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ἵνα μαθὼν αὐτὸ ἀποθάνω
I was asked a few nights ago what I loved about Sappho and I realized I couldn't answer that question without translating her, which is not a thing I do best at three in the morning while half-asleep (though it could be argued there is no better time, especially if what you are trying to translate is the fragment about the moon and the Pleiades or the one about Anaktoria and the most beautiful thing or the one which is a prayer to Aphrodite and her sparrows, the poet asking once again: fight at my side, goddess, stand with me). I often find it difficult to write about people I love because I do not want to get them wrong; it's easy to compress someone into a character sketch, the two or three details that make the best story, a mask to hang their name on. I did not always believe I was so unreliable, but then I picked up this philosopher on my shoulder and even actual Wittgenstein went through periods of being intensely skeptical that language could communicate anything at all. So with writers, perhaps I think it's most accurate if I let them speak for themselves, which of course is no use here if the listener doesn't know classical Greek.
δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληΐαδες, μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, παρὰ δ’ ἔρχετ’ ὤρα,
ἐγὼ δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.
The moon has sunk down
and the Pleiades, it is mid-
night, and the hours go by
and I lie alone.
I translate those four lines a little differently each time and none of them is correct. I have still said nothing about Sappho, about whom we know almost nothing that is not drawn from her poems, even the name that is supposed to belong to her daughter, Kleis. Lyric poets speak in the first person, so intimately observed that it is almost irresistible to imagine their work as autobiography, as ancient commentators took it. Anakreon had a boyfriend named Bykchis, Archilochos gave classical heroism the two-fingered salute and left his shield on a battlefield in Thrace. Sappho was born on the island of Lesbos, in the city of Eressos, a little earlier than 620 BCE; it is said that she died around 570. She was almost certainly not the wife of Kerkylos of Andros, as the tenth-century Suda would have it, because the name means "Big Prick from Man Island." It is equally unlikely that she killed herself for love of a boatman named Phaon, although there is a very good essay by Greg Nagy examining what about the story (beyond an affirmation of her heterosexuality, as the purported name of her husband plays on her traditionally identified sexual preferences—the poems speak of desire for men and women both; more often women) resonated with the ancient world. Violet-plaited holy honey-smiling Sappho, her contemporary Alkaios called her, ἰόπλοκ᾽ ἄγνα μελλιχόμειδε Σάπφοι. An epigram attributed to Plato runs:
Ἐννέα τὰς Μούσας φασίν τινες. ὡς ὀλιγώρως.
ἢν ἰδέ· καὶ Σαπφὼ Λεσβόθεν, ἡ δεκάτη.
Some say there are nine Muses. How careless of them.
Look: there is also Sappho from Lesbos, the tenth.
Even that is only her name in Attic Greek. What they spoke on Lesbos in the seventh century was Aeolic Greek, which sounded so strange to Plato and his fellow-citizens that a character in one of his dialogues even labels it barbarian, the ultimate term of cultural dismissal (βάρβαροι, people who don't even have a real language, just flaps of nonsense syllables), and indeed, if you have been brought up like most classical scholars nowadays on the Greek of fifth-century Athens, you stare at your first page of Sappho and wonder what the hell. All the stresses are pushed forward, half the vowels have softened and darkened into alpha; there are no rough breathing marks, but older letters like digamma (ϝ) hang on at the beginnings of words that in all other Greek dialects lost them long ago. Betas bubble up in front of words beginning with rho. The hard taps of tau are suddenly plosive pi's. Moon in Attic Greek is σελήνη. On Lesbos, it's σελάννα. The poet's name on her own tongue was Ψάπφω, Psáppho. There's a word to hold in your mouth. There is nothing sighing about it. She is direct about what she loves.
ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ’ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν
ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιστον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ-
τω τις ἔραται·
πά]γχυ δ’ εὔμαρες σύνετον πόησαι
π]άντι τ[ο]ῦτ’, ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περσκέθοισα
κάλλος [ἀνθ]ρώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα
τὸν [πανάρ]ιστον
καλλ[ίπο]ισ' ἔβα ’ς Τροΐαν πλέοι[σα
κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδος οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων
πάμπαν ἐμνάσθη, ἀλλὰ παράγαγ' αὔταν
] σαν
]αμπτον γὰρ [
] . . . κούφως τ[. . .]οησ[.]ν
. . .]με νῦν Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]νέμναι-
σ’ οὐ ] παρεοίσας,
τᾶ]ς κε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα
κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προσώπω
ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα κἀν ὄπλοισι
πεσδομ]άχεντας.
