst, with charming laughter, to move the gods. Now O goddess created from the blue sea, whose is holy Idalia, Urii, Ancona, reed-bound Cnidos, and Amathusia, Golgos, and Adriatic Dyrrachium, make the vow acceptable, fulfilled, if its not lacking in wit and charm. But meanwhile, you, enter the fire, you, full of boorishness and crudities, Volusian annals, papyrus droppings.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischer Figur<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 37: Freifahrt f\u00fcr alle: an die Stammg\u00e4ste und Egnatius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein w\u00fctendes Gedicht, gerichtet an eine Taverne und ihre Stammg\u00e4ste, die offenbar mit Lesbia zu tun haben. Catullus verwendet drastische Sprache, um seinen Neid und seine Wut auszudr\u00fccken, und hebt Egnatius, einen Mann mit auffallend wei\u00dfen Z\u00e4hnen (weiter verspottet in Gedicht 39), als Hauptrivalen hervor.<\/p>\n

\n

Lecherous tavern, and you its regulars, nine pillars along from the Twins\u2019 pillars, do you think you\u2019re the only ones with cocks, the only ones who\u2019re allowed to trouble young girls, and consider the rest of us goats? Or, because a hundred or two of you sit in a row, you, dullards, that I daren\u2019t bugger two hundred together? Think on: I\u2019ll draw all over the front of the tavern with your leavings. Because my girl, who\u2019s left my arms, whom I loved as no other girl\u2019s ever been loved, for whom so many great battles were fought, is there. You, all the rich and the fortunate, love her, and, what\u2019s so shameful, it\u2019s true, all the lesser ones, all the adulterous frequenters of by-ways: you, above all, one of the hairy ones, rabbit-faced offspring of Spain, Egnatius. Whom a shadowy beard improves, and teeth scrubbed with Iberian piss.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 38: Ein Wort bitte: an Cornificius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein klagendes Gedicht, gerichtet an seinen Freund Cornificius. Catullus ist krank und elend und f\u00fchlt sich von Cornificius vernachl\u00e4ssigt, der ihm keine tr\u00f6stenden Worte angeboten hat. Er vergleicht seine Traurigkeit mit der legend\u00e4ren Trauer des Simonides.<\/p>\n

\n

He\u2019s ill, Cornificius, your Catullus, he\u2019s ill, by Hercules, and it\u2019s bad, and worse and worse by the hour. Where are you, for whom it\u2019s the least and easiest thing, to bring consolation with chatter? I\u2019m cross with you. So much for my friendship? Even a little might comfort me, sadder than Simonides\u2019s tears.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 39: Deine Z\u00e4hne! : an Egnatius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein satirisches Gedicht, das speziell auf Egnatius und sein st\u00e4ndiges L\u00e4cheln abzielt, das Catullus auf seine ungew\u00f6hnlich wei\u00dfen Z\u00e4hne zur\u00fcckf\u00fchrt. Catullus findet sein st\u00e4ndiges L\u00e4cheln in verschiedenen Situationen unpassend und enth\u00fcllt das ekelhafte Geheimnis hinter seinen wei\u00dfen Z\u00e4hnen: Sie werden mit Urin gereinigt, eine Praxis, die den alten Iberern zugeschrieben wird.<\/p>\n

\n

Egnatius, because he has snow-white teeth, smiles all the time. If you\u2019re a defendant in court, when the counsel draws tears, he smiles: if you\u2019re in grief at the pyre of pious sons, the lone lorn mother weeping, he smiles. Whatever it is, wherever it is, whatever he\u2019s doing, he smiles: he\u2019s got a disease, neither polite, I would say, nor charming. So a reminder to you, from me, good Egnatius. If you were a Sabine or Tiburtine or a fat Umbrian, or plump Etruscan, or dark toothy Lanuvian, or from north of the Po, and I\u2019ll mention my own Veronese too, or whoever else clean their teeth religiously, I\u2019d still not want you to smile all the time: there\u2019s nothing more foolish than foolishly smiling. Now you\u2019re Spanish: in the country of Spain what each man pisses, he\u2019s used to brushing his teeth and red gums with, every morning, so the fact that your teeth are so polished just shows you\u2019re the more full of piss.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 40: Du willst Ruhm? : an Ravidus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus warnt Ravidus davor, ihn durch Beleidigung seiner Geliebten (wahrscheinlich Lesbia) zu provozieren, und erkl\u00e4rt, dass das Streben nach Ruhm durch Angriffe auf Catullus nur zu Ber\u00fchmtheit und Bestrafung in seinen Versen f\u00fchren wird.<\/p>\n

\n

What illness of mind, poor little Ravidus, drives you headlong onto my iambics? What god, badly-disposed towards you, intends to start a mad quarrel? Or is it to achieve vulgar fame? Why the assault? You want to be known everywhere? You will be, seeing you\u2019ve wanted to love my love, and with a long punishment.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 41: Eine unzumutbare Forderung: an Ameana<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus verspottet Ameana, eine Frau, die er wenig schmeichelhaft beschreibt, weil sie von ihm eine gro\u00dfe Geldsumme fordert. Er stellt sie als gierig und wahnhaft dar und deutet an, dass sie psychiatrische Hilfe und kein Geld braucht.<\/p>\n

\n

Ameana, a girl fucked by all, requires ten thousand from me, that girl with the ugly great nose, bankrupt Formianus\u2019s \u2018friend\u2019. Gather round, you who care for the girl, assemble together, doctors and friends: the girl\u2019s not well, don\u2019t ask what it is: she\u2019s suffering from fantasy money.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 42: Die Schreibtafeln: an die Hendekasyllaben<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus ruft seine Hendekasyllaben an und personifiziert sie als Verb\u00fcndete, um ihm zu helfen, seine Schreibtafeln von einer \u201eniedertr\u00e4chtigen Ehebrecherin\u201c (wahrscheinlich Lesbia oder eine ihrer Gef\u00e4hrtinnen) zur\u00fcckzubekommen, die ihn verspottet. Das Gedicht schildert eine Szene \u00f6ffentlicher Konfrontation und verbaler Beschimpfung und zeigt Catulls Verwendung seiner Poesie als Waffe.<\/p>\n

\n

Come, hendecasyllables, all that there are and from every side, as many as are. A base adulteress thinks I\u2019m a joke, and refuses to give me my tablets once more, if you\u2019d believe it. We\u2019ll follow her: ask for them back. Which one, you may ask? The one you can see strutting disgracefully, laughing ridiculously, maddening, with the jaws of a Gaulish bitch. Surround her: ask for them back: \u2018Stinking adulteress, give back my letters, give back, stinking adulteress, my letters!\u2019 You won\u2019t? O to the mire, the brothel, or if anything can be more ruinous, then that! But still don\u2019t think that\u2019s enough. Call her again in a louder voice: \u2018Stinking adulteress, give back my letters, give back, stinking adulteress, my letters!\u2019 But it\u2019s no use: nothing disturbs her. We\u2019d better change methods and tactics, if we want them to be of more use to us: let\u2019s see if we can\u2019t get a blush from that bitch\u2019s brazen face.: \u2018Honest and chaste one, give back my letters.\u2019<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 43: Kein Vergleich: an Ameana<\/a><\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich erneut an Ameana und listet ihre vielen unattraktiven k\u00f6rperlichen Merkmale auf (h\u00e4ssliche Nase, F\u00fc\u00dfe, Augen, Finger, Mund, Zunge). Dann verspottet er die Vorstellung, dass sie in ihrer Provinz als sch\u00f6n gilt und es wagt, mit seiner Lesbia verglichen zu werden, was den wahrgenommenen Mangel an Geschmack in seiner Gesellschaft hervorhebt.<\/p>\n

\n

Greetings, girl with a nose not the shortest, feet not so lovely, eyes not of the darkest, fingers not slender, mouth never healed, and a not excessively charming tongue, bankrupt Formianus\u2019s \u2018little friend\u2019. And the Province pronounces you beautiful? To be compared to my Lesbia? O witless and ignorant age!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 44: Sein Gut<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus schreibt \u00fcber sein Vorstadtgut und ist sich scherzhaft unsicher, ob er es sabinisch oder tiburtinisch nennen soll. Er erz\u00e4hlt, dass er dorthin geflohen ist, um sich von einem Husten zu erholen, den er sich nach einem schrecklichen Abendessen und dem Lesen einer giftigen Rede zugezogen hatte. Das Gut dient als Zuflucht und Gesundheitsquelle.<\/p>\n

\n

O my estate, whether you\u2019re Sabine or Tiburtine (for they call you Tiburtine, who don\u2019t wish to wound Catullus: but those who wish to do so say that whatever the bet is you\u2019re Sabine), but whether you\u2019re Sabine or Tiburtine, I willingly inhabit your suburban villa, and shake off a bad bronchial cough, given me by a stomach chill, my own fault, while stuffing extravagant dinners. For I wanted to be a guest of Sestius, so I read the oration in Antius\u2019s case, full of legal poison and pestilence, it weakened me even to the extent of watery colds and frequent coughing, till I fled to your bosom, and restored my health, with rest and nettle-soup. Refreshed by which, I give you great thanks, who take no revenge on me for my error. Now I don\u2019t care, if I take up that heinous script again, if it\u2019s not me but Sestius himself, wheezing and coughing, who takes a chill, who invited me only after I\u2019d read that vile work.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 45: Ein Pastorale: an Septimius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine s\u00fc\u00dfe, idealisierte Darstellung eines Paares, Septimius und Acme, die ihre gegenseitige Liebe mit Gel\u00fcbden ausdr\u00fccken, die vom Gott Amor (niesend) best\u00e4tigt werden. Es ist ein Moment reiner, gegenseitiger Zuneigung, der im Gegensatz zur turbulenten Liebe zu Lesbia steht.<\/p>\n

\n

Septimius holding his beloved Acme in his lap, said: \u2018Acme, mine, if I don\u2019t love you desperately, and love forever, continually through all the years, as much as he who loves the most, in empty Libya and scorched India, I\u2019ll fight against some green-eyed lion.\u2019 As he spoke, Love, to left and right, sneezed his approbation. But Acme lifted her head slightly and her charming red lips spoke to her sweet boy\u2019s intoxicated eyes: \u2018So, Septimius, mea vita<\/em>, let us always serve this one lord, that more deeply and more fiercely the fire will burn my tender marrow.\u2019 As she spoke, Love, to left and right sneezed his approbation. Now profiting from these good omens their mutual spirits love and are loved. Septimius sets his little Acme, above the Syrians or Britons: faithful Acme makes Septimius her one darling and desire. Who might see more blessed creatures who a love more fortunate?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 46: Fr\u00fchlingsabschied<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein Gedicht, das die Ankunft des Fr\u00fchlings und das Ende von Catulls Zeit in Bithynien markiert. Er dr\u00fcckt seine Eile aus, nach Asien zu reisen, und verabschiedet sich von seinen Freunden, die sich in verschiedene Richtungen zerstreuen werden. Es f\u00e4ngt den unruhigen Geist ein, der mit dem Wechsel der Jahreszeiten und dem Reisen verbunden ist.<\/p>\n

\n

Now Spring returns mild and temperate, now the wild equinoctial skies are calmed by Zephyr\u2019s happier breezes. The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken, Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea: we\u2019ll flee to Asia\u2019s bright cities. Now restless minds long for travel, now the glad feet stir with pleasure. O sweet crowd of friends farewell, who came together from far places, whom divergent roads must carry.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 47: Bef\u00f6rderung: an Porcius und Socration<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus dr\u00fcckt sein Entsetzen dar\u00fcber aus, dass zwei unerw\u00fcnschte Personen, Porcius und Socration, von Piso bevorzugt werden und \u00fcppig speisen, w\u00e4hrend seine w\u00fcrdigen Freunde Veranius und Fabullus k\u00e4mpfen. Es ist eine Beschwerde gegen Ungerechtigkeit und schlechtes Urteilsverm\u00f6gen in gesellschaftlichen Kreisen.<\/p>\n

\n

Porcius and Socration, two left hands of Piso, the world\u2019s itches and famines, that circumcised Priapus prefers you to my Veraniolus and my Fabullus? You, indulged with great sumptuous banquets every day: my friends looking for work at the crossroads?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 48: Leidenschaft: an Iuventius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Erneut an Iuventius gerichtet, dr\u00fcckt Catullus sein intensives Verlangen aus, seine Augen endlos zu k\u00fcssen. Wie Gedicht 5 verwendet er Hyperbeln (tausende K\u00fcsse, mehr als \u00c4hren), um die Tiefe seiner Leidenschaft f\u00fcr diesen jungen Mann zu vermitteln. Dies passt zum Thema Gedichte f\u00fcr den Mann, den du liebst<\/a>, und zeigt Catulls vielf\u00e4ltige Beziehungen.<\/p>\n

\n

Iuventius, if I were always allowed to kiss your honey-sweet eyes, I might kiss you three hundred thousand times, and never be sated, not even if my kisses were more than the crop\u2019s ripe ears of wheat.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 49: Ein Kompliment: an Marcus Tullius Cicero<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein scheinbar \u00fcberschw\u00e4ngliches Kompliment an den ber\u00fchmten Redner Cicero, den er als den eloquentesten Nachfahren von Romulus bezeichnet. Einige Gelehrte interpretieren dieses Gedicht jedoch ironisch, da Catullus sich selbst als den \u201egeringsten aller Dichter\u201c positioniert, was m\u00f6glicherweise den gro\u00dfen Unterschied in ihrem jeweiligen Status oder die wahrgenommene Trennung zwischen Rhetorik und Poesie hervorhebt.<\/p>\n

