Catullus: Odi et amo (translated from the Latin)
I hate and love: it may seem strange to you,
but I am crucified between the two.
Life
You start out young and strong and bold
and end up doing as you're told.
Victory
The victor triumphing recounts
(lest pride should mar his fame),
"It's not to win or lose that counts;
it's how you play the game."
But losers, when they drown their shame
in truth-provoking booze,
will groan, "Fuck how you play the game:
it's whether you win or lose."
Barb
I essayed a lampoon
to skewer this buffoon
but ended in frustration,
since there's no rhyme for asshole.
Barb 2
Though it's true there's no precise
rhyme for that not very nice
term of insult (you could pass whole
hours trying to rhyme that crass hole
fruitlessly), yet be assured
he certainly deserves that word,
since whether he sings high or basso,
he still remains a dreadful asso.
Archilochus: The shield (translated from the Greek) (version 1)
Some Thracian soldier's got my shield;
I tossed it when I ran away.
So fuck the shield. I'll get one new
and fight again another day.
Archilochus: The shield (translated from the Greek) (version 2)
I jettisoned my gear
when I ran from the recent strife,
so I'm out the price of a shield:
not much to pay for your life.
Kathemeripoiesis
It's fine to write a poem a day,
provided you throw them all away.
The Marquis de Sade
The Marquis de Sade
was decidedly odd.
He provides some diversion
if you share his perversion.
Else better let be
that appalling Marquis.
The Construction of Sexuality in Classical Antiquity
An ancient Roman bard, or vates,
highly praised his puer's nates.
But since this poet was the doer,
he counts as straight, unlike the puer.
Callimachus: Credo (translated from the Greek)
I hate political poems. Not for me,
the human wad that clogs the great high way.
A love that's everyone's business? Forget it. A drink
from the common trough? No, thanks. The public: yuck.
Callimachus: Heracleitus (translated from the Greek)
The news you were gone, Heracleitus, brought me to tears:
I remembered how many twilights we'd worn out together,
talking the sun to his rest. And now, I suppose,
you are nothing but dust, old friend, in your home far away.
But your nightingales are singing, too quick for the touch
even of death who robs us of everything.
On the death of an enemy
Unjust, that this will happen to me too,
who am so much a better man than you.
===========================
Jon Corelis
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www.geocities.com/jgcorelis
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