Translations from Catullus by Franklin P. Adams presented by Michael Gilleland American journalist and radio personality Franklin P. Adams (1881-1960) was an accomplished and witty translator of Latin poetry. Here are his translations from the Roman poet Gaius Valerius Catullus (ca. 87-54 B.C.). 7 |  16 |  23 |  26 |  51 |  70 |  85 |  Home

7

Catullus, Considerable Kisser
(A Pasteurization of Ode VII.)

How many kisses, Lesbia, miss, you ask would be enough for me?
I cannot sum the total number; nay, that were too tough for me.
The sands that o'er Cyrene's shore lie sweetly odoriferous,
The stars that sprent the firmament when overly stelliferous --
Come, Lezzy, please add all of these, until the whole amount of 'em
Will sorely vex the rubbernecks attempting to keep count of 'em.

The Mathematics of Catullus

Lesbia, you would have me state
  What the number is
Of the times to osculate.
Let your pote approximate,
  Namely, t'wit, and viz:

Lesbia, count the sands that lie
  On the spicy shore;
Sum the stars that in the sky
Coruscate; and multiply
  That by thousands more --

That, O sweetest of your sex,
  Fails the full amount.
Let the total number vex
All the jealous rubbernex
  Trying to keep count!

16

Catullus to His Knockers

If now and then I spill a pome
  That seems too peppery for a paper
Subscribers take into The Home --
  Too filled with chili sauce and caper --
Because I'm fresh and will not shut up
You think that I'm an awful cut-up.

A poet in the major league
  Must lead a life above suspicion,
Though he may write of love, intrigue,
  Society and prohibition.
His stuff has got to be so snappy
That it will make all ages happy.

Cease, lowlifes, then, to lamp my line;
  Your knocking never shall upset me.
I lyricize of love and wine,
  And those who care for such will get me.
And you who don't -- oh, yes, I mean you,
Aurelius, Furius -- I'll bean you! 

23

To Furius, on Poverty

Financial troubles irk thee not;
  No servants test thy strong endurance;
No germs infest thy simple cot;
  Thou hast no need for fire insurance.

How happy, Furius, is thy life
  Shared with thine estimable Popper
And his -- excuse me -- wooden wife!
  (I think those birds could lunch on copper!)

In utter health how happy thou,
  Fearing nor fire nor indigestion!
No fall in stocks can blanch thy brow
  Serene beyond all doubt or question.

Hay fever, rheumatiz, the grip,
  Malaria, gout, and such diseases
Elude thy frugal guardianship --
  Both when it's hot and when it freezes.

Cease then to pray the gods for wealth
  Not worth the pains to have amassed it!
I wonder if, with naught but health
  Thou knowest just how soft thou hast it?

26

The Suburban Craze in Rome

Your bungalow, my Furius, is not up against the wind
East, west or north or even south -- in fact, not any kind;
But up against a cyclone that has emptied all your purses --
A mortgage of a trifle over fifteen thou. sesterces.

51

V. Catullus Said in Part
(Being a shy at the Fifty-first Ode.)

Whose seat is opposite to thine,
My Lesbia, seems to me divine;
For it were heaven to be so near thee,
To gaze upon thee and to hear thee.

But, lowlife lyrist that I am,
I see thee, and am like a clam;
My tongue is mute; my heart's a lead one;
Sight, hearing fail me -- I'm a dead one!

70

The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq.
(Which is his 70th Ode, dry-cleaned and rekalsomined)

Myrtilla says that there is none
  So strong, so fine, so cavalierly,
From New Rochelle to Evanston,
          As yours sincerely.

She says that no one else is half
  So utterly attractive to her,
That she'd give Jove himself the laugh
          If he should woo her.

I say she SAYS so ... Ah, I find
  The words of Eve's most lovely daughter
Ought to be written on the wind
          In running water!

85

V. Catullus Explains

Hark thou, my Lesbia, there be none existent
  Can truly say she hath been loved by me
As thou hast been. No faith is more consistent
  Than that which V. Catullus gives to thee.

How reasonless the state of an emotion!
  For wert thou faultless, perfect, and sublime,
I could not like thee; nor would my devotion
  And love be less wert thou the Queen of Crime.