Odi et Amo

Salvete, omnes!

First my cherished presents are stolen, and now fate has sent me the worst present of all - a demo CD, courtesy of my talent searcher "friend" Calvus, as a graduation gift. It's no wonder that the record label he works for is about to go under if they even consider trash like this. The guitars are so ridiculously loud and high pitched that at times I think the decibel level goes beyond the absolute level of human toleration. Or maybe that's just my ears failing and dying. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the poem!

Ni te plus oculis meis amarem, iucundissime Calve, munere isto odissem te odio Vatiniano: nam quid feci ego quidve sum locutus, cur me tot male perderes poetis? Isti di mala multa dent clienti, qui tantum tibi misit impiorum. Quod si, ut suspicor, hoc novum ac repertum munus dat tibi Sulla litterator, non est mi male, sed bene ac beate, quod non dispereunt tui labores. Di magni, horribilem et sacrum libellum! Quem tu scilicet ad tuum Catullum misti, continuo ut die periret, Saturnalibus, optimo dierum! Non non hoc tibi, false, sic abibit. Nam si luxerit ad librariorum curram scrinia, Caesios, Aquinos, Suffenum, omnia colligam venena. Ac te his suppliciis remunerabor. Vos hinc interea valete abite illuc, unde malum pedem attulistis, saecli incommoda, pessimi poetae.

If you weren't one of my tightest bros, 

Calvus, I'd hate you forever

"thanks" to your thoughtful gift, with Vatinius' blessing:

What ever did I do to deserve this from you,

to have to listen to such crappy thrash metal?

May the gods grant dishonor to your record label,

Who sent you this awful demo CD to evaluate.

Because if, as I believe, your boss Sulla

Threw this banshee music into your hands

It's not a terrible problem for me,

evidently, your legacy lives on.

What a foul, savage playlist of "music!"

That you've sent to unsuspecting Catullus

relentlessly, so that he would lose the gift of hearing,

on the beautiful day of Saturnalia and our last final exam,

No, you funny, funny guy - I won't forget.

At the crack of dawn, I'll be at the record store

And I'll peruse the shelves for the "great" artists.

Caesius, Aquinus, Suffenus - I'll gather these terrible earworms

And I will humbly gift their atrocity to you.

Sound advice: Run, run, run as fast as you can

Back to the terrible place underground from whence you arose

You insult to music, worst of talent searchers.

Curate et valeatis,

Salvete Omnes,

I'm feeling somewhat sassy today, and also somewhat bored. So I'm inviting a friend over to dinner--via a poem.

Cenabis bene, mi Fabulle, apud me paucis, si tibi di favent, diebus, si tecum attuleris bonam atque magnam cenam, non sine candida puella et vino et sale et omnibus cachinnis. Haec si, inquam, attuleris, venuste noster, cenabis bene; nam tui Catulli plenus sacculus est aranearum. Sed contra accipies meros amores, seu quid suavius elegantiusve est: nam unguentum dabo, quod meae puellae donarunt Veneres Cupidinesque; quod tu cum olfacies, deos rogabis totum ut te faciant, Fabulle, nasum.

You'll dine well at my house, my frater Fabullus

(yes, you can even stuff your face)

In a few days, if fate is kind and you're not busy

And if you bring with you a splendid three-course meal

(Appetizers, a main course, and most importantly dessert)

Not without a splendid damsel

And wine (or champagne), and sass, and as many jokes as possible

As long as they're not knock-knock jokes.

If you bring these, I say, comrade,

you will dine magnificently--for Catullus's

bank account is full of zeroes.Y

But as a repayment you'll get my appreciation and respect

Or whatever is awesomer and more fantastic:

For I'll give you some scented candles,

Which Cupid and Venus sent to my girl for Valentine's Day

And when you smell them, you will wish upon a shooting star

That you, my dear Fabullus, can be all nose.

Curate ut valeatis,

Salvete, omnes!