\n

Most fluent of Romulus\u2019s descendants, that are, that have been, that will be through all the years, Marcus Tullius, Catullus sends you the warmest thanks, the least of all the poets, as much the least of all the poets, as you are the greatest of all lawyers.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"SkulpturSkulptur einer r\u00f6mischen Figur<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 50: Gestern: an Licinius Calvus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus erz\u00e4hlt von einem Tag, den er spielerisch mit dem Schreiben von Gedichten und dem Austausch von Versen mit seinem Freund, dem Dichter Calvus, verbracht hat. Das Erlebnis war so anregend, dass es ihn ruhelos und schlaflos machte, was die intellektuelle und emotionale Intensit\u00e4t ihrer Freundschaft und gemeinsamen Leidenschaft f\u00fcr Poesie unterstreicht.<\/p>\n

\n

Yesterday, Calvus, idle day we played with my writing tablets, harmonising in being delightful: scribbling verses, each of us playing with metres, this and that, reciting together, through laughter and wine. And I left there fired with your charm, Calvus, and with your wit, so that, restless, I couldn\u2019t enjoy food, or close my eyes quietly in sleep, but tossed the whole bed about wildly in passion, longing to see the light, so I might speak to you, and be with you. But afterwards I lay there wearied with effort, half-dead in the bed, I made this poem for you, pleasantly, from which you might gather my pain. Now beware of being rash, don\u2019t reject my prayers I beg, my darling, lest Nemesis demand your punishment. She\u2019s a powerful goddess. Beware of annoying her.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischer Figur<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 51: Eine Imitation der Sappho: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine ber\u00fchmte Adaption von Sapphos Fragment 31, die das physische und emotionale Chaos ausdr\u00fcckt, das der Sprecher erlebt, als er Lesbia intime Interaktionen mit einem anderen Mann sieht. Catullus f\u00fcgt seine eigene abschlie\u00dfende Strophe hinzu, eine strenge Selbstkritik \u00fcber die Gefahren der Unt\u00e4tigkeit, die einzigartig r\u00f6misch ist und den Fokus von reiner Leidenschaft auf b\u00fcrgerliche Tugend verlagert.<\/p>\n

\n

He seems equal to the gods, to me, that man, if it\u2019s possible more than just divine, who sitting over against you, endlessly sees you and hears you laughing so sweetly, that with fierce pain I\u2019m robbed of all of my senses: because that moment I see you, Lesbia, nothing\u2019s left of me….. but my tongue is numbed, and through my poor limbs fires are raging, the echo of your voice rings in both ears, my eyes are covered with the dark of night. \u2018Your idleness is loathsome Catullus: you delight in idleness, and too much posturing: idleness ruined the kings and the cities of former times.\u2019<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 52: Ungerechtigkeit: \u00fcber Nonnius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzer Aufschrei der Verzweiflung und Ungeduld. Catullus fragt, warum er weiterleben soll, wenn korrupte und unerw\u00fcnschte M\u00e4nner (Nonnius und Vatinius) in Rom Macht und Einfluss innehaben.<\/p>\n

\n

Why, Catullus? Why wait to die? Nonnius the tumour sits in a Magistrate\u2019s chair, Vatinius perjures himself for a Consulate: Why, Catullus? Why wait to die?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 53: Lachen vor Gericht: an Gaius Licinius Calvus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, anekdotisches Gedicht, das einen Moment vor Gericht beschreibt, in dem Catulls Freund, der Redner Calvus, eloquent gegen Vatinius (wahrscheinlich derselbe Mann aus Gedicht 52) argumentiert. Jemand in der Menge, beeindruckt von Calvus‘ feuriger Rede, ruft aus: \u201eGro\u00dfe G\u00f6tter, was f\u00fcr ein eloquenter kleiner Mann!\u201c, eine Bemerkung, die Catullus am\u00fcsant findet.<\/p>\n

\n

I laughed when someone, from the crowd, while my Calvus explained the Vatinian case quite wonderfully, said admiringly, raising his hands: \u2018Great gods, what an eloquent little man!\u2019<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 54: Oh Caesar<\/a>! : \u00fcber Othos Kopf<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein fragmentarisches und etwas obskures Gedicht, das Beleidigungen gegen kleinere Figuren (Otho, Libo, Sufficio) und einen allgemeinen Angriff auf \u201eunseren einzigen General\u201c (vermutlich Caesar) enth\u00e4lt. Es ist ein weiteres Beispiel f\u00fcr Catulls Verwendung pers\u00f6nlicher Schm\u00e4hreden.<\/p>\n

\n

Otho\u2019s head is quite tiny, and it\u2019s owner\u2019s legs loutishly unclean, soft and delicate is Libo\u2019s farting: if not with all that, then let me displease you with Sufficio, old age renewed… again let my worthless iambics rile you, our one and only general.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 55: Wo bist du? : an Camerius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus sucht verzweifelt nach seinem Freund Camerius in ganz Rom, dr\u00fcckt seine Frustration aus und deutet an, dass Camerius heimlich mit Frauen zu tun haben k\u00f6nnte. Er beklagt die Schwierigkeit, ihn zu finden, vergleicht die Aufgabe mit einer der Arbeiten des Herkules und fordert Camerius auf, offen \u00fcber seinen Aufenthaltsort zu sein.<\/p>\n

\n

I beg you, if it\u2019s not too much trouble, point out where your shade might be. You, little Camerius, I\u2019ve looked for you, you, in the Circus, you, in the bookshops, you, in the sacred shrine of great Jove. I\u2019ve detained all the girls together in Pompey\u2019s Arcade, my friend, whose faces were blank, however. \u2018Worst of girls, reveal my Camerius\u2019, so I demanded of them. One replied, revealing her nudity… \u2018Look he\u2019s hiding in these rosy breasts.\u2019 But, oh it\u2019s a labour of Hercules to bear with you: as much as your pride denies it, my friend. Since I\u2019m not that bronze guardian of Crete, not Ladas or wing-footed Perseus, since I\u2019m not carried by Pegasus in flight, nor by Rhesus\u2019s swift snowy-white team, add to that feathered-feet and swiftness and the collective speed of the winds, Camerius you might have said who you were with: but I\u2019d be weary right down to my marrow and devoured by excessive fatigue if I went on searching for you, my friend. Tell us where you\u2019ll be in future, utter boldly, commit yourself, trust to the light. Do the milk-white girls hold you now? If your tongue\u2019s stuck in your mouth, you\u2019ll banish all the rewards of love. Venus delights in copious language. Or, if you want, fasten your lips, while letting me share in your loves.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4lde:Gem\u00e4lde: Mythologische Figur bei einer Arbeit<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 56: Dreier: an Cato<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine kurze, derbe Anekdote, gerichtet an Cato (m\u00f6glicherweise Cato den J\u00fcngeren), die eine sexuell explizite Szene schildert, die Catullus zwischen seinem M\u00e4dchen und einem jungen Sch\u00fcler beobachtete. Er findet den Vorfall am\u00fcsant und hofft, dass Cato ihn auch so findet. Das Gedicht hebt Catulls Bereitschaft hervor, \u00fcber transgressive Themen zu schreiben und sie an angesehene Pers\u00f6nlichkeiten zu richten.<\/p>\n

\n

O Cato, an amusing ridiculous thing, worth your ears and your laughter! Cato laugh as you love Catullus: the thing is amusing, and quite ridiculous. I caught my girl\u2019s little pupil thrusting away: if only to please Dione, I sacrificed him to my rigid succeeding shaft.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 57: Ihr Zwei! : an Caius Julius Caesar<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein weiterer scharfer Angriff auf Caesar und Mamurra, der sie explizit als \u201eperverse Bugger\u201c bezeichnet. Catullus verspottet ihre angeblichen gemeinsamen sexuellen Interessen und ihre wahrgenommene moralische Verdorbenheit und verst\u00e4rkt die Themen aus Gedicht 29.<\/p>\n

\n

Beautifully matched the perverse buggers, Mamurra the catamite and Caesar. No wonder: both equally spotted, one from Formia, the other the City, marks that remain, not to be lessened. diseased the same, both of these twins, both somewhat skilled in the selfsame couch, this one no greedier an adulterer than that, rivals in shared little girls. Beautifully matched the perverse buggers.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 58: Klage um Lesbia: an Marcus Caelius Rufus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, ersch\u00fctterndes Gedicht, das den Fall Lesbias beklagt, der Frau, die er einst intensiv liebte, zu einem Leben gew\u00f6hnlicher Prostitution (\u201ewichst die tapferen S\u00f6hne Roms ab\u201c an Kreuzungen und Gassen). Es dr\u00fcckt extreme Entt\u00e4uschung und Trauer \u00fcber ihre Herabw\u00fcrdigung aus.<\/p>\n

\n

Caelius, our Lesbia, that<\/em> Lesbia, that Lesbia, Catullus alone loved more than himself, and all of his own, now at crossroads, and down alleyways, jerks off the brave sons of Rome.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 59: Die \u00dcberreste: \u00fcber Rufa<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein grobes und groteskes Gedicht \u00fcber Rufa, die Ehefrau von Menenius, die Catullus beschreibt, wie sie auf Friedh\u00f6fen von Scheiterhaufen nach Essen sucht. Es ist eine lebhafte Darstellung von Elend und Verzweiflung, die zu satirischen oder ver\u00e4chtlichen Zwecken verwendet wird.<\/p>\n

\n

Rufa from Bologna gives head to Rufulus, she\u2019s Menenius\u2019s wife, whom you\u2019ve often seen, snatching food, from the pyre itself, in the cemetery, chasing the bread when it rolls from the flames, being thumped by the half-shaven cremator.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 60: L\u00f6win<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, intensives Gedicht, das die Herkunft der extremen Grausamkeit und Gef\u00fchlslosigkeit einer Person in Frage stellt. Catullus fragt sich, ob sie von einem wilden Tier oder einer monstr\u00f6sen mythologischen Figur geboren wurde, aufgrund ihrer ver\u00e4chtlichen Missachtung des Leidens anderer.<\/p>\n

\n

You now, did a lioness, from African mountains, or the depths of howling Scylla\u2019s thighs, create you as hard and as foul as that, so you might show scorn for the voice of entreaty, in its latest misfortune, out of that oh too cruel heart?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 61: Epithalamium: f\u00fcr Vinia und Manlius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein langes, aufw\u00e4ndiges Hochzeitsgedicht (Epithalamium) f\u00fcr seine Freunde Vinia (oder Aurunculeia) und Manlius Torquatus. An Hymen, den Gott der Ehe, gerichtet, feiert es die Sch\u00f6nheit der Braut, lobt den Br\u00e4utigam und spricht Segen f\u00fcr Fruchtbarkeit und eine lange, gl\u00fcckliche Ehe aus. Es enth\u00e4lt rituelle Elemente, spielerisches Necken (wie das Werfen von N\u00fcssen) und Momente zarter Feierlichkeit, was Catulls Meisterschaft in einem formellen Genre zeigt.<\/p>\n

