Christopher Childers, Independent Scholar
I propose to read from my forthcoming translation of 800 years of Greek and Latin lyric poetry, a book over ten years in the making, which will be published by Penguin Classics in July 2023, with an Afterword by Glenn Most; the book anthologizes a generous selection of poetry, which, along with lyric proper, also encompasses elegy, iambus, epigram, and even pastoral. I am happy to read both Greek and Latin originals as well as translations, and/or to talk about principles and approach employed in the translation, as time and interest allow.
Sample Translations
Alcman 26
No more, you honey-voiced maidens whose songs have a holy power,
can my frame bear my weight. I wish, I wish that I were
a kingfisher aloft with you halcyons over the sea-foam in flower,
an ocean-colored holy bird, light-hearted, sure.
Sappho 105a
An apple on a bough hangs redly, sweetly,
high on the highest limb, against the sky.
The pickers leave it be, but don’t completely
leave it—they reached for it; it was too high.
Anacreon 358
Hitting me again today
with a purple ball, Love urges me
toward this bright-sandalled thing, to see
whether she wants to play.
But she’s a Lesbian born and bred,
and laughs at me, for my white hair,
then opens her mouth wide to stare
at another sort of head.
Callimachus Epigram 34
When I heard, Heraclitus, you were dead,°
I thought of all the suns we’d talked to bed
those nights, and the tears came. Dear guest, I know
that you were ashes long and long ago,
and yet your nightingales are singing still:
Death kills all things, but them he cannot kill.
Catullus 84
Not "commodities", "commoditae",
says Arrius; "satyrs" are "satori".
He beams; our sidelong glances verify
the erudition of his "satori".
Clearly, these are words he grew up with—
his mother's, freedman uncle's, and their kith.
He sailed for Syria; our ears were easy,
without that dialect to drive them crazy,
until we heard what we'd thought gone for good—
a notice from abroad that chilled our blood:
it seems we've got new atlases to buy,
since Syrians now go by "Syriae".
Horace 1.38
Please, boy, no crowns of linden for my hair—
that’s just the sort of Persian frill I hate.
Give up the search for some far country where
the rose blows late.
You can’t improve on a simple myrtle wreath;
don't even try! These myrtle wreaths look fine
on you as you serve and me as I drink, beneath
the shade of the vine.
Martial 5.58
Tomorrow, tomorrow, Postumus, you swear
you’ll live tomorrow—but when will it get here?
Where is it? How far off? And are there maps?
Search Parthia, or Armenia, perhaps.
How old is it?—at least as old as Nestor
or Priam. What’s the cost for an investor?
Tomorrow you’ll live? Today is late, I say.
The wise man started living yesterday.