Today's poem is perhaps a bit of a rant. I've lost an item of stylistic and sentimental value, and hopefully this poem will convince the thief to return what is rightfully mine.

Marrucine Asini, manu sinistra non belle uteris: in ioco atque vino tollis lintea neglegentiorum. Hoc salsum esse putas? Fugit te, inepte: quamvis sordida res et invenusta est. Non credis mihi? Crede Pollioni fratri, qui tua furta vel talento mutari velit—est enim leporum differtus puer ac facetiarum. Quare aut hendecasyllabos trecentos exspecta, aut mihi linteum remitte, quod me non movet aestimatione, verum est mnemosynum mei sodalis. Nam sudaria Saetaba ex Hiberis miserunt mihi muneri Fabullus et Veranius; haec amem necesse est ut Veraniolum meum et Fabullum.

Marrucinus Asinius, your butterfingers

Serve an evil purpose - for hits and giggles

You nick the bowties of the more... tipsy people.

You think you're so cool? You don't understand, stupid -

Your actions are violations of the established frater codes. 

Still think you're king of the world? Ask your brother Pollio,

Who wants to change your nasty habit

Into an actual skill - because at least he

Does not steal prized accessories from his best friends.

Therefore, it's another 300 angry tweets directed at you

Or mail me back that bowtie;

I'm not angry because it's expensive or something - 

But because good friends of mine gave it to me.

My other amici Fabullus and Veranius 

Sent it as a gift - an example of the highest quality alpaca fiber;

It is necessary that I love those ironic furry stripes

As I love my (legit) fratres Veranius and Fabullus.

Curate et valeatis,

Salvete Omnes!

I got a bit worked up about Lesbia again, but fortunately some of my friends helped me calm down, so I decided I'd write another poem!

Furi et Aureli comites Catulli, sive in extremos penetrabit Indos, litus ut longe resonante Eoa tunditur unda, sive in Hyrcanos Arabesue molles, seu Sagas sagittiferosue Parthos, sive quae septemgeminus colorat aequora Nilus, sive trans altas gradietur Alpes, Caesaris visens monimenta magni, Gallicum Rhenum horribilesque ulti- mosque Britannos, omnia haec, quaecumque feret voluntas caelitum, temptare simul parati, pauca nuntiate meae puellae non bona dicta. cum suis vivat valeatque moechis, quos simul complexa tenet trecentos, nullum amans vere, sed identidem omnium ilia rumpens; nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem, qui illius culpa cecidit uelut prati ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam tactus aratro est.

Furius and Aurelius, comrades of Catullus

Whether he chooses to wander down the highway to hell

Or ascend the stairway to heaven,

Whether he visits Timbuktu or Shangrila,

Whether he journeys to the wilds of the Amazon

And nearly gets eaten by a crocodile

Or travels to the sands of the Sahara

And gets caught in a sandstorm

Or sails the seven seas,

imagining himself as Jack Sparrow or at the least Captain Hook,

Or whether he visits Dover, thinking of the intenseness

Of Caesar's landing and the bravery of the aquilifer

And the barbaric Britons he battled and beat,

Wherever fate may send Catullus.

Furius and Aurelius, who are willing to do any and all of these feats,

Announce to my girl a few...not-so-nice words.

May she live long and prosper with her 300 sleazeballs and scumbags,

All of whom she "embraces" at the same time,

Loving none (in reality) but "loving" all of them at once

May she not look back and sigh, as she has, at my love,

Which, due to her, like a beautiful, precious flower,

Has died, after it was pulverized by a drunk driver.

Curate ut valeatis,

You must be new here. Welcome to my virtual diary!

If you had read my earlier posts, kind sir or madam, you would have seen that I do not go for innuendos, nor do I attempt to hide my opinions of anyone or anything. To suggest that I used such a euphemism merely shows your lack of knowledge of my writing. When I say iPhone, I mean iPhone. And if you actually bothered to read my poetry, you’d see I have never written about sparrows.

