Rogue Classicism

January 1, seen through the pages of Ovid's Fasti (1.79 ff as seen via Tony Kline's online translation):

See how Janus appears first in my song
To announce a happy year for you, Germanicus.
Two-headed Janus, source of the silently gliding year,
The only god who is able to see behind him,
Be favourable to the leaders, whose labours win
Peace for the fertile earth, peace for the seas:
Be favourable to the senate and Roman people,
And with a nod unbar the shining temples.
A prosperous day dawns: favour our thoughts and speech!
Let auspicious words be said on this auspicious day.
Let our ears be free of lawsuits then, and banish
Mad disputes now: you, malicious tongues, cease wagging!
See how the air shines with fragrant fire,
And Cilician grains crackle on lit hearths!
The flame beats brightly on the temple’s gold,
And spreads a flickering light on the shrine’s roof.
Spotless garments make their way to Tarpeian Heights,
And the crowd wear the colours of the festival:
Now the new rods and axes lead, new purple glows,
And the distinctive ivory chair feels fresh weight.
Heifers that grazed the grass on Faliscan plains,
Unbroken to the yoke, bow their necks to the axe.
When Jupiter watches the whole world from his hill,
Everything that he sees belongs to Rome.
Hail, day of joy, and return forever, happier still,
Worthy to be cherished by a race that rules the world.

Here's the Latin (via the Latin Library):

Ecce tibi faustum, Germanice, nuntiat annum
inque meo primum carmine Ianus adest.
Iane biceps, anni tacite labentis origo,
solus de superis qui tua terga vides,
dexter ades ducibus, quorum secura labore
otia terra ferax, otia pontus habet:
dexter ades patribusque tuis populoque Quirini,
et resera nutu candida templa tuo.
prospera lux oritur: linguis animisque favete;
nunc dicenda bona sunt bona verba die.
lite vacent aures, insanaque protinus absint
iurgia: differ opus, livida turba, tuum.
cernis odoratis ut luceat ignibus aether,
et sonet accensis spica Cilissa focis?
flamma nitore suo templorum verberat aurum,
et tremulum summa spargit in aede iubar.
vestibus intactis Tarpeias itur in arces,
et populus festo concolor ipse suo est,
iamque novi praeeunt fasces, nova purpura fulget,
et nova conspicuum pondera sentit ebur.
colla rudes operum praebent ferienda iuvenci,
quos aluit campis herba Falisca suis.
Iuppiter arce sua totum cum spectet in orbem,
nil nisi Romanum quod tueatur habet.
salve, laeta dies, meliorque revertere semper,
a populo rerum digna potente coli.

Felix etc., all.

I'm up tonight reading Susan's essays on photography.



Susan Sontag, dead at 71

Poetry Despises Your Attempts at Domesticity

The vacuum’s one lung stiffens, aged,
it puffs too tightly.
                           It needs rest, Poetry says.
God bless her insistence: Ignore your aunts,
their plumage, their hospital corners, bleached
toilet bowls. The house aches. It has no gleaming
underside. It wants you to see it
for what it is, not for what it needs.
                           And what is it? You’ve forgotten.
A collection of smeared prints, the daily rigor
of staying, a blessing of dust.
And now you remember what the house was to you
as a child: a giant full-skirted woman, it gathered you in,
squatted like a nesting bird, loved you with its hovering vigilance.
And you loved it, heated duct work, squealing pipes,
because it could always stand, walk away, revealing you
and your family for what you are,
a knot, huddled, bare,
                           a circle of pale backs turned to the cold.


-- Julianna Baggott