A Poem for a Rainy Day

I have always had a fondness for the written word, and I don't know if this was some part of my nature instilled in me by some Creator, or impressed upon me by watching my father and sister with their noses in books, deep in thought, or laughing, or crying, as the words touched some part of them.

My father took Latin in high school and college, and my sister studied it in high school. My father used it professionally, my sister won awards in the subject. My ability to retain it and use it daily never rivalled my father's, and my technical expertise never approached that of my sister, but I loved every frustrating moment of it. I cut my teeth as millions before me had on Caesar's Gallic Wars. In an attempt to be erudite I read Cicero, whose wit and am wisdom I desired to possess. In college, my senior thesis was based on arguing a point from Tacitus' Agricola.

My ability to translate a text hasn't survived the passing of time. I can still read a little without assistance, but not much. Some things that have survived are scraps of poetry we memorized in college. Before each lesson, my Oxford-trained professor would write a few lines on the chalk board and read them aloud, with the proper meter, rhyme and scholastic pronunciation (I still cringe at times when I hear ecclesiastical Latin - it sounds odd).

One of those poems was from Catullus. Being a hopeless romantic with innumerable failed and unrequited loves, the poem appealled to me.

Miser Catulle, dēsinās ineptīre,
et quod vidēs perīsse perditum dūcās.

Fulsēre quondam candidī tibī sōlēs,
cum ventitābās quō puella ducēbat
amāta nōbīs quantum amābitur nūlla.
Ibi illa multa cum iocosa fiebant,
quae tū volebas nec puella nolebat,
fulsēre vērē candidī tibī sōlēs.
Nunc iam illa nōn vult: tu quoque impotēns nōlī,
nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vīve,
sed obstinātā mente perfer, obdūrā.
Valē puella. Iam Catullus obdūrat,
nec tē requīret nec rogābit invītam.

At tū dolebis, cum rogāberis nūlla.
Scelesta, vae tē! quae tibī manet vīta?
Quis nunc tē adībit? Cui vidēberis bella?
Quem nunc amābis? Cuius esse dīcēris?
Quem bāsiābis? Cui labella mordēbis?
At tū, Catulle, dēstinātus obdūrā.

Translated, it reads -

Wretched Catullus, cease being foolish,
And what you see to have been destroyed, think it to have
been wasted.
Bright suns once shined for you,
when you were often going where the girl was leading
having been loved by us as much as no girl will be loved;
at that time when many playful moments were being made,
which you were wanting nor the girl was rejecting,
truly the bright suns shined for you.
Now no longer that girl wants: you also, don’t be powerless,
nor chase she who flees, nor wretchedly live,
but persist by a resolute mind, hold out.
Goodbye, lady. Now Catullus endures
neither will he seek you again nor will he ask you against your will.
But you will sorry, when you will be asked by no one.
Oh wicked girl, woe to you, what life remains for you?
Who now will come to you? To who will you seem beautiful?
Who now will you love? Whose will you be said to be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, having thus resolved, endure.