Oh, and you must be joking. Gallus couldn’t tell a good poem if it waltzed right up to him wearing a sombrero.

But thank you for (at least somewhat) reading my poetry!

Salvete, omnes!

I had a crazy weekend with my friend Varus and met a seemingly pleasant but actually rather annoying nightclub employee along the way. Maybe writing an extra long poem about her will help me recover from the Monday blues faster.

Varus me meus ad suos amores visum duxerat e foro otiosum, scortillum, ut mihi tum repente visum est, non sane illepidum neque invenustum. Huc ut venimus, incidere nobis sermones varii: in quibus, quid esset iam Bithynia; quo modo se haberet; et quonum mihi profuisset aere. Respondi id quod erat, nihil neque ipsis nec praetoribus esse nec cohorti, cur quisquam caput unctius referret, praesertim quibus esset irrumator praetor, nec faceret pili cohortem. "At certe tamen" inquit "quod illic natum dicitur esse, comparasti ad lecticam homines." Ego, ut puellae unum me facerem beatiorem, "non" inquam "mihi tam fuit maligne, ut, provincia quod mala incidisset, non possem octo homines parare rectos." At mi nullus erat nec hic neque illic, fractum qui veteris pedem grabati in collo sibi collocare posset. Hic illa, ut decuit cinaediorem, "quaeso" inquit "mihi, mi Catulle, paulum istos commoda, nam volo ad Serapim deferri." "Mane," inquii puellae, "istud quod modo dixeram me habere, fugit me ratio: meus sodalis Cinna est Gaius - is sibi paravit; verum utrum illius an mei, quid ad me? Utor tam bene quam mihi pararim. Sed tu insulsa male et molesta vivis, per quam non licet esse neglegentem!"

  Varus took me to this crazy nightclub (he has connections)

To see all these hot babes, especially this one chick

A pretty young thing, who, in my opinion

Could put on the moves and had a great body to boot.

Somehow the conversation topic went back to my old job

in Bithynia - the people, the economy...

Wait, this chick wants to know my salary?

Well, I got a pathetic pittance, thanks

My coworkers and I were living on fast food to live

Trust me, no one had much left over after rent

And the governor, our boss, was more worried about the rising price

of female escorts than actually, you know, paying his employees.

Then the chick bats her stupid crayon eyelids and is all, like,

"Gosh, you must have had at least a fancy Bithynian car, though!

They're all the rage with the men who usually come here." 

Well, stupid me - after that, I had to try to impress her, didn't I?

Why does every girl want her man to be freaking rich?

"Well," I replied, "I was able to eventually save enough 

Even though everyone in that province lived on food stamps,

To buy an 8-horsepower sports car to drive on the weekends.

They're slightly cheaper there, because that's where they make them,

you know; sometimes a few little hiccups here and there

But overall it certainly gives a my Lamborghini a challenge."

Oh, but she wouldn't shut up.

"Wow!" she cried. "Let's go for a drive this weekend, then?

We can go to that cute little nymph cafe off the Via Appia!"

"Whoa there, honey," I tried to stop her,

"That...uh...car...that I was...talking about, um...uh...

I totally forgot: my bro - what is his name?

Cinna Gaius! Yes! He bought the car from me!

But, whatever, I still open his garage

And use it whenever I want."

But I hope you never get to ride in it, dumb nightclub chick

Smart enough to catch me in my own stupid lies.

  Curate et valeatis,

Gratias, whoever you are.

Thank you so much for your words of wisdom! I am glad that you are invested in my blog and I appreciate your response to my search for advice.

Although I wasn't aware that Tumblr had such intense fans when I signed up for this. And what is a "ship" exactly?

Cura ut valeas,

Salvete Omnes!

I am still recovering from my breakup, although I have gotten far stronger and have forced myself to move on (as you may have seen in my latest poem). However, I was searching for advice when I realized that you, my loyal followers, may be able to help me out, since you have witnessed my journey thus far!