\n

You, who live on Helicon\u2019s hills, the son of Urania, who carry the tender virgin to her man, O Hymanaee Hymen, O Hymen Hymenaee: crown your brow with sweet flowers of marjoram fragrance, put on the glad veil, here, come, wearing the saffron shoes on your snow-white feet: summoned to the happy day singing the nuptial songs with ringing voice, strike your feet on the ground, shake the pine torch in your hand. Now Vinia comes to her Manlius, as Venus, adorning Mount Ida, came to Paris, her Phrygian judge, a rare girl wedded to rare fortune, like the myrtle of Asia born on the flowering branches, that the divine Hamadryads playfully tend themselves with shining dew. So come, suffer yourself to approach, leave the Aonian cave among the cliffs of Thespia, leave the nymph Aganippe and her cooling stream. And call the bride to her new husband\u2019s loving home, her heart bound fast with love, as the clinging ivy enfolds the tree, winding here and there. And you chaste virgins too, whose own day will come, singing harmoniously cry, O Hymanaee Hymen, O Hymen Hymenaee. That, hearing himself called to perform his service, he may suffer himself to approach, the commander of wedding joys, the true uniter-in-love. What greater god do you love sought out by lovers? What divine one do men worship more, O Hymanaee Hymen, O Hymen Hymenaee? You her trembling father invokes: for you the virgin belt\u2019s untied: for you the bridegroom waits, fearful with new desire. You give the young girl fresh from her mother\u2019s breast, to the young novice\u2019s hands, O Hymanaee Hymen, O Hymen Hymenaee. Venus can take no advantage of what good custom allows, without you, but she can if you\u2019re willing. What god dare compare with you in this? No house bears offspring without you, no parent can be brightened by children: but they can if you\u2019re willing. What god dare compare with you in this? No ruler can set the boundaries to his country: but he can if you\u2019re willing. What god dare compare with you in this? Open the lock of the door. The virgin comes. Do you see how the torches scatter brilliant sparks? ……………………………………………..**<\/strong>……………………………………………..Noble shame holds back. However obedient she is, she weeps that she has to go. Don\u2019t weep. There\u2019s no danger to you Aurunculeia, nor will bright day see a lovelier girl than you rise from the Ocean waves. Such a hyacinth flower as blooms in a rich man\u2019s colourful little garden. But you linger: the day vanishes. Let the new bride appear. Let the new bride appear, so she can now be viewed, and listen to my words. See? The torches scatter golden sparks: let the new bride appear. Your husband\u2019s not fickle, given to sinful adulteries, chasing shameful vices, does not wish to flee from sleep in your tender breasts, and as the vines slowly wind about the trees they claim, he\u2019ll be wound in your embrace. But the day vanishes: let the new bride appear. O bridal-bed, that for all <\/strong>……………………………………………..**……………………………………………..<\/strong>at the foot of the shining couch, comes to your master, what joy, what wandering night, what noon delights! But the day goes by: let the new bride appear. O, you boys, lift the torches: I see the flame approach. Come: let the song sound in harmony \u2018io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee.\u2019 Don\u2019t hold back the bold Fescennine laughter, don\u2019t let this obedient concubine abandoning his master\u2019s love deny the boys their nuts. Give nuts to the boys, you idle concubine! You\u2019ve toyed with the nuts long enough: now be pleased to serve Hymen. Concubine, give them nuts. Girls seemed vile to you, concubine, yesterday, till today: now the hair-curler smooths your beard. Wretch of a wretch, concubine, give them nuts. You\u2019ll speak ill of abstaining from your slaves, perfumed husband, but abstain. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. We know what\u2019s allowed to you when you\u2019re known to be single, but married it\u2019s not allowed. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. Bride, beware you don\u2019t deny what your man comes seeking, lest he goes seeking elsewhere. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. Powerful in your house, and happy in your powers, that act without you there, Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee, until with trembling motion white-haired old age nods at all and everything. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. In your saffron shoes cross the threshold with good omens, and enter the shining door. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. Look inside where your man lies on a Tyrian bed waiting for you alone. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. He no less than you burns with fire in his heart, but inwardly much greater. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. Page, let go the young girl\u2019s shapely arm: now she reaches her husband\u2019s bed. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. You good wives who know the powers of old to bring young girls to marriage. Io Hymen Hymenaee io, io Hymen Hymenaee. Now bridegroom, you may come: your wife waits in your bed, her lovely face gleaming, like a white poppy, on a saffron field. But, husband, let the gods joy, you are no less handsome, nor does Venus neglect you. But the daylight flies: come now, don\u2019t delay. He\u2019s not lingered: now he comes. Kind Venus shall aid you, since you desire openly what you desire, you won\u2019t forget kind love. He who would count your joys, many thousands, must first tally the grains of Africa\u2019s sands, and the glittering stars. Play as you wish, and quickly give her children. It\u2019s not right for an ancient name to be childless, but it should create from the same root. I want a young Torquatus to stretch out his tender hand from his mother\u2019s lap sweetly smiling to his father from half-open lips. Let him be like his father Manlius, let that be known by all the unknowing, and let his face reveal, his mother\u2019s faithfulness. So our praise approves one born of a noble mother, just as unparalleled fame echoes from Penelope, the mother of excellent Telemachus. Close the doorways, virgins: we\u2019re satisfied with our play. But you brave partners live truly, and do your duty constantly, with vigour and with joy.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4lde:Gem\u00e4lde: Mythologische Figur beim Weben<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 62: Hochzeitslied<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein weiteres Epithalamium, diesmal strukturiert als eine Debatte zwischen Ch\u00f6ren von jungen M\u00e4nnern und Frauen \u00fcber den Zeitpunkt und die Art der Ehe. Die jungen M\u00e4nner argumentieren, dass es Zeit sei zu heiraten, sobald Hesperus (der Abendstern) erscheint, w\u00e4hrend die jungen Frauen den Abschied von ihren Familien beklagen. Das Gedicht verwendet starke Naturmetaphern (eine versteckte Blume, eine Rebe), um \u00fcber Jungfr\u00e4ulichkeit und die Vorteile von Ehe und Gemeinschaft zu sprechen.<\/p>\n

\n

Evening is here, young men, arise: evening, awaited so long by the heavens, barely still shows the light. Now is the time to rise, to leave the rich banquet, now the virgin comes, now the wedding-song is sung. Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! Do you see the unmarried girls, you young men? Rise to meet them: the evening star shows Thessalian fire. Such is the contest: see how they spring up so nimbly? Don\u2019t fear to rise, they sing to win a partner. Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! The palm\u2019s not easily won by us men as equals: consider, the girls need to prepare amongst themselves. not a vain preparation: they truly know what\u2019s what: no wonder, since they concentrate their whole mind. Our minds are elsewhere: our ears turn elsewhere: so we\u2019ll be defeated by willpower: victory needs attention. Therefore turn your minds to it at the least: now they begin to sing, now you must reply. Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! Hesperus what fire, they say, is crueller than yours? Who can tear a daughter away from her mother\u2019s arms, from a mother\u2019s detaining arms tear a daughter away, and give a virgin girl to an ardent young man. What do the enemy do that\u2019s crueller, in capturing a city? Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! Hesperus, who shines with happier fire in the sky? You who strengthen the bond of marriage with your flame, with what men swear, swearing it to the parents, not to be joined together before your own brightness rises. What wished-for hour by the gods is more happily granted? Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! Hesperus has stolen one like us away. ……………………………………………..**<\/strong>……………………………………………..**And now at your rising the watchman always wakes, thieves hide by night, who often likewise return, Hesperus, you catch them, as your name alters, at dawn, but the girls love to slander you with false complaints. Why do they complain, if they secretly wish it then? Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! As the hidden flower born in the hedged garden unknown to the beasts, untouched by the plough, that the breezes sweeten, the sun strengthens, the rain feeds: that many young men would choose, and many young girls: when that same flower fades, plucked by a tender hand, no young boy would choose it, and no young girl: so the virgin, while she\u2019s untouched, while she\u2019s their love: if she loses her flower of chastity, her body dishonoured, she\u2019s no longer the boy\u2019s delight, the girls\u2019 beloved. Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! As the vine we see, grown in the open field, never lifting its head, never bearing sweet grapes, its delicate stem bending downwards with the weight, so that in a moment its tallest shoot will touch its roots: no countryman, no farm-hand will cherish it: but if the same plant is fastened tight, wedded to an elm, many countrymen and farm-hands will cherish it. So a virgin who stays untouched, and uncultivated, ages: while taken in equal marriage, while the time is ripe, she\u2019s loved more by the man, less hateful to her parents. Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee! And don\u2019t you struggle with such a husband, girl. it\u2019s not right to struggle, you, whose father gives you away, your father and your mother, who prepare you. Your virginity\u2019s not wholly yours: part is your parents: a third your father\u2019s, a third your mother\u2019s, only a third is yours: don\u2019t fight those two, who grant their rights to the son-in-law with the dowry. Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 63: \u00dcber Berecynthia<\/a> und Attis<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein langes, dramatisches erz\u00e4hlendes Gedicht, das den Mythos von Attis erz\u00e4hlt, der in einem religi\u00f6sen Rausch, inspiriert von der G\u00f6ttin Kybele, sich selbst entmannt und sich ihrem Dienst widmet. Das Gedicht schildert lebhaft den Wahnsinn des Kultes, Attis‘ anschlie\u00dfendes Bedauern und Kybeles Macht. Es ist in Galliamben geschrieben, einem schwierigen und frenetischen Metrum, das die wilde Thematik des Gedichts widerspiegelt.<\/p>\n

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As soon as Attis, borne over the deep seas in a swift boat, had reached the Phrygian woods, with rapid eager steps, had returned to a dark corner of the goddess\u2019s grove, goaded by mad fury, and there, his wits wandering had sliced off his testicles with a sharp stone, and had seen his remaining members devoid of power, and that country\u2019s soil spotted with fresh blood, he took up the drum lightly in his pale hands, your drum, Cybele, yours, Great Mother, in your rite, and striking the sounding bull\u2019s-hide with delicate fingers, chanted to his followers, as it quivered from his assault: \u2018Gallae, come, rise, to the high woods of Cybele, now, come, now, wandering cattle of Dindymus\u2019s Lady, like exiles wandering here on an alien shore, followers of my way, lead by me, my friends, you suffered the swift seas and the wild waves and sheared your sex from your bodies with great hatred: gladden the Lady\u2019s spirit with swift movements. Banish dull delay from your minds: come, now, follow, to Phrygian Cybele\u2019s house, the Phrygian goddess\u2019s grove, where the voice of the cymbal clashes, the drum echoes, where the Phrygian flute-player plays on a curving reed, where the ivy-crowned Maenads violently toss their heads, where they act out the sacred rites with high-pitched howls, where the goddess\u2019s wandering retinue\u2019s wont to hover, where we should hurry with our swift triple-step.\u2019 As Attis, the counterfeit woman, sings this to his friends, the Bacchic choir suddenly cries with quivering tongues, the drum echoes it gently, the hollow cymbals ring. The swift choir comes to green Ida on hurrying feet. Attis, leading, panting wildly, goading his scattered wits, enters the dark grove accompanied by the drum, like a wild heifer escaping the weight of the yoke: The agile Gallae follow their swift-footed leader. Then, since wearied, foodless, they reach Cybele\u2019s grove, they\u2019re seized by sleep from their excessive labours. Dull tiredness overwhelms eyes giving way to languor: mad frenzy vanishes in the calm of gentle breath. But when the Sun from his golden face scanned the bright heavens with radiant eye, the harsh earth, and wild sea, and dispelled the shadows of night with his lively steeds, then the Grace, Pasithea, takes swift Sleep, flying from the waking Attis, to her beating heart. So, rapidly, from sweet dream and free of madness, Attis recollected his actions in his thoughts, and saw with a clear heart what and where he had been, turning again with passionate mind to the sea. There gazing at the wide waters with tearful eyes he raised his voice and sadly bemoaned his homeland: \u2018Land that fathered me, land that mothered me, I, who left you so sadly, have reached the groves of Ida, like a slave fleeing his master, so am I among snows, and the frozen lairs of wild creatures, and should I in madness enter one of their dens where would I think to find you buried in those places? The keen eye itself desires to turn itself towards you, while my thought is free a while of the wild creatures. Have I been brought from my distant home for this grove? Shall I lose country, possessions, friends, kin? Shall I lose forum, wrestling ring, stadium and gymnasium? Sorrow on sorrow, again and again complaint in the heart. What form have I not been, what have I not performed? I a woman, I a young man, a youth, a boy, I the flower of the athletes, the glory of the wrestling ring: my doorway frequented, my threshold warm, my house was garlanded with wreaths of flowers, at the dawn separation from my bed. Now am I brought here priest and slave of divine Cybele? I, to be Maenad: a part of myself: a sterile man? I to worship on green Ida in a place cloaked in frozen snow? I to live my life beneath the high summits of Phrygia, where deer haunt the woods, where the wild boar roams? Now I grieve for what I did, now I repent.\u2019 As the swift sounds leave his rosy lips the fresh words reach the twin ears of the goddess, as Cybele is loosing the lions from their yoke and goading the left-hand beast: she spoke to it, saying: \u2018Go now, be fierce, so you make him mad, so he is forced to return to the grove by the pain of his madness, he who desires to escape my rule so freely. Let your tail wound your back, let the lashes show, make the whole place echo to your bellowing roar, shake your red mane fiercely over your taut neck.\u2019 So Cybele spoke in threat and loosed the leash. The wild beast urging itself to speed, roused in spirit, tore away, roared, broke madly through the thickets. and when it reached the wet margin of the white sands, and saw delicate Attis near to the ocean waves, it charged. He fled demented to the wild wood: there to be ever enslaved, for the rest of his life. Goddess, Great Goddess, Cybele, Lady of Dindymus, Mistress, let all your anger be far from my house: make others aroused, make other men raving mad.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren in einer Landschaft<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 64: \u00dcber die Argonauten und ein Epithalamium f\u00fcr Peleus und Thetis<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Dies ist Catulls l\u00e4ngstes und ehrgeizigstes Gedicht, ein Miniatur-Epos, das Mythologie und menschliche Emotionen verbindet. Es beschreibt die Reise der Argo, die Hochzeit des sterblichen Peleus und der Meeresg\u00f6ttin Thetis und, am bemerkenswertesten, die tragische Geschichte von Ariadne, die von Theseus auf Naxos verlassen wurde (dargestellt auf dem Hochzeitsbett). Das Gedicht kontrastiert das heroische Zeitalter, in dem G\u00f6tter mit Sterblichen verkehrten, mit der korrupten Gegenwart. Die lange Klage Ariadnes ist ein kraftvoller Ausdruck von Verrat und Trauer.<\/p>\n