Some say a host of horse, or a host of soldiers,
or a host of ships is on all the dark earth
the most beautiful thing, but I say it is just
whatever a person loves,
and this is a thing that is easy for everyone
to understand, because the woman who so outshone
the human race in beauty, Helen,
left her husband,
the best in all ways, and went sailing to Troy
with never a thought for her child
or her dear parents at all, but . . .
led her astray . . .
. . . for . . .
. . . . lightly . . .
reminds me now of Anaktoria
who is not here,
and I would rather have her lovely step
and the bright gleam of her face to look on
than Lydian chariots and soldiers
with all their gear.
The voice of the poems is a woman who speaks fearlessly to gods. Aphrodite might be another friend or lover, a trusted confidante, wryly familiar with the trials of the poet's heart; she could break it by proxy if she chose.
ποικιλόθρον’ ἀθανάτ’ Ἀφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε,
μή μ’ ἄσαισι μηδ’ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον,
ἀλλὰ τυίδ’ ἔλθ’, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα
τὰς ἔμας αὔδας ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες
ἄρμ’ ὐπασδεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ’ ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δίννεντες πτέρ’ ἀπ’ ὠράνωἴθε-
ρος διὰ μέσσω·
αἶψα δ’ ἐξίκοντο· σὺ δ’, ὦ μάκαιρα,
μειδιαίσαισ’ ἀθανάτωι προσώπῳ
ἤρε’ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημμι
κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω
ἄψ σ' ἄγην ἐς ϝὰν φιλότατα; τίς σ’, ὦ
Ψάπφ’, ἀδικήει;
καὶ γ[ὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ’, ἀλλὰ δώσει·
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει
κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.
ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον· σὺ δ’ αὔτα
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.
Dapple-throned deathless Aphrodite,
deception-plaiting child of Zeus, I pray you
do not break with aches and sorrows,
lady, my heart,
but come here, if ever once before
you heard my voice from far away
and listened and left your father's house
of gold and came
with your chariot yoked: and they drew you
over the dark earth, the beautiful swift sparrows,
their dense wings whirring skydown
through the mid-air,
suddenly come here: and you, blessed one,
with a smile on your immortal face
were asking me what now I suffered and why now
I was calling out
and what I most wanted to happen
in my crazy heart: "Whom now should I charm
to take you back into her love? Who,
Sappho, is doing you wrong?
If she flees now, she will soon be the pursuer,
if she refuses gifts, she will give them instead,
and if she does not love, she will love soon
even unwillingly."
Come now to me and loose me from painful
care, and all that my heart desires,
see it through: be yourself
the fighter at my side.
δεῦρύ μ’ ἐκ Κρήτας ἐπ[ὶ τόνδ]ε ναῦον
ἄγνον ὄππ[ᾳ τοι] χάριεν μὲν ἄλσος
μαλί[αν], βῶμοι δὲ τεθυμιάμε-
νοι [λι]βανώτῷ·
ἐν δ’ ὔδωρ ψῦχρον κελάδει δι’ ὔσδων
μαλίνων, βρόδοισι δὲ παῖς ὀ χῶρος
ἐσκίαστ’, αἰθυσσομένων δὲ φύλλων
κῶμα καταίρει·
ἐν δὲ λείμων ἰππόβοτος τέθαλεν
ἠρίνοισιν ἄνθεσιν, αἰ δ’ ἄηται
μέλλιχα πνέοισιν . . .
. . .
ἔνθα δὴ σὺ . . . ἔλοισα Κύπρι
χρυσίαισιν ἐν κυλίκεσσιν ἄβρως
ὀμμεμείχμενον θαλίαισι νέκταρ
οἰνοχόαισον
Come here to me from Crete to this holy
shrine, where there is a graceful grove
of apple trees for you and altars smoking
with incense,
and cool water echoes through the apple-
branches and the whole place is shadowed
with roses, and from the light-moving leaves
slumber comes down:
here, a horse-grazed meadow has come into bloom
with spring flowers and the breezes
blow honey-sweet . . .
