He seems as fortunate as the gods who
sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens
close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness
murmur in love and
laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;
sets my heart trembling in my breast.
For when I look at you for a moment, the voice dies,
I can say nothing,
but my lips are stricken to silence, underneath
my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
muted in thunder.
And the sweat breaks running upon me,
a trembling seizes me all over, I am greener
than grass, and it seems to me that
I am little short of dying.
Tagged ancient poetry, body, gods, hearing, Longinus, love, on sublimity, sappho, sight, soul, tongue, Translated by David A. Campbell, Translated by Richmond Lattimore |
The nightingale hath no repose
For joy that ruby blooms the rose;
Long time it is that Philomel
Hath loved like me the rosy dell.
‘Tis sure no wonder if I sing
Both night and day my fair sweeting:
Let me be slave to that bird’s tongue
Who late the rose’s praise hath sung!
O saki, when the days commence
Of ruby roses, abstinence
By none is charged; then pour me wine
Like yonder rose incarnadine.
Butterflies ride a flower
under wings that grew
from the water’s song.
They dress in dreams
the wind cuts with a knife
along the sidewalks of the moon.
The breasts of butterflies are perfumed
by their secret liaisons with the sun.
They age gazing at the stars
owned by a vagabond.
They drink the rainbow that crossed
the back of a child in full flight.
When butterflies die
they migrate to your soul.
Roxana Miranda Rupailaf
A sun without rays
spills on green mist.
The shaded riverside
dreams at the pace of a boat
and the unavoidable
bell measures melancholy.
In my spent soul
the sound of a small
Federico Garcia Lorca
The stars shone…as if they were zero signs
written in the sky
which was like a hide black with the ink of darkness,
with the Moon as a piece of chalk,
by the Creator reckoning the extent of the universe,
because of the total emptiness (of the universe)
Drink deep, boy-lover. Bacchus, bringer of
Oblivion, will soothe your hopeless love.
Drink deep, and as you drain the wine-ﬁlled bowl
Purge all the bitter anguish from your soul.