\n

Once they say pine-trees born on the heights of Pelion floated through Neptune\u2019s clear waves, to the River Phasis and Aeetes\u2019s borders, with chosen men, oaks of the Argive people, hoping to steal the Golden Fleece of Colchis daring to course the salt deeps in their swift ship, sweeping the blue waters with fir-wood oars. The goddess herself who guards the heights of the city, who joined the curving fabric to pinewood keel, made their ship speed onwards with light winds. That vessel was first to explore the unknown sea: so, as she ploughed the windblown waters with her prow, and whitened the churning waves with foam from the oars, the Nereids lifted themselves from the dazzling white depths of the sea, amazed at this wonder of ocean. In those, and other days, mortal eyes saw the sea-nymphs raise themselves, bodies all naked, as far as their nipples, from the white depths. Then Peleus, they say, was inflamed with love of Thetis, then Thetis did not despise marriage with a mortal, then Jupiter himself agreed to Thetis\u2019s marriage. O heroes, born in a chosen age, hail, godlike race! O offspring of a blessed mother, hail once more. Often I\u2019ll address you, in my song. And I address you, so blessed in your fortunate marriage, chief of Pelian Thessaly, to whom Jupiter himself creator of gods, yielded his beloved: did not Thetis possess you, loveliest of Nereids? Did not Tethys allow you to lead off her grand-daughter, and Oceanus, who embraces the whole world with sea? When at the time appointed the longed-for flames arise, all of Thessaly crowds together to the palace, the halls are filled with a joyful assembly: they bring gifts with them, declaring their joy in their looks. Cieros is deserted: they leave Pthiotic Tempe, Crannon\u2019s houses, and Larissa\u2019s walls, they gather in Pharsalia, crowd under Pharsalia\u2019s roofs. No one farms the fields, the necks of bullocks soften, nor does the curved hoe clear beneath the vines, nor does the ox drag earth outward with the blade, nor does the sickle thin the shade of leafy trees, coarse rust attacks the neglected plough. But the palace gleams bright with gold and silver through all the rich receding halls. The ivory chairs shine, cups glisten on tables, the whole palace gladdened with splendour of royal wealth. In the midst of the palace a sacred couch, truly joyful for the marriage of the goddess, gleaming with Indian ivory, stained with the red dyes won from purple murex. The cloth depicts in ancient forms, with marvellous art, in all their variety, the excellence of gods and men. Here are seen the wave-echoing shores of Naxos, Theseus, aboard his ship, vanishing swiftly, watched by Ariadne, ungovernable passion in her heart, not yet believing that she sees what she does see, still only just awoken from deceptive sleep, finding herself abandoned wretchedly to empty sands. But uncaring the hero fleeing strikes the deep with his oars, casting his vain promises to the stormy winds. The Minoan girl goes on gazing at the distance, with mournful eyes, like the statue of a Bacchante, gazes, alas, and swells with great waves of sorrow, no longer does the fine turban remain on her golden hair, no longer is she hidden by her lightly-concealing dress, no longer does the shapely band hold her milk-white breasts all of it scattered, slipping entirely from her body, plays about her feet in the salt flood. But, not caring now for turban or flowing dress, the lost girl gazed towards you, Theseus, with all her heart, spirit, mind. Wretched thing, for whom bright Venus reserved the thorny cares of constant mourning in your heart, from that time when it suited warlike Theseus, leaving the curving shores of Piraeus, to reach the Cretan regions of the unbending king. For then forced by cruel plague, they say, as punishment, to absolve the murder of Androgeos ten chosen young men of Athens and ten unmarried girls used to be given together as sacrifice to the Minotaur. With which evil the narrow walls were troubled until Theseus chose to offer himself for his dear Athens rather than such Athenian dead be carried un-dead to Crete. And so in a swift ship and with gentle breezes he came to great Minos and his proud halls. As soon as the royal girl cast her eye on him with desire, she whom the chaste bed nourished, breathing sweet perfumes in her mother\u2019s gentle embrace, even as Eurotas\u2019s streams surround a myrtle that sheds its varied colours on the spring breeze, she did not turn her blazing eyes away from him, till she conceived a flame through her whole body that burned utterly to the depths of her bones. Ah sadly the Boy incites inexorable passion in chaste hearts, he who mixes joy and pains for mortals, and she who rules Golgos and leafy Idalia, even she, who shakes the mind of a smitten girl, often sighing for a blonde-haired stranger! How many fears the girl suffers in her weak heart! How often she grows pallid: more so than pale gold. As Theseus went off eager to fight the savage monster either death approached or fame\u2019s reward! Promising small gifts, not unwelcome or in vain, she made her prayers to the gods with closed lips. Now as a storm uproots a quivering branch of oak, or a cone-bearing pine with resinous bark, on the heights of Mount Taurus, twisting its unconquered strength in the wind (it falls headlong, far off, plucked out by the roots, shattering anything and everything in its way) so Theseus upended the conquered body of the beast its useless horns overthrown, emptied of breath. Then he turned back, unharmed, to great glory, guided by the wandering track of fine thread, so that his exit from the fickle labyrinth of the palace would not be prevented by some unnoticed error. But what should I relate, digressing further from my poem\u2019s theme: the girl, abandoning her father\u2019s sight, her sisters\u2019 embraces, and lastly her mother\u2019s, she wretched at her lost daughter\u2019s joy in preferring the sweet love of Theseus to all this: or her being carried by ship to Naxos\u2019s foaming shore, or her consort with uncaring heart vanishing, she conquered, her eyes softening in sleep? Often loud shrieks cried the frenzy in her ardent heart poured out from the depths of her breast, and then she would climb the steep cliffs in her grief, where the vast sea-surge stretches out to the view, then run against the waves into the salt tremor holding her soft clothes above her naked calves, and call out mournfully this last complaint, a frozen sob issuing from her wet face: \u2018False Theseus, is this why you take me from my father\u2019s land, faithless man, to abandon me on a desert shore? Is this how you vanish, heedless of the god\u2019s power, ah, uncaring, bearing home your accursed perjuries? Nothing could alter the measure of your cruel mind? No mercy was near to you, inexorable man, that you might take pity on my heart? Yet once you made promises to me in that flattering voice, you told me to hope, not for this misery but for joyful marriage, the longed-for wedding songs, all in vain, dispersed on the airy breezes. Now, no woman should believe a man\u2019s pledges, or believe there\u2019s any truth in a man\u2019s words: when their minds are intent on their desire, they have no fear of oaths, don\u2019t spare their promises: but as soon as the lust of their eager mind is slaked they fear no words, they care nothing for perjury. Surely I rescued you from the midst of the tempest of fate, and more, I gave up my half-brother, whom I abandoned to you with treachery at the end. For that I\u2019m left to be torn apart by beasts, and a prey to sea-birds, unburied, when dead, in the scattered earth. What lioness whelped you under a desert rock, what sea conceived and spat you from foaming waves, what Syrtis, what fierce Scylla, what vast Charybdis, you who return me this, for the gift of your sweet life? If marriage with me was not in your heart, because you feared your old father\u2019s cruel precepts, you could still have led me back to your house, where I would have served you, a slave happy in her task, washing your beautiful feet in clear water, covering your bed with the purple fabric. But why complain to the uncaring wind in vain? It is beyond evil, and without senses, unable to hear what is said, without voice to reply. It is already turning now towards mid-ocean, and nothing human appears in this waste of weed. So cruel chance taunts me in my last moments, even depriving my ears of my own lament. All-powerful Jupiter, if only the Athenian ships had not touched the shores of Cnossos, from the start, carrying their fatal cargo for the ungovernable bull, a faithless captain mooring his ropes to Crete, an evil guest, hiding a cruel purpose under a handsome appearance, finding rest in our halls! Now where can I return? What desperate hope depend on? Shall I seek out the slopes of Ida? But the cruel sea with its divisive depths of water separates me from them. Or shall I hope for my father\u2019s help? Did I not leave him, to follow a man stained with my brother\u2019s blood? Or should I trust in a husband\u2019s love to console me? Who hardly bends slow oars in running from me? More, I\u2019m alive on a lonely island without shelter, and no escape seen from the encircling ocean waves. No way to fly, no hope: all is mute, all is deserted, all speaks of ruin. Yet still my eyes do not droop in death, not till my senses have left my weary body, till true justice is handed down by the gods, and the divine help I pray for in my last hour. So you Eumenides who punish by avenging the crimes of men, your foreheads crowned with snaky hair, bearing anger in your breath, here, here, come to me, listen to my complaints, that I, wretched alas, force, weakened, burning, out of the marrow of my bones, blind with mad rage. Since these truths are born in the depths of my breast, you won\u2019t allow my lament to pass you by, but as Theseus left me alone, through his intent, goddesses, by that will, pursue him and his with murder.\u2019 When these words had poured from her sad breast, the troubled girl praying for cruel actions, the chief of the gods nodded with unconquerable will: at which the earth and the cruel sea trembled and the glittering stars shook in the heavens. Now Theseus\u2019s mind was filled with a dark mist and all the instructions he had held fixed in memory before this, were erased from his thoughts, failing to raise the sweet signal to his mourning father, when the harbour of Athens safely came in sight. For they say that when Aegeus parted from his son, as the goddess\u2019s ship left the city, he yielded him to the wind\u2019s embrace with these words: \u2018Son, more dear to me than my long life, son, whom I abandoned through chance uncertainty, lately returned to me in the last days of my old age, since my fate and your fierce virtue tear you away from me, against my will, whose failing eyes are not yet sated with my dear son\u2019s face, I don\u2019t send you off happily with joyful heart, or allow you to carry flags of good fortune, but start with the many sorrows in my mind, marring my white hairs with earth and sprinkled ashes, then hang unfinished canvas from the wandering mast, so the darkened sail of gloomy Spanish flax might speak the grief and passion in my mind. But if the one who dwells in sacred Iton, who promised to defend the people and city of Erectheus, allows you to wet your hand with the blood of the bull, then make sure this command is done, buried in your remembering heart, not to be erased by time: that as soon as you set eyes on our hills, strip the dark fabric fully from the yards, and hoist white sails with your twisted ropes, so that seeing them from the first, I\u2019ll know joy in my glad heart, when a happy time reveals your return.\u2019 These words to Theseus, once held constantly in mind, vanished like clouds of snow struck by a blast of wind on the summits of high mountains. But when his father, searching the view from the citadel\u2019s height, endless tears flooding his anxious eyes, first saw the sails of dark fabric, he threw himself head first from the height of the cliff, believing Theseus lost to inexorable fate. So fierce Theseus entered the palace in mourning for his father\u2019s death, and knew the same grief of mind that he had caused neglected Ariadne, she who was gazing then where his ship had vanished pondering the many cares in her wounded heart. But bright Bacchus hurries from elsewhere with his chorus of Satyrs and Silenes from Nysa, seeking you, Ariadne, burning with love for you. ……………………………………………..**<\/strong>……………………………………………..*In rapture his Bacchantes raved madly, crazed in mind, with cries of \u2018<\/em>euhoe*\u2019 and tossing heads, some brandished the thyrsus with hidden tip, some flourished the torn limbs of bullocks, some wreathed themselves with twining snakes, some celebrated the secret rites of the hollow box, rights they wished the profane to hear in vain: others beat the drums with the flat of their hands, or raised a clear ringing from rounded cymbals: they blew endless strident calls on the horns and the barbarous flute shrilled with fearful tunes. Such the splendid workings of figured tapestry covering the sacred couch its cloth embraced. The people of Thessaly after gazing eagerly were satisfied, they began to leave the goddess\u2019s sanctuary. As Zephyr stirs the willing waves, ruffling the placid sea with morning breeze, while Aurora rises to the wandering Sun\u2019s threshold, so that at first they move slowly struck by a gentle blast, and their splashing resounds with slight lamentation, while afterwards they increase, swelling more and more, and reflect the red of the sunrise far-off as they rise: so, here and there, with wandering feet the crowd disperse to their homes, leaving the courtyard of the royal palace. After their departure Chiron, the Centaur\u2019s leader, arrived from steep Pelion carrying woodland gifts: since what the fields bear, whatever the country of Thessaly yields on high peaks, whatever the flowers by the river\u2019s waves the fecund breath of the warm west wind produces, he brought woven together in confused garlands, so that the palace smiled, charmed by happy fragrances. At once Peneus came to green Tempe, Tempe, whose hanging woods encircle it above, leaving Pasiphae to be honoured by the sea\u2019s dance: not empty-handed, since he carried a tall beech by the roots, and long-leafed laurel from a straight trunk, and was not without nodding plane, and pliant poplar, scorched Phaethon\u2019s sister, and airy cypress. He placed them woven, here and there, round the house till the courtyard was green, veiled with fresh foliage. Prometheus followed after him, skilled in mind, showing faint traces of his ancient punishment, when once he suffered, hung in tight chains from the high ledge of rock. Then the father of the gods with his sacred consort, and his sons, came down from the heavens, leaving behind only you, Phoebus, and the one born together with you, she who lives on the slopes of Ida: Peleus is still disdained by both you and your sister, and you will not celebrate Thetis\u2019s wedding torches. Then the gods seated their limbs at the white benches, at tables richly heaped with various foods, while, moving their bodies in trembling dance, the Fates began to utter their prophetic song. Quivering seized their bodies, their white ankles wholly covered by the red hem of their dresses, and a red headband circling their white hair, and their hands were busy, as ever, at their eternal work. The left hand held the distaff, wound with soft wool, then the right, drawing out the thread lightly, shaped it with upturned fingers, then, twisting it under the thumb, turned the level spindle in smooth rotation, and often a plucking tooth made the strands equal, and fragments of wool, that once projected from the light threads, clung to their dry lips: and, before their feet, bright wool from a soft fleece was guarded by a basket woven of willow. Then in a clear voice, pushing away the fleece, they poured out these prophecies in divine song, song not to be proven wrong, by any amount of years. \u2018Defence of Thessaly, dearest of Jupiter\u2019s scions, adding marvellous glory to your great powers, accept what the glad sisters bring to the light, true oracles: but you who accompany fate, fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. Now Hesperus comes to you bearing the longed-for bride, the wife approaches beneath a fortunate star, who pours out her heart to you with tender love, and prepares to lie with you in languid sleep, spreading her delicate arms beneath your strong neck. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. No house has ever sheltered such love, no love has ever joined lovers in such a union, even as harmony comes to Thetis, and Peleus. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. A child Achilles is born to you, free of fear, noted for never turning his back on an enemy, strong of heart, who, often the victor in the fickle foot-race, outstrips the swift deer with fiery hooves. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. No hero dare confront him in battle, when the Phrygian rivers flow with the blood of Teucer\u2019s people, and the third heir of deceitful Pelops lays waste the walls of Troy, besieged in the weary war. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. Often women at the funerals of their sons lament his illustrious powers and bright deeds, as neglected hair streams down from their white heads, and weak hands mark their withered breasts. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. Now, as a reaper prematurely mowing the dense stalks, scythes the golden fields under his eager feet, he destroys the Trojan bodies with his fierce blade. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. Scamander\u2019s waves that pour down in cascade to the swift Hellespont will bear witness to his great courage, its passage narrowed by the heaped bodies of the dead, the deep waters mixed with warm blood. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. At last it will be witness also to a death-prize paid, when a heaped tomb by the high rampart receives the smooth white body of a sacrificed virgin girl. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. Then as luck grants the riches of the Trojan city to the weary Greeks, loosening Neptune\u2019s bond, the high mound will be soaked with Polyxena\u2019s blood: who bowing like a sacrifice to the two-edged blade will fall to her knees, a maimed corpse. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. So perform the wishes of your hearts, join in love. Let the husband accept his goddess in joyful contract, now the bride be given to her loving partner. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle. The nurse returning at daybreak will not encircle her neck with yesterday\u2019s ribbon, nor the anxious mother by the sad bed of a troubled daughter, forgo the hope of dear grandchildren. Fly, guiding threads: fly, spindle.\u2019 Such the song once sung of happy prophecy to Peleus, from the Parcae\u2019s divine hearts. Once the gods in person visited the pure houses of heroes, and showed themselves to the mortal crowd, the gods were not yet used to men\u2019s scorn for piety. Often the father of the gods revisiting his bright temple, when the annual rites came round on the holy days, saw a hundred bulls lying on the ground. Wandering Bacchus often led the shouting Bacchantes, with their flowing hair, on the high peak of Parnassus, when all rushing in emulation from the happy town of Delphos received the god with smoking altars. Often in the fatal struggles of war, Mars, or swift Minerva the lady of Lake Tritonis, or virgin Artemis appeared to exhort the crowds of armed men. But afterwards earth was tainted by impious wickedness and all fled from justice with eager minds, the brother\u2019s hand was stained with a brother\u2019s blood, the child ceased to mourn for its dead parents, the father chose the younger son\u2019s death to acquire a single woman in her prime, the impious mother spread herself beneath the unknowing son, not afraid of desecrating the household shrine. All piety was confused with impiety in evil frenzy turning the righteous will of the gods from us. So such as they do not visit our marriages, nor allow themselves to approach us, in the light of day.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren bei einem Tanz<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 65: Das Versprechen: an Hortalus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus entschuldigt sich bei seinem Freund Hortalus (vielleicht Quintus Hortensius Hortalus, ein Redner) daf\u00fcr, dass er ihm keine Gedichte schicken konnte, da er \u00fcberw\u00e4ltigende Trauer \u00fcber den Tod seines Bruders empfand. Er vergleicht seine Unf\u00e4higkeit zu komponieren mit einem M\u00e4dchen, das einen versteckten Apfel verliert, ein Geschenk von ihrem Geliebten. Er verspricht, trotz seiner Trauer Verse in Nachahmung von Kallimachos zu schicken.<\/p>\n