. . .
there you, Kypris, take up . . .
and gracefully pour out into golden
wine-bowls nectar mixed with
celebration . . .
These are what I think of as work-print translations: I am trying not to get in the poet's way. I have no idea if the technique works or if I am only making her sound simple when what I want is the directness, the clear-voiced (λιγύφωνος) passion and the honesty of the images, because she does not cut away to blowing curtains when what she wants us to feel is the frenzy in her skin.
φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει
καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ’ ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν,
ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ’ ἴδω βρόχε’ ὤς με φώναι-
σ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει,
ἀλλ’ ἄκαν μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε λέπτον
δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ὄρημμ’, ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ’ ἄκουαι,
κὰδ δέ μ’ ἴδρως ψῦχρος ἔχει, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ’ ὀλίγω ’πιδεύης
φαίνομ’ ἔμ’ αὔτ[ᾳ.
ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον ἐπεὶ . . .
He seems as good as a god to me,
that man who sits across from you
sweetly speaking, who listens
so close to you
laughing with desire—truly
it catches the heart in my breast,
because if I look just once at you,
then I cannot speak,
my tongue breaks, and all at once
a delicate fire races underneath my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears
are a whirling hum
and a cold sweat holds me down, shivering
grips me, I am greener than grass
and as far as I know anything,
all but dead.
But it all must be dared, since . . .
Ἔρος δ’ ἐτίναξέ μοι
φρένας, ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.
Love shook my
thoughts, like wind falling on oak-trees on the mountain.
ἠράμαν μὲν ἔγω σέθεν, Ἄτθι, πάλαι ποτά . . .
σμίκρα μοι πάις ἔμμεν’ ἐφαίνεο κἄχαρις.
I loved you, Atthis, once a long time ago . . .
You seemed a small child to me and graceless.
I started this post at three in the morning and I was half-asleep by the end of it. By afternoon, it's still such a slight selection of her surviving work; what we have are so many fragments, scattered throughout the arguments of ancient authors or disinterred from papyri in the desert. She speaks so strongly out of the past and yet no one can get a hold on her: I am sure some nineteenth-century scholar tried with results I don't want to know about, but it is impossible to imagine filling in more than the lacunae of a few letters, writing the rest of the poem around an image as spare and arresting as a beautiful child with a form like golden flowers or as the sweet apple blushes on the highest branch. There's no hymn to Aphrodite that can make her notice any of us. Myself included. She became what she wrote.
Ἔρος δηὖτέ μ’ ὀ λυσιμέλης δόνει,
γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον.
Eros the limb-loosener drives me once again,
sweetbitter, irresistible, stealing.
δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληΐαδες, μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, παρὰ δ’ ἔρχετ’ ὤρα,
ἐγὼ δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.
The moon has sunk down
and the Pleiades, it is mid-
night, and the hours go by
and I lie alone.
I translate those four lines a little differently each time and none of them is correct. I have still said nothing about Sappho, about whom we know almost nothing that is not drawn from her poems, even the name that is supposed to belong to her daughter, Kleis. Lyric poets speak in the first person, so intimately observed that it is almost irresistible to imagine their work as autobiography, as ancient commentators took it. Anakreon had a boyfriend named Bykchis, Archilochos gave classical heroism the two-fingered salute and left his shield on a battlefield in Thrace. Sappho was born on the island of Lesbos, in the city of Eressos, a little earlier than 620 BCE; it is said that she died around 570. She was almost certainly not the wife of Kerkylos of Andros, as the tenth-century Suda would have it, because the name means "Big Prick from Man Island." It is equally unlikely that she killed herself for love of a boatman named Phaon, although there is a very good essay by Greg Nagy examining what about the story (beyond an affirmation of her heterosexuality, as the purported name of her husband plays on her traditionally identified sexual preferences—the poems speak of desire for men and women both; more often women) resonated with the ancient world. Violet-plaited holy honey-smiling Sappho, her contemporary Alkaios called her, ἰόπλοκ᾽ ἄγνα μελλιχόμειδε Σάπφοι. An epigram attributed to Plato runs:
Ἐννέα τὰς Μούσας φασίν τινες. ὡς ὀλιγώρως.
ἢν ἰδέ· καὶ Σαπφὼ Λεσβόθεν, ἡ δεκάτη.