\n

Though I\u2019m continually worn out by grief\u2019s pain, removed, Hortalus, from the learned girls, unable to bear the sweet fruit of the Muses, the mind troubled by so many dark feelings (for lately the flowing water in Lethe\u2019s depths washes at my brother\u2019s pallid feet, whom, torn from my eyes, the earth crushes beneath the shore of Trojan Rhoeteum. Am I never to see you hereafter, brother more lovely than life? But I will always love you, it\u2019s true, always sing your death in mournful song, as Daulian Procne sings in the dense shadow of branches, lamenting dead Itylus\u2019s fate) even in such great sadness, Hortalus, I still send you these verses in imitation of Callimachus, lest you might think your words for no good reason had been lost from my mind on the passing wind, as the apple sent as a secret gift from a lover rolls from the chaste girl\u2019s breast, placed under the soft clothing, sadly forgotten, until, as she springs up at her mother\u2019s approach, it\u2019s shaken out, and rolls down in headlong descent, leaving a knowing blush on her sad face.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 66: Die Haarstr\u00e4hne: Berenike<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine \u00dcbersetzung von Kallimachos‘ \u201eLocke der Berenike\u201c. Das Gedicht wird von einer Haarstr\u00e4hne der K\u00f6nigin Berenike gesprochen, die sie als Gel\u00fcbde f\u00fcr die sichere R\u00fcckkehr ihres Mannes widmete und die anschlie\u00dfend in ein Sternbild verwandelt wurde. Die Locke erz\u00e4hlt von ihrer Reise zum Himmel und dr\u00fcckt ihre Sehnsucht nach ihrer Herrin aus. Catulls \u00dcbersetzung von Kallimachos zeigt seine Auseinandersetzung mit hellenistischer Poesie und sein K\u00f6nnen im Umgang mit gelehrten, mythologischen Themen.<\/p>\n

\n

He who gazed at all the lights in the vast heavens, who learnt the rise and setting of the stars, how the fiery beauty of the swift sun\u2019s darkened, how constellations vanish at fixed times, how sweet love entices Diana, secretly passing near the Latmian cliffs, in her airy course: that same Conon, the astronomer, saw me shining brightly at heaven\u2019s threshold, a lock of hair from Berenice\u2019s head, she who stretching out her delicate arms made promises to a multitude of gods, at that time when the great king newly married was gone to lay waste the borders of Assyria, bearing sweet traces of nocturnal strife, those that are brought about by virgin spoils. Is Venus really hated by new brides? Is parents\u2019 joy deceived by their false tears, shed copiously within the threshold of the bed? If it were truth they sighed they\u2019d not have supported my divinity so. My queen taught me that, with her many woeful cries, when her new husband went off to grim battle. And is it not the bereavement of an empty bed you mourn, but the tearful separation from a dear brother? How sad cares eat at the heart\u2019s core from within! As though, troubled, your mind is wholly lost, robbed of all feeling in your breast! But I recognise true greatness in a girl. Surely that brave act is not forgotten by which a husband\u2019s kingdom was gained, that no one stronger dared? But what sad words were said in sending off this husband! Jupiter, how often your eyes were brushed by your hand! What god has changed you so? Or is it a lovers wish not to be absent from the beloved body for long?\u2019 And, there too, you promised me, to all the gods, not without blood of bulls, for your dear husband, if it brought his return. It did not take him long to add captive Asia to the bounds of Egypt. I discharge former promises, for those deeds, by this new tribute that joins me to the heavens. Unwillingly, O Queen, I was parted from your hair, unwillingly: I swear it by you and that head of yours, that is worthy, even though one were to swear in vain: but who could claim to be equal to steel itself? Even the mountain\u2019s overthrown by it, the greatest bright child of Macedonia\u2019s shores, over-passed when the Persians created a new sea, when barbarians drove their fleet through the midst of Athos. What can hair do when such things fall to the blade? By Jupiter, that the tribe of Chalybes might all perish, and those who first pursued the search for veins of metal below the earth, and how to cut tough things with iron! A little while ago the sisters were mourning my fate as a shorn lock, when, out of Locri, Ars\u00ednoe sent the winged horses of Ethiopian Memnon himself, beating, with quivering wings, Zephyrus\u2019s, the West Wind\u2019s, air, the brother born with him, and carrying me through the shadowed sky, he flew, and placed me in chaste Venus\u2019s lap. Ars\u00ednoe herself sent her servant there, Greek inhabitant of the Canoptic shore. My arrival changed the heavens, so the golden crown from Ariadne\u2019s brow might not be fixed alone in the bright sky: but, so that I too might shine, a faithful spoil of that golden hair, the goddess passing, wet from the flood, to the gods\u2019 temple, placed me as a new constellation among the old. For, touching the Virgin\u2019s stars and the savage Lion, joined to Callisto daughter of Lycaon, I fall towards the west, leading slow Boot\u00ebs, who merges tardily with the deep Ocean. But though the footsteps of the gods touch me by night, light still returns me to the ancient sea. (Let this be known, by your leave, Fate, Virgin Ramnusia, since I hide nothing of the truth through fear, nor though the stars disperse me with angry words, do I choose to hide the buried truth of the heart.) I don\u2019t delight in these things, as much as I suffer from being parted, parted from my lady\u2019s hair, with which, when the girl used to try out all perfumes, I myself absorbed many thousands. Now you, whom the longed-for marriage torches join, don\u2019t surrender your bodies to mutual embrace, baring your breasts with clothes removed, before the onyx delights me with its pleasing gift, your onyx, you who by right adorn the chaste bed. But she who gives herself to impure adulteries, let her absorb from sin the vain gift of light dust: since I seek no prize from the undeserving. But let great harmony, O brides, always inhabit your house, continual love always. You, my Queen, when you see your divine constellation, as you placate Venus with festive lights, don\u2019t leave me free of your perfumes, but endow me with more great gifts. I wish that the stars would fall! I\u2019d become royal hair, and then let Orion shine next to Aquarius!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 67: \u00dcber die ehebrecherische T\u00fcr eines Mannes<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein einzigartiges Gedicht, in dem Catullus eine Haust\u00fcr nach den sexuellen Skandalen befragt, die sich darin ereignet haben. Die T\u00fcr erz\u00e4hlt Geschichten von Ehebruch und Inzest, an denen die Familie des neuen Besitzers beteiligt ist. Diese ungew\u00f6hnliche Perspektive erm\u00f6glicht es Catullus, Klatsch und Satire aus der Sicht eines unbelebten Objekts zu \u00fcbermitteln.<\/p>\n

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O hail, sweet door, pleasing to a husband, pleasing to a father, and may Jupiter add his virtuous power to you, who served Balbus faithfully, they say, for a good while, when the old man owned the house himself, and served the son, on the contrary, quite badly, it\u2019s said, when you became a wedding gift with the old man dead. Come on, tell us, why exhibit this change deserting old loyalties of ownership? \u2018It\u2019s not my fault (I please this Caecilius, I\u2019m handed over to now), though it\u2019s said to be mine, it\u2019s no sin of mine that anyone can say anything: truly a door of your people answers you, me, to whom whenever some ill deed\u2019s discovered all cry out: \u201cIt\u2019s your fault, door.\u201d\u2019 It\u2019s not enough to say that, with a word, but you must do what anyone might see and know. \u2018How can I? No one asks or takes the trouble to know?\u2019 I will, tell me, don\u2019t hesitate. \u2018Well first, the virgin, they say, who was handed over to us, was false. The husband wasn\u2019t the first to touch her, he whose sword hangs limper than a tender beet, never lifting the middle of his tunic: but they say the father violated his son\u2019s bed, and disgraced the unfortunate house, either because his impious mind burned with blind lust, or because the son was useless, with barren seed, so it was necessary to search for one more vigorous, who could undo her virgin tie.\u2019 You tell of an illustrious father with amazing piety. who comes in his own son\u2019s lap. \u2018And Brescia under the cliffs of Cycnea, that golden Mella with sweet water runs by, Brescia dear mother of my Verona, says he isn\u2019t the only one known to have had her, but speaks of Postumius and Cornelius with passion, with whom she commited wicked adultery. Here someone will have said? \u201cHow do you know, door, never allowed to leave your master\u2019s threshold, or overhear people, but fixed to this post, so accustomed to opening and closing the house?\u201d I\u2019ve often heard her alone in a furtive voice speak to her maids about her sins, the names I\u2019ve said being spoken, she expecting that I\u2019d have neither speech nor hearing. Besides, she added, someone else, whose name I don\u2019t want to say, lest he raise his red eyebrow. He\u2019s a tall man, who fought a great lawsuit once, about a false pregnancy in a lying womb.\u2019<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 68: Freundschaft: an Manlius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein komplexes und emotionales Gedicht, das sich an seinen Freund Manlius richtet, der Catullus um Trost oder Poesie gebeten hat. Catullus erkl\u00e4rt seine Unf\u00e4higkeit, Trost zu spenden oder fr\u00f6hliche Verse zu komponieren, aufgrund seiner tiefen Trauer \u00fcber den Tod seines Bruders und seines anhaltenden Leidens in der Liebe. Er ber\u00fchrt Themen wie Freundschaft, Verlust, Liebe und den Zweck der Poesie. Dies dient auch als allgemeiner Hinweis darauf, wie Dichter verschiedene menschliche Beziehungen einfangen, obwohl spezifische Gedichte f\u00fcr Neffen von Tanten<\/a> eine eigene thematische Nische darstellen.<\/p>\n