Some say there are nine Muses. How careless of them.
Look: there is also Sappho from Lesbos, the tenth.
Even that is only her name in Attic Greek. What they spoke on Lesbos in the seventh century was Aeolic Greek, which sounded so strange to Plato and his fellow-citizens that a character in one of his dialogues even labels it barbarian, the ultimate term of cultural dismissal (βάρβαροι, people who don't even have a real language, just flaps of nonsense syllables), and indeed, if you have been brought up like most classical scholars nowadays on the Greek of fifth-century Athens, you stare at your first page of Sappho and wonder what the hell. All the stresses are pushed forward, half the vowels have softened and darkened into alpha; there are no rough breathing marks, but older letters like digamma (ϝ) hang on at the beginnings of words that in all other Greek dialects lost them long ago. Betas bubble up in front of words beginning with rho. The hard taps of tau are suddenly plosive pi's. Moon in Attic Greek is σελήνη. On Lesbos, it's σελάννα. The poet's name on her own tongue was Ψάπφω, Psáppho. There's a word to hold in your mouth. There is nothing sighing about it. She is direct about what she loves.
ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ’ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν
ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιστον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ-
τω τις ἔραται·
πά]γχυ δ’ εὔμαρες σύνετον πόησαι
π]άντι τ[ο]ῦτ’, ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περσκέθοισα
κάλλος [ἀνθ]ρώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα
τὸν [πανάρ]ιστον
καλλ[ίπο]ισ' ἔβα ’ς Τροΐαν πλέοι[σα
κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδος οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων
πάμπαν ἐμνάσθη, ἀλλὰ παράγαγ' αὔταν
] σαν
]αμπτον γὰρ [
] . . . κούφως τ[. . .]οησ[.]ν
. . .]με νῦν Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]νέμναι-
σ’ οὐ ] παρεοίσας,
τᾶ]ς κε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα
κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προσώπω
ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα κἀν ὄπλοισι
πεσδομ]άχεντας.
Some say a host of horse, or a host of soldiers,
or a host of ships is on all the dark earth
the most beautiful thing, but I say it is just
whatever a person loves,
and this is a thing that is easy for everyone
to understand, because the woman who so outshone
the human race in beauty, Helen,
left her husband,
the best in all ways, and went sailing to Troy
with never a thought for her child
or her dear parents at all, but . . .
led her astray . . .
. . . for . . .
. . . . lightly . . .
reminds me now of Anaktoria
who is not here,
and I would rather have her lovely step
and the bright gleam of her face to look on
than Lydian chariots and soldiers
with all their gear.
The voice of the poems is a woman who speaks fearlessly to gods. Aphrodite might be another friend or lover, a trusted confidante, wryly familiar with the trials of the poet's heart; she could break it by proxy if she chose.
ποικιλόθρον’ ἀθανάτ’ Ἀφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε,
μή μ’ ἄσαισι μηδ’ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον,
ἀλλὰ τυίδ’ ἔλθ’, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα
τὰς ἔμας αὔδας ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες
ἄρμ’ ὐπασδεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ’ ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δίννεντες πτέρ’ ἀπ’ ὠράνωἴθε-
ρος διὰ μέσσω·
αἶψα δ’ ἐξίκοντο· σὺ δ’, ὦ μάκαιρα,
μειδιαίσαισ’ ἀθανάτωι προσώπῳ
ἤρε’ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημμι
κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω
ἄψ σ' ἄγην ἐς ϝὰν φιλότατα; τίς σ’, ὦ
Ψάπφ’, ἀδικήει;
καὶ γ[ὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ’, ἀλλὰ δώσει·
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει
κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.
ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον· σὺ δ’ αὔτα
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.
Dapple-throned deathless Aphrodite,
deception-plaiting child of Zeus, I pray you
do not break with aches and sorrows,
lady, my heart,
but come here, if ever once before
you heard my voice from far away
and listened and left your father's house
of gold and came
with your chariot yoked: and they drew you
over the dark earth, the beautiful swift sparrows,
their dense wings whirring skydown
through the mid-air,
suddenly come here: and you, blessed one,
with a smile on your immortal face
were asking me what now I suffered and why now
I was calling out
and what I most wanted to happen
in my crazy heart: "Whom now should I charm
to take you back into her love? Who,
Sappho, is doing you wrong?