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That you send this letter to me, written with tears, to me, crushed by fate and bitter ill-fortune, that I might raise up, and return from the threshold of death one shipwrecked, cast from the foaming waves of the sea, one whom sacred Venus deprives of gentle sleep, forsaken, enduring an empty bed, not delighting in the sweet songs of the Muse of the ancient poets, lying awake all night with an anxious mind: that\u2019s pleasing to me, since you call me your friend, and search here for the gifts of the Muses and Venus. But in case my troubles aren\u2019t known to you, Manlius, or you think I dislike the duties of a friend, let me tell of waves of misfortune that I myself plunge in, lest you seek rich gifts any more from a wretched man. At that time when the first white toga was handed me, when my youth passed in flower through happy spring, I played more than enough: the goddess was not unknown to me, the work that mixed bitter with sweet. But all my studies were lost in the grief at my brother\u2019s death. O wretched, to take my brother from me: you brother, you, in dying, wrecked my good fortune, with you our whole house is buried together, with you all our joys perish in one, that your love nourished in sweet life. So that ruined in thought I forsake those studies and all the delights of the mind. Therefore, when you say that it\u2019s shameful for Catullus to be in Verona, that here someone well-known only warms cold limbs in an empty bed, it\u2019s not shameful, Manlius, my sadness is great. So pardon me if I don\u2019t bestow those gifts on you that grief takes from me, while I cannot. Since there\u2019s no great store of books here with me, it needs me to be living in Rome: there\u2019s my house, there\u2019s my place, there my time is spent: only one of my many book-boxes follows me here. since it\u2019s so, don\u2019t think I do anything with ill intent, or that I\u2019m lacking at all in noble feeling: it\u2019s on you and no other I seek to lavish riches: besides I\u2019d offer whatever riches I had.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 68b: Gedenken: an Allius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Von einigen als Fortsetzung von Gedicht 68 betrachtet, gedenkt dieses Gedicht der Freundlichkeit von Allius (oder Mallius\/Manlius), der Catullus und seiner Geliebten (wahrscheinlich Lesbia) ein Haus f\u00fcr ihre Aff\u00e4re zur Verf\u00fcgung stellte. Catullus dr\u00fcckt tiefe Dankbarkeit aus und kontrastiert Allius‘ Treue mit der Untreue anderer. Es enth\u00e4lt die ergreifende Klage um seinen toten Bruder und eine mythologische Abschweifung \u00fcber Laodamia und Protesilaus.<\/p>\n

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I can\u2019t conceal, goddesses, the things of mine Allius helped with, or how many services he\u2019s performed, lest fleeting time in forgetful ages hides this kindness of his in blind night: but I tell it to you: speak to many future thousands and let this paper speak in its old age, ……………………………………………..**<\/strong>……………………………………………..and let the dead become more and more famous, don\u2019t let the spider spinning its fine web on high perform its task on Allius\u2019s neglected name. For you know how fickle Venus would have troubled me, and in what way she might have scorched me, when I might have burned like the Sicilian rocks, or the waters of Malis at Oetaean Thermopylae, my grieving eyes not have ceased to melt with endless tears, my cheeks to have been drenched with a saddened rain. Then like a mountain stream shining on airy heights, springing from mossy rock, that, having fallen headlong from sloping valleys, passes through the midst of densely populated regions, sweet comfort to travellers\u2019 weary labour, when fierce heat splits the dried-up fields: like to a favourable wind that comes breathing lightly to the sailor tossed in the black tempest, now praying to Pollux, now imploring Castor, such was Allius\u2019s help to me. He opened the closed field with a wide path, and granted my self and my girl a house, where we carried on our mutual affair, to which my bright goddess repaired with gentle steps, set her graceful sandals on the worn threshold, rested her shining feet, as once with blazing passion Laodamia came to the house, begun in vain, of Protesilaus her husband, the sacrifice not yet appeasing the gods\u2019 love of sacred blood. Let nothing please me much, Fate, Ramnusian Virgin, that you by chance may receive unwillingly. Laodamia learnt from the loss of her husband how the hungry altar desires holy blood: she was forced to loose her new spouse\u2019s neck, before one winter, and another returning, had sated eager love with their long nights, so she might learn to live without a lost husband, whom the Fates knew would not live long if he went as a soldier to the walls of Troy. For now Helen\u2019s abduction had forced the Greek nobles to rouse their men for Troy, Troy (the evil!) a common grave for Asia and Europe, Troy the bitter ruin of men and of all virtue, have you not even brought my brother\u2019s death. Oh alas for the brother taken from me, oh alas the shining light of a brother lost, with you our whole house is buried together, with you all our joys perish in one, that your love nourished in sweet life. You who, far away, are not interred among famous tombs, nor near the ashes of the known, but vile Troy, unhappy Troy, holds your grave, in the furthest soil of an alien land. To which they say the men of Greece hurried from every side, deserting their household shrines, lest Paris, delighted, carried off at leisure, to a peaceful bed, the adulteress he\u2019d abducted. Through your misfortune, then, loveliest Laodamia your husband was taken from you, dearer to you than life and spirit: love\u2019s passion, swallowing you in a whirlpool, carried you into the steep abyss, as they say the soil of Greek Pheneus near Cyllene dried up, when the thick swamp was drained, that Hercules, the divinely-fathered, once dared to lance, in the hacked out marrow of the mountains, when his sure arrows struck the Stymphalian birds, at a worse master\u2019s command, so that the threshold of the heavens might be frequented by more gods, and Hebe might not long remain a virgin. But your deep love, that taught an untamed girl to bear the yoke, was deeper still than that abyss. Since the grandchild nursed by an only daughter, is not as dear to her father, child of his old age, that, when the child\u2019s name is barely entered in the grandfather\u2019s will, disposing of his riches, removing the scornful family\u2019s impious joy, scatters the vultures from his white head: no spouse was ever as pleasing to a white dove, that they say often sinfully gives far more kisses nipping with its beak, than any woman who beyond measure longs for as much. But you alone outdo their great passion, you who are won for ever by a golden-haired man. You to whom the light of my life conceded little or nothing in worth, when she gave herself into my lap, who often shone, with Cupid running about her, bright in his saffron tunic. Even if she\u2019s still not content with Catullus alone, I\u2019ll suffer the infrequent affairs of a shy mistress, lest I\u2019m too annoying in the manner of fools. Often even Juno, greatest of goddesses, swallows her burning anger with her spouse\u2019s sins, knowing the many affairs of all-willing Jupiter. And men are not to be compared with the gods, <\/strong>……………………………………………..**……………………………………………..<\/strong>bear the thankless burden of a worried father. Yet, led by no father\u2019s hand, she comes to me, to the house, fragrant with Assyrian perfumes, brings me the marvellous gift in the secret night, she herself, stolen away from her husband\u2019s breast. And that is enough, if that alone\u2019s granted to me, that she marks out that day with a brighter light. This then Allius, for you, what I can, a gift made of song, in return for your friendship, lest this day and that, and others on others touch your name with corrosions of rust. And let the gods add more to this, those gifts Themis once used to bring to the pious of old. May you be happy, both you and your life, both your house in which we joyed, and the lady, and he who first gave you to me, from which source all our good was born, and she, before everything, dearer to me than him, light of my life, through whose being alive, living is sweet to me.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren betreten einen Raum<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 69: Riechend: an Rufus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich an Rufus und erkl\u00e4rt, warum keine Frau ihn begehrt: Er hat einen schrecklichen Geruch (\u201eeine wilde Ziege unter den Achseln\u201c). Er r\u00e4t Rufus unverbl\u00fcmt, den Geruch loszuwerden, wenn er Frauen anziehen will.<\/p>\n

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I\u2019m not surprised as to why no girl desires to place her gentle thighs beneath you, Rufus, not if you were to weaken her with gifts of rarest dresses, the delights of clearest gems. A certain evil story wounds you: that they tell about you: that you\u2019ve a wild goat under the armpits. Everyone hates that, no wonder: since it\u2019s a truly evil-smelling beast, not one that girls bed with. So either kill the cruel plague to their noses, or cease to wonder why they run away.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 70: Frauentreue<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, zynisches Epigramm, das die Fl\u00fcchtigkeit der Versprechen einer Frau in der Liebe reflektiert. Catullus sagt, dass sein M\u00e4dchen sagt, sie w\u00fcrde nur ihn heiraten, aber solche Worte sollten so fl\u00fcchtig wie Wind oder flie\u00dfendes Wasser abgetan werden.<\/p>\n

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My girl says she\u2019d rather marry no one but me, not if Jupiter himself were to ask her. She says: but what a girl says to her eager lover, should be written on the wind and in running water.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 71: Rache<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, grobes Gedicht, das d\u00fcstere Genugtuung \u00fcber die k\u00f6rperlichen Beschwerden (K\u00f6rpergeruch und Gicht) eines Rivalen ausdr\u00fcckt, der mit seiner Geliebten zusammen ist. Catullus betrachtet ihr Leiden beim Sex als eine Form der Rache.<\/p>\n

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If a goat\u2019s smell under the arms rightly prevents anyone, or if a slow gout deservedly cripples them, your rival, who keeps your lover busy, is discovered by you to be wonderfully sick with both. Now whenever he fucks her, you\u2019re revenged on the pair: she\u2019s troubled by the smell, he\u2019s ruined by the gout.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 72: Vertrautheit: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein zentrales Gedicht im Lesbia-Zyklus, das das schmerzhafte Paradoxon von Liebe und Wertsch\u00e4tzung ausdr\u00fcckt. Catullus sagt Lesbia, dass sie durch das bessere Kennenlernen ihn paradoxerweise heftiger brennen lie\u00df, aber sie ihm weniger<\/em> wert sei. Die Vertrautheit hat den Respekt, den er einst wie ein Vater f\u00fcr seine Kinder empfand, untergraben und nur gequ\u00e4lte Leidenschaft hinterlassen.<\/p>\n

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Once you said you preferred Catullus alone, Lesbia: would not have Jupiter before me. I prized you then not like an ordinary lover, but as a father prizes his children, his family. Now I know you: so, though I burn more fiercely, yet you\u2019re worth much less to me, and slighter. How is that, you ask? The pain of such love makes a lover love more, but like less.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"Gem\u00e4ldeGem\u00e4lde mit mythologischen Figuren<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 73: Gescheiterter Freund<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine bittere Reflexion \u00fcber menschliche Undankbarkeit. Catullus r\u00e4t davon ab, zu jedem freundlich zu sein, da dies oft auf Danklosigkeit st\u00f6\u00dft. Er f\u00fchlt sich am meisten von jemandem verletzt, den er f\u00fcr seinen engsten Freund hielt, was seine Entt\u00e4uschung \u00fcber Loyalit\u00e4t veranschaulicht.<\/p>\n

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Stop wanting to be kind to all and sundry, or believing someone can become good. All are ungrateful: being generous achieves nothing, rather it wearies even, and greatly harms: so with me, whom no one oppresses as heavily, bitterly, as he who once held me to be his one and only friend.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 74: Sicherheit: an Gellius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein skandal\u00f6ses Epigramm \u00fcber Gellius, der die potenzielle Kritik seines Onkels bez\u00fcglich sexueller Angelegenheiten umgeht, indem er die Frau des Onkels verf\u00fchrt. Durch inzestu\u00f6sen Ehebruch stellt Gellius sicher, dass sein Onkel schweigt und ihn so effektiv in einen \u201estummen Harpocrates\u201c verwandelt.<\/p>\n

\n

Gellius had heard his uncle used to rebuke, anyone who performed or spoke about love\u2019s delights. To avoid this misfortune himself, he seduced his uncle\u2019s wife, and made his uncle a silent Harpocrates. What he wanted, he did: for, now though he buggered his uncle himself, his uncle would not say a word.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\"BildBild einer Statue<\/em><\/p>\n

Gedicht 75: Gekettet: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzer, kraftvoller Ausdruck der Tiefe von Catulls emotionaler Verstrickung mit Lesbia. Sein Geist ist durch ihre Fehler und seinen Dienst an ihr so verdorben und ruiniert, dass er ihr paradoxerweise nicht einmal w\u00fcnschen kann, dass es ihr gut geht, wenn sie tugendhaft w\u00e4re, noch aufh\u00f6ren kann, sie zu lieben, selbst wenn sie auf ihrem schlimmsten Punkt w\u00e4re. Er ist emotional gefangen.<\/p>\n

\n

My mind\u2019s reduced to this, by your faults, Lesbia, and has ruined itself so in your service, that now it couldn\u2019t wish you well, were you to become what\u2019s best, or stop loving you if you do what\u2019s worst.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 76: Vergangene Freundlichkeit: an die G\u00f6tter<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein herzliches Gebet an die G\u00f6tter, in dem Catullus \u00fcber seine fr\u00fchere Tugend und Treue (im Gegensatz zu Lesbias Verhalten) nachdenkt und um Erl\u00f6sung von der Qual seiner Liebe zu ihr bittet. Er erkennt die Schwierigkeit des Loslassens an, pr\u00e4sentiert es aber als seine einzige Rettung. Er bittet nicht mehr um ihre Liebe oder Keuschheit, sondern nur um Freiheit von seinem Leiden.<\/p>\n

\n

If recalling past good deeds is pleasant to a man, when he thinks himself to have been virtuous, not violating sacred ties, nor using the names of gods in any contract in order to deceive men, then there are many pleasures left to you, Catullus, in the rest of life, due to this thankless passion. Since whatever good a man can do or say to anyone, has been said and done by you. All, that entrusted to a thankless heart is lost. Why torment yourself then any longer? Why not harden your mind, and shrink from it, and cease to be unhappy, since the gods are hostile? It\u2019s difficult to suddenly let go of a former love, it\u2019s difficult, but it would gratify you to do it: That\u2019s your one salvation. That\u2019s for you to prove, for you to try, whether you can or not. O gods, if mercy is yours, or if you ever brought help to a man at the very moment of his death, gaze at my pain and, if I\u2019ve lived purely, lift this plague, this destruction from me, so that the torpor that creeps into my body\u2019s depths drives out every joy from my heart. I no longer ask that she loves me to my face, or, the impossible, that she be chaste: I choose health, and to rid myself of this foul illness. O gods, grant me this for all my kindness.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 77: Verr\u00e4ter: an Rufus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, intensives Gedicht, das Rufus, einen fr\u00fcheren Freund, des Verrats beschuldigt. Catullus empfindet, dass Rufus ihn heimt\u00fcckisch verletzt und sein Gl\u00fcck zerst\u00f6rt hat, und bezeichnet ihn als \u201egrausames Gift\u201c und \u201eVerderben meiner Freundschaft\u201c.<\/p>\n

\n

Rufus, trusted by me as a friend, uselessly and pointlessly, (Uselessly? Rather, at a great and evil price), have you crept into my life like this, and ruptured my entrails, ah alas, have you robbed me of all my good? You\u2019ve robbed me, oh cruel poison of my life, oh ruin of my friendship.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 78: Der Zuh\u00e4lter: an Gallus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, sarkastisches Epigramm \u00fcber Gallus, der eine Beziehung zwischen der Frau seines Bruders und seinem Sohn erm\u00f6glicht. Catullus nennt Gallus \u201eniedlich\u201c daf\u00fcr, dass er diese skandal\u00f6se Aff\u00e4re arrangiert, aber auch \u201edumm\u201c, weil er im Grunde Ehebruch innerhalb seiner eigenen Familie erm\u00f6glicht.<\/p>\n

\n

Gallus has brothers, of whom one has the loveliest wife the other the loveliest son. Gallus is a cute man: since he joins them as lovers, so that beautiful boy beds with beautiful girl. Gallus is a stupid man, not seeing himself as a husband, who instructs a nephew in an uncle\u2019s wife\u2019s adultery.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 78b: Unsterblichkeit<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, m\u00f6glicherweise verwandtes Fragment, das die Verunreinigung der reinen Lippen eines M\u00e4dchens durch den \u201efaulen Speichel\u201c eines Mannes beklagt. Es enth\u00e4lt eine Drohung, dass die Taten des T\u00e4ters durch die \u00dcberlieferung f\u00fcr immer in Erinnerung bleiben und blo\u00dfgestellt werden.<\/p>\n

\n

But now I grieve that your foul saliva has polluted the pure lips of a pure girl. Still you\u2019ll not do it with impunity: now all the years will know you, and ancient tradition tell what you are.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 79: Nicht so sch\u00f6n: an Lesbius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus kommentiert sarkastisch \u201eLesbius\u201c (Lesbias Bruder, wahrscheinlich Clodius Pulcher), den Lesbia sogar Catullus vorzieht. Er bemerkt, dass Lesbius vielleicht gutaussehend ist, aber sein wahres Wesen oder seine Herkunft fragw\u00fcrdig sei, was darauf hindeutet, dass er von vielen nicht als solcher anerkannt w\u00fcrde.<\/p>\n

\n

Lesbius is pretty. Why not? Since Lesbia likes him more than you and all your people, Catullus. But still let this pretty boy sell Catullus and all his people if he should find three to acknowledge his birth.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 80: Zugabe: an Gellius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein derbes und explizites Gedicht, gerichtet an Gellius, in dem gefragt wird, warum seine Lippen morgens oder sp\u00e4t am Tag blass werden. Catullus deutet an, dass die Bl\u00e4sse auf oralen sexuellen Handlungen beruht, wobei er Victors angespannt Oberschenkel und Gellius‘ Samen-markierte Lippen als Beweis anf\u00fchrt.<\/p>\n

\n

What can I say, Gellius, as to why those red lips become whiter than winter snow, when you leave your house in the morning or when the eighth hour wakes you placid and weak in the long day? It\u2019s something, for sure: perhaps rumour\u2019s whisper is true that you swallow the tall jet from a man\u2019s groin? this is for sure: Victor\u2019s strained thighs proclaim it, and your lips marked with dried semen.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 81: Seltsamer Geschmack: an Iuventius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Erneut an Iuventius gerichtet, dr\u00fcckt Catullus Unglauben dar\u00fcber aus, dass dieser einen bestimmten \u201egelblichen\u201c Gast aus Pesaro ihm selbst vorziehen w\u00fcrde. Er stellt Iuventius‘ Geschmack und Urteilsverm\u00f6gen bei der Wahl dieses Mannes in Frage.<\/p>\n

\n

Can there be no one in all these people, Iuventius, no nice man you might begin to like, besides that guest of yours, yellower than a gilded statue, from the environs of deadly Pesaro, who pleases you now, whom you dare to prefer to me, and do who knows what with?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 82: Augenschuld: an Quintius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, intensives Gedicht, das sich an Quintius richtet und ihn warnt, etwas \u201eTeureres als Augen\u201c (vermutlich Lesbia) nicht zu stehlen, wenn er m\u00f6chte, dass Catullus ihn hoch sch\u00e4tzt oder ihm sogar seine eigenen Augen schuldet. Es hebt die extreme Bedeutung hervor, die Catullus seiner Liebe beimisst.<\/p>\n

\n

Quintius, if you want Catullus to owe you his eyes or something that might be more dear than his eyes, don\u2019t steal from him what\u2019s much dearer to him than his eyes, or something dearer than eyes.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 83: Der Ehemann: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus beobachtet, wie Lesbia ihn vor ihrem Ehemann beleidigt, der sich t\u00f6richt dar\u00fcber freut. Catullus interpretiert ihr Verhalten als Zeichen anhaltend starker Gef\u00fchle und deutet an, dass sie schweigen w\u00fcrde, wenn sie ihn wirklich \u00fcberwunden h\u00e4tte. Ihre Wut zeigt, dass sie immer noch \u201eentflammt\u201c ist.<\/p>\n

\n

Lesbia says bad things about me to her husband\u2019s face: it\u2019s the greatest delight to that fool. Mule, don\u2019t you see? If she forgot and was silent about me, that would be right: now since she moans and abuses, she not only remembers, but something more serious, she\u2019s angry. That is, she\u2019s inflamed, so she speaks.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 84: Nat\u00fcrlich: an Mentula<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein sehr kurzes, derbes Epigramm, das \u201eMentula\u201c (Mamurra) mit sexueller Promiskuit\u00e4t in Verbindung bringt und besagt, dass dies einfach seine Natur sei. Das Sprichwort \u201eder Topf sucht seine eigenen Kr\u00e4uter\u201c impliziert, dass er sich nat\u00fcrlich zu Lastern hingezogen f\u00fchlt.<\/p>\n

\n

Mentula the Cock fornicates. Does a Cock fuck? For sure. That\u2019s what they say: the pot picks its own herbs.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 95: Smyrna: an Gaius Helvius Cinna<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus lobt das lange, gelehrte Gedicht \u201eSmyrna\u201c seines Freundes Cinna und weist auf die gro\u00dfe Anstrengung (neun Jahre) hin, die daf\u00fcr aufgewendet wurde. Er kontrastiert es mit der produktiven, aber schrecklichen Poesie von Volusius, dessen Werk nur zum Einpacken von Fisch taugt. Es bekr\u00e4ftigt den Wert der \u201eneuen Dichter\u201c von Qualit\u00e4t und Schliff gegen\u00fcber Quantit\u00e4t.<\/p>\n

\n

My Cinna\u2019s Smyrna<\/em> is published at last, nine summers and winters after it was begun, while from Hatria there\u2019s half a million verses a year ……………………………………………..**<\/strong>……………………………………………..**Smyrna<\/em>, reaching the deep streams of Cyprian Satrachus, white-haired centuries will long read Smyrna<\/em>. But Volusian annals will be stillborn in Padua, and often provide a limp wrapper for mackerel. Let my friend\u2019s little monument be dear to me, and the masses delight in swollen Antimachus.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 96: Jenseits des Grabes: an Gaius Licinius Calvus<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Gerichtet an seinen Freund Calvus anl\u00e4sslich des Todes von Calvus‘ Frau Quintilia. Catullus deutet an, dass, wenn Kummer die Toten erreichen kann, Quintilias Trauer \u00fcber ihren fr\u00fchen Tod durch das Wissen um Calvus‘ Liebe und Trauer um sie gemildert werden k\u00f6nnte. Es ist ein zartes Trostgedicht.<\/p>\n

\n

If anything from our grief, can reach beyond the mute grave, Calvus, and be pleasing and welcome, grief with which, in longing, we revive our lost loves, and weep for vanished friendships once known, surely Quintilia\u2019s not so much sad for her early death, as joyful for your love.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 97: Ekelhaft: an Aemilius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein h\u00f6chst beleidigender und drastischer Angriff auf Aemilius, der seinen \u00fcblen Mund beschreibt und andeutet, dass sein Anus sauberer sei. Catullus verwendet absto\u00dfende Bilder (lange Z\u00e4hne, kranke Zahnfleisch, klaffende Kiefer), um seinen Ekel zu vermitteln und zu fragen, wie irgendeine Frau mit ihm zu tun haben k\u00f6nnte.<\/p>\n

\n

I did not (may the gods love me) think it mattered, whether I might be smelling Aemilius\u2019s mouth or arse. The one\u2019s no cleaner, the other\u2019s no dirtier, in fact his arse is both cleaner and nicer: since it\u2019s no teeth. Indeed, the other has foot long teeth, gums like an old box-cart, and jaws that usually gape like the open cunt of a pissing mule on heat. He fucks lots of women, and makes himself out to be charming, and isn\u2019t set to the mill with the ass? Shouldn\u2019t we think, of any girl touching him, she\u2019s capable of licking a foul hangman\u2019s arse?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 98: Gut bewaffnet: an Victius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine weitere derbe Schm\u00e4hrede, diesmal gerichtet an Victius, den Catullus \u201eStinkend\u201c nennt. Er deutet an, dass Victius‘ Zunge so faul sei, dass sie zum Lecken schmutziger Dinge verwendet werden k\u00f6nnte, und dass allein das \u00d6ffnen seines Mundes ausreicht, um jeden zu zerst\u00f6ren.<\/p>\n

\n

About you, if anyone, Stinking Victius, can be said what they say of the verbose and fatuous. With that tongue, if the need arose, you could lick arses, and leather-soled sandals. If you want to destroy us completely, Victius, gape at us: what you desire you\u2019ll wholly achieve.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 99: Gestohlene K\u00fcsse: an Iuventius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus erz\u00e4hlt von einem gestohlenen Kuss von Iuventius, den er als zun\u00e4chst s\u00fc\u00df beschreibt, der ihm aber aufgrund von Iuventius‘ w\u00fctender Reaktion Schmerz und Bestrafung bringt. Iuventius‘ angewiderte Reaktion (Sp\u00fclen seiner Lippen) l\u00e4sst die S\u00fc\u00dfe bitter werden und lehrt Catullus eine Lektion \u00fcber unerw\u00fcnschte Zuneigung.<\/p>\n

\n

I stole a sweet kiss while you played, sweet Iuventius, one sweeter than sweetest ambrosia. Not taken indeed with impunity: for more than an hour I remember, I hung at the top of the gallows, while I was justifying myself to you, yet with my tears I couldn\u2019t lessen your anger a tiny morsel. No sooner was it done, than, your lips rinsed with plenty of water, you banished it with your fingers, so nothing contracted from my lips might remain, as though it were the foul spit of a tainted whore. More, you handed me unhappily to vicious love who\u2019s not failed to torment me in every way, so that sweet kiss, altered for me from ambrosia, was more bitter than bitter hellebore then. Since you lay down such punishments for unhappy love, now, after this, I\u2019ll never steal kisses again.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 100: Eine Wahl: an Marcus Caelius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich an Caelius (vermutlich denselben Freund aus Gedicht 58) und diskutiert zwei Paare in Verona: Caelius mit Aufilenus und Quintius mit Aufilena (Aufilenus‘ Schwester). Beide Br\u00fcder sind mit der jeweils anderen Geschwisterh\u00e4lfte des anderen Paares liiert. Catullus bevorzugt Caelius, weil er ihm w\u00e4hrend seiner leidenschaftlichen K\u00e4mpfe ein Freund war, und w\u00fcnscht ihm Erfolg in der Liebe mit Aufilenus.<\/p>\n

\n

Caelius with Aufilenus, and Quintius with Aufilena, both madly in love with the brother, the sister, the flower of Veronese youth. That as they say\u2019s truly sweet, that fellowship of brothers. Who shall I favour more? You, Caelius, since your friendship, alone, saw me through my passion, when the furious flames scorched me to the core. Be happy, Caelius, be successful in love.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 101: Ave Atque Vale: Eine Opfergabe f\u00fcr die Toten<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine zutiefst bewegende und ber\u00fchmte Elegie f\u00fcr seinen verstorbenen Bruder. Catullus beschreibt, wie er eine weite Reise unternimmt, um an den Trauerfeiern teilzunehmen und traditionelle Opfergaben f\u00fcr die stumme Asche darzubringen. Er dr\u00fcckt seine anhaltende Liebe und Trauer aus und schlie\u00dft mit dem ergreifenden Abschiedswort \u201eAve atque vale\u201c (Sei gegr\u00fc\u00dft und lebe wohl).<\/p>\n