If she flees now, she will soon be the pursuer,
if she refuses gifts, she will give them instead,
and if she does not love, she will love soon
even unwillingly."
Come now to me and loose me from painful
care, and all that my heart desires,
see it through: be yourself
the fighter at my side.
δεῦρύ μ’ ἐκ Κρήτας ἐπ[ὶ τόνδ]ε ναῦον
ἄγνον ὄππ[ᾳ τοι] χάριεν μὲν ἄλσος
μαλί[αν], βῶμοι δὲ τεθυμιάμε-
νοι [λι]βανώτῷ·
ἐν δ’ ὔδωρ ψῦχρον κελάδει δι’ ὔσδων
μαλίνων, βρόδοισι δὲ παῖς ὀ χῶρος
ἐσκίαστ’, αἰθυσσομένων δὲ φύλλων
κῶμα καταίρει·
ἐν δὲ λείμων ἰππόβοτος τέθαλεν
ἠρίνοισιν ἄνθεσιν, αἰ δ’ ἄηται
μέλλιχα πνέοισιν . . .
. . .
ἔνθα δὴ σὺ . . . ἔλοισα Κύπρι
χρυσίαισιν ἐν κυλίκεσσιν ἄβρως
ὀμμεμείχμενον θαλίαισι νέκταρ
οἰνοχόαισον
Come here to me from Crete to this holy
shrine, where there is a graceful grove
of apple trees for you and altars smoking
with incense,
and cool water echoes through the apple-
branches and the whole place is shadowed
with roses, and from the light-moving leaves
slumber comes down:
here, a horse-grazed meadow has come into bloom
with spring flowers and the breezes
blow honey-sweet . . .
. . .
there you, Kypris, take up . . .
and gracefully pour out into golden
wine-bowls nectar mixed with
celebration . . .
These are what I think of as work-print translations: I am trying not to get in the poet's way. I have no idea if the technique works or if I am only making her sound simple when what I want is the directness, the clear-voiced (λιγύφωνος) passion and the honesty of the images, because she does not cut away to blowing curtains when what she wants us to feel is the frenzy in her skin.
φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει
καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ’ ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν,
ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ’ ἴδω βρόχε’ ὤς με φώναι-
σ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει,
ἀλλ’ ἄκαν μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε λέπτον
δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ὄρημμ’, ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ’ ἄκουαι,
κὰδ δέ μ’ ἴδρως ψῦχρος ἔχει, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ’ ὀλίγω ’πιδεύης
φαίνομ’ ἔμ’ αὔτ[ᾳ.
ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον ἐπεὶ . . .
He seems as good as a god to me,
that man who sits across from you
sweetly speaking, who listens
so close to you
laughing with desire—truly
it catches the heart in my breast,
because if I look just once at you,
then I cannot speak,
my tongue breaks, and all at once
a delicate fire races underneath my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears
are a whirling hum
and a cold sweat holds me down, shivering
grips me, I am greener than grass
and as far as I know anything,
all but dead.
But it all must be dared, since . . .
Ἔρος δ’ ἐτίναξέ μοι
φρένας, ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.
Love shook my
thoughts, like wind falling on oak-trees on the mountain.
ἠράμαν μὲν ἔγω σέθεν, Ἄτθι, πάλαι ποτά . . .
σμίκρα μοι πάις ἔμμεν’ ἐφαίνεο κἄχαρις.
I loved you, Atthis, once a long time ago . . .
You seemed a small child to me and graceless.
I started this post at three in the morning and I was half-asleep by the end of it. By afternoon, it's still such a slight selection of her surviving work; what we have are so many fragments, scattered throughout the arguments of ancient authors or disinterred from papyri in the desert. She speaks so strongly out of the past and yet no one can get a hold on her: I am sure some nineteenth-century scholar tried with results I don't want to know about, but it is impossible to imagine filling in more than the lacunae of a few letters, writing the rest of the poem around an image as spare and arresting as a beautiful child with a form like golden flowers or as the sweet apple blushes on the highest branch. There's no hymn to Aphrodite that can make her notice any of us. Myself included. She became what she wrote.
Ἔρος δηὖτέ μ’ ὀ λυσιμέλης δόνει,
γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον.
Eros the limb-loosener drives me once again,
sweetbitter, irresistible, stealing.
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