\n

Carried over many seas, and through many nations, brother, I come to these sad funeral rites, to grant you the last gifts to the dead, and speak in vain to your mute ashes. Seeing that fate has stolen from me your very self. Ah alas, my brother, taken shamefully from me, yet, by the ancient custom of our parents, receive these sad gifts, offerings to the dead, soaked deeply with a brother\u2019s tears, and for eternity, brother: \u2018Hail and Farewell!\u2019<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 102: Geheimhaltung: an Cornelius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes Gedicht, das seinem Freund Cornelius absolute Diskretion und Vertrauensw\u00fcrdigkeit versichert. Catullus vergleicht sich mit Harpocrates, dem Gott der Stille, und betont, dass alle ihm anvertrauten Geheimnisse v\u00f6llig sicher sind.<\/p>\n

\n

If anything was ever entrusted by a friend to a silent sure one, whose loyalty of spirit is deeply known, you\u2019ll find I\u2019m equally bound by that sacred rite, Cornelius, and turned into a pure Harpocrates.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 103: Wahl: an Silo<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich an Silo und fordert die R\u00fcckgabe von zehn Sesterzen. Er gibt Silo die Wahl: entweder das Geld zur\u00fcckzugeben und so wild zu sein, wie er m\u00f6chte, oder das Geld zu behalten, aber aufzuh\u00f6ren, ein Zuh\u00e4lter zu sein und sein ungeb\u00fchrliches Verhalten einzustellen.<\/p>\n

\n

Silo, please return the ten sestertii, and then be as wild and unruly as you like: or, if you like the money, please leave off being a pander, and wild and unruly too.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 104: Monstr\u00f6s<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes Gedicht, das die Idee widerlegt, dass er schlecht \u00fcber Lesbia (\u201emein eigenes Leben\u201c), die er intensiv liebt, sprechen k\u00f6nnte. Dann wendet er sich an jemand anderen (\u201edu, mit Tappo\u201c), von dem er sagt, dass er \u201ealles Monstr\u00f6se\u201c tut, und stellt damit implizit dessen Verhalten seinem eigenen unersch\u00fctterlichen (wenn auch schmerzhaften) Hingabe gegen\u00fcber.<\/p>\n

\n

Do you think I could speak ill of my own life, she who\u2019s dearer to me than my two eyes? I couldn\u2019t, nor, if I could, would I love so desperately: but you, with Tappo, you do everything monstrous.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 105: Kein Dichter: an Mentula<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein kurzes, abf\u00e4lliges Epigramm, das Mamurra (\u201eMentula\u201c oder \u201eSchwanz\u201c) darstellt, wie er versucht, den Gipfel des Parnass (den Berg der Musen, symbolisch f\u00fcr poetisches Streben) zu erreichen, nur um von den Musen selbst gewaltsam heruntergeworfen zu werden. Es ist eine metaphorische Aussage, dass Mamurra in der wahren Poesie keinen Platz hat.<\/p>\n

\n

Mentula the Cock tries to climb the Parnassian Mount: the Muses with pitchforks toss him out, head first.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 106: Es ist offensichtlich<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Eine kurze, zynische Beobachtung \u00fcber einen Auktionator, der mit einem gutaussehenden Jungen gesehen wird. Catullus deutet an, dass der Auktionator sich oder seine Dienste (als Zuh\u00e4lter) durch die Verbindung mit dem Jungen einfach bewirbt.<\/p>\n

\n

When you see one who\u2019s an auctioneer with a pretty boy, what to think, but that he wants to advertise himself?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 107: Wieder da: an Lesbia<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein Gedicht, das immense Freude und Erleichterung \u00fcber Lesbias R\u00fcckkehr oder m\u00f6gliche R\u00fcckkehr zu ihm ausdr\u00fcckt. Catullus beschreibt unerwartetes Gl\u00fcck als die gr\u00f6\u00dfte Freude und feiert den Tag ihrer R\u00fcckkehr als den hellsten aller Tage. Es zeigt einen Moment erneuter Hoffnung in ihrer schwierigen Beziehung.<\/p>\n

\n

If anything happens to one who desires it, and wishes and never expects it, it\u2019s a special delight to the mind. Likewise, this is delight, dearer than gold, to me, that you come back to me, Lesbia, in my longing. come back, desired and un-hoped for, give yourself back to me. O day marked out with greater brightness! Who exists more happily than me, or can say that he wishes for any life greater than this?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 108: Lieber Cominius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein brutaler Wunsch nach dem Tod und der Zerst\u00fcckelung von Cominius, einer politischen Figur, die Catullus offensichtlich verachtet. Er stellt sich Geier, Raben, Hunde und W\u00f6lfe vor, die Cominius‘ K\u00f6rperteile, insbesondere seine Zunge (als Instrument des Schadens betrachtet), verschlingen.<\/p>\n

\n

If your white-haired old age, soiled by your impure ways, is ended by will of the people, Cominius, I\u2019ve no doubt, for my part, your tongue, first, the enemy of good, will be cut out, and given to eager vultures, your eyes gouged out, swallowed by black-throated ravens, your intestines by dogs, the rest of your body by wolves.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 109: Ein Gebet: an Lesbia<\/a><\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein hoffnungsvolles Gedicht, das Lesbias Erkl\u00e4rung aufzeichnet, dass ihre Liebe ewig sein wird. Catullus betet zu den G\u00f6ttern, dass sie aufrichtig und wahrheitsgem\u00e4\u00df ist und w\u00fcnscht sich, dass ihre Freundschaft und Liebe ihr ganzes Leben lang Bestand haben. Es ist ein ber\u00fchrender Moment des Glaubens inmitten des oft turbulenten Zyklus.<\/p>\n

\n

You declare that this love of ours will be happy, mea vita<\/em>, and eternal between us. Great gods, let it be that she promises truthfully, and says it sincerely, and from her heart, so we may extend, through the whole of our life, this endless bond of sacred friendship.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 110: Kein Betrug: an Aufilena<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich an Aufilena und diskutiert das erwartete Verhalten einer Geliebten oder Prostituierten. Er kontrastiert eine \u201egerechte\u201c Geliebte, die ihre Bezahlung annimmt, mit Aufilena, die offenbar Versprechen gebrochen hat und nur nimmt, was er f\u00fcr schlimmer als eine gew\u00f6hnliche Prostituierte h\u00e4lt.<\/p>\n

\n

Aufilena, just mistresses are always praised: they accept their reward, for what they agree to. You, who promised, dishonestly hostile, to me, who don\u2019t give but just take, you do wrong. To carry it through would be fine, Aufilena, not to promise is chaste: but to snatch at what\u2019s given in fraudulent service, is worse than the greediest whore who offers herself with her whole body.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 111: Vorzuziehen: an Aufilena<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein weiteres Gedicht, das sich an Aufilena richtet und ihr Verhalten mit dem einer Braut vergleicht. Er erkl\u00e4rt, dass der Ruhm einer Braut in der Treue zu einem Mann liegt, es aber f\u00fcr Aufilena vorzuziehen sei, mit vielen M\u00e4nnern zu schlafen, als Kinder mit ihrem Onkel zu haben (\u201eMutter ihrer Cousins von ihrem Onkel\u201c), was auf m\u00f6glichen Inzest in ihrer Familie hindeutet.<\/p>\n

\n

To live content with one man, Aufilena, is the glory of highest glories for a bride: but its better to sleep with whoever she likes, than be mother of her cousins by her uncle.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 112: An Naso<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein sehr kurzes, pr\u00e4gnantes Epigramm, das Naso als \u201eviel Mann\u201c in Bezug auf seine Gr\u00f6\u00dfe bezeichnet, aber auch als \u201ePathiker\u201c (der m\u00e4nnliche sexuelle Aufmerksamkeit erh\u00e4lt), was einen Kontrast oder vielleicht ein Wortspiel in Bezug auf seine Gr\u00f6\u00dfe und sexuelle Rolle andeutet.<\/p>\n

\n

You\u2019re a lot of man, Naso, but lots of men wouldn\u2019t stoop to you: Naso, a lot of man and a pathic.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 113: Fruchtbar: an Gaius Helvius Cinna<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> An Cinna gerichtet, beobachtet Catullus den grassierenden Ehebruch, an dem eine Frau namens Maecilia beteiligt ist. Er stellt fest, dass im ersten Konsulat des Pompeius nur zwei M\u00e4nner mit ihr liiert waren, aber im zweiten Konsulat hat sich diese Zahl um tausend vervielfacht, was er sarkastisch als \u201eden fruchtbaren Samen des Ehebruchs\u201c bezeichnet.<\/p>\n

\n

In Pompey\u2019s first Consulate two men frequented Maecilia, Cinna: now he is Consul again those two remain, but each one\u2019s increased by a thousand. The fruitful seed of adultery.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 114: Fata Morgana: an Mentula<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus verspottet Mamurra (\u201eMentula\u201c) f\u00fcr seine riesigen L\u00e4ndereien bei Firmum, die angeblich reich an Ressourcen sind. Catullus behauptet jedoch, dass Mamurras Ausgaben seine Einnahmen \u00fcbersteigen, was seinen Reichtum zu einer Illusion macht. Er ist reich an Besitzt\u00fcmern, aber arm an Realit\u00e4t.<\/p>\n

\n

They say, no lie, that Mentula the Cock is rich with the pastures of Firmum, full of good things, fowling of every kind, fish, meadows, fields and game. In vain: his income\u2019s surpassed by his costs. So, I concede he\u2019s rich, while everything\u2019s lacking. lets praise the pastures, so long as he\u2019s in want.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 115: Bedrohung: an Mentula<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Ein weiterer Angriff auf Mamurras \u00fcbertriebenen Reichtum und L\u00e4ndereien. Catullus listet die verschiedenen Teile seines Anwesens auf, kommt aber zu dem Schluss, dass Mamurra selbst der \u201eGr\u00f6\u00dfte von allen\u201c ist, nicht als Mann, sondern als \u201egro\u00dfer vorstehender Schwanz\u201c, wobei er seinen Spitznamen f\u00fcr eine letzte derbe Beleidigung im Zusammenhang mit seiner angeblichen sexuellen Potenz oder seinem k\u00f6rperlichen Erscheinungsbild verwendet.<\/p>\n

\n

Mentula\u2019s good for thirty acres of meadows, forty of fields: the rest of it\u2019s marsh. Why shouldn\u2019t he exceed Croesus in riches, one who possesses so many assets, in land, meadows, fields, vast woods and pastures and pools as far as the Hyperboreans, and Ocean\u2019s seas? All this is great, but he\u2019s the greatest of all, not a man, but, in truth, a great projecting Cock.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Gedicht 116: Das letzte Wort: an Gellius<\/h3>\n

Kommentar:<\/em> Catullus wendet sich zum letzten Mal in der Sammlung an Gellius. Er erkl\u00e4rt, dass er in Erw\u00e4gung gezogen hat, ihm Kallimachos‘ Gedichte zu schicken, in der Hoffnung, ihn zu bes\u00e4nftigen, aber nun erkennt, dass dies angesichts von Gellius‘ feindseliger Natur sinnlos war. Catullus schlie\u00dft damit, dass er Gellius‘ Angriffen ausweichen wird, verspricht aber, dass Gellius in seinen eigenen Versen bestraft und negativ verewigt wird.<\/p>\n

\n

I\u2019ve often been searching around, my busy mind hunting, as to how I could send you Callimachus\u2019s poems, so they\u2019d soften you towards me, so you\u2019d not try to land your hostile shafts on my head, now I see I\u2019ve troubled myself in vain, Gellius, my good intentions were worthless. I\u2019ll evade the shafts of yours you fire at me, but you\u2019ll be punished, fixed for ever by mine. Note: Fragments I-III are not translated and regarded as spurious.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Die bleibende Stimme des Catullus<\/h2>\n

Die Erkundung des Catullus durch Catulls Gedichte in \u00dcbersetzung<\/strong> erm\u00f6glicht es uns, eine Stimme aus der Antike zu verbinden, die \u00fcberraschend modern wirkt. Seine Bereitschaft, sich mit der Komplexit\u00e4t menschlicher Beziehungen auseinanderzusetzen, von leidenschaftlicher Liebe und tiefer Trauer bis hin zu kleinlichen Rivalit\u00e4ten und vernichtender Sozialkritik, unterscheidet ihn von vielen seiner Zeitgenossen.<\/p>\n

Sein Einfluss auf sp\u00e4tere Dichter, sowohl r\u00f6mische als auch andere, ist unbestreitbar. Von den Elegikern wie Properz und Tibull bis zu Renaissance-Schriftstellern und modernen Lyrikern hat Catulls pers\u00f6nlicher, intensiver und oft transgressiver Stil unz\u00e4hlige K\u00fcnstler inspiriert. \u00dcbersetzungen wie die hier vorgestellte sind unerl\u00e4sslich, um diese kraftvolle Stimme am Leben und zug\u00e4nglich zu halten und zu zeigen, dass sich Sprachen zwar \u00e4ndern m\u00f6gen, der Kern menschlicher Emotionen und Erfahrungen, so lebhaft von Catullus eingefangen, jedoch ewig bleibt.<\/p>\n

Referenzen<\/h2>\n

Translations by A. S. Kline \u00a9 Copyright 2001 All Rights Reserved, from Poetry in Translation (www.poetryintranslation.com).<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Gaius Valerius Catullus, ein r\u00f6mischer Dichter, der im turbulenten Zeitalter der sp\u00e4ten Republik schrieb, hinterlie\u00df eine Sammlung von Versen, die<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":9072,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13803","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-gedichte","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-25"],"lang":"de","translations":{"de":13803,"en":9071,"fr":13277,"es":13483},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13803","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13803"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13803\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/9072"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13803"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13803"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/de\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13803"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}