If you have any words of wisdom, inspirational images (or gifs, whatever they are) or anything that you would like to share with me, please do so through the 'submit' or 'ask' functions on this blog.

Maximas gratias,

Salvete omnes.

As you may have guessed from my last post, Lesbia has broken up with me. I have been despondent for days, grieving alone at home, which is why I have not written a poem for several days. However, I have been able to coalesce my thoughts into a coherent piece, which you shall see below.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, et quod vides perisse perditum ducas. Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles, cum ventitabas quo puella ducebat amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla. Ibi illa multa cum iocosa fiebant, quae tu volebas nec puella nolebat, fulsere vere candidi tibi soles. Nunc iam illa non vult: tu quoque impotens noli, nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vive, sed obstinata mente perfer, obdura. Vale puella, iam Catullus obdurat, nec te requiret nec rogabit invitam. At tu dolebis, cum rogaberis nulla. Scelesta, uae te, quae tibi manet uita? Quis nunc te adibit? cui videberis bella? Quem nunc amabis? Cuius esse diceris? Quem basiabis? Cui labella mordebis? At tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.

Poor Catullus, stop being a fool (none pity you)

And understand that that which is lost, is lost.

(Let's get real here, moping hasn't gotten you anywhere)

Once, Lady Luck was on your side

When you followed your sweetheart around

(which, if you consider it, is slightly stalkerish)

For she was loved by you as none were ever loved before

Not Juliet by her Romeo, nor Eurydice by her Orpheus

Not even Lizzie Bennet by her Darcy

And you two shared moments

Which you enjoyed; nor did she not enjoy them

Truly Lady Luck smiled upon you.

Now your girl is over you. You: get over her,

Don't chase her, or mope continually,

But harden your heart and endure.

Goodbye, girl. Catullus is stronger now:

He won't come knocking at your door.

But you'll sure be sorry when no one does.

I pity you, for you are the fool!

What destiny awaits you? Not a happy one, I'm sure.

Who will come to you now and address you with flattering words

And tolerate you when your eyes are glued to your new phone

Who will love you? Or even consider you 'decent enough'?

Whom will you kiss? Who will even think of your name?

Not I!

You, Catullus, be brave and stay strong.

Curate ut valeatis,

Lesbia seems to having a bit of a problem with interpreting the true meaning of my last poem, so what better way to clear up her confusion than with a brand new poem? Maybe this one will be slightly less roundabout and she'll finally understand what I want to say to her.

Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque. quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum; aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox, furtivos hominum vident amores: tam te basia multa basiare vesano satis et super Catullo est, quae nec pernumerare curiosi possint nec mala fascinare lingua.

How many pokes, you ask? How many pokes do I want?

Are you incapable of performing simple addition with base 10 integers?

Fine, let's clarify: As big a number as the amount of icky makeup particles

You upend onto my bathroom counter every single morning

While pursuing the beauty you already have

And ignoring my repeated requests for privacy while I comb over my bald spot;

Or as many precious stones as you have glittering in that abyss of a drawer,

Thanks to your "real" husband, who needs to stop making me feel inadequate.

That many pokes is the amount I was going for, my love, 

So please tell me you're FINALLY reading these  catching my drift?

Oh, and I'm not really sorry I can't give you an exact number -

I have a feeling that you'd stop right after and start up Angry Birds again.

  Curate et valeatis,

Salvete Omnes!

I hope you are enjoying yourselves. I am glad that so many of you have "followed" this blog--however, please encourage youramicito do so as well, as it truly warms my heart to know that my fellow scholars of Latin appreciate my humble poetry.

I must, however, give you a warning: occasionally I will not share a poem that I write, either because I feel it is not ready for publication or I do not believe its contents to be appropriate for an internet audience.

For instance, I recently wrote a poem making fun of my friend Flavius. However, he *ahem* convinced me to not published it after I carelessly left it out on my desk when he visited. Do not dismay, my readers--for I am already feverishly working on another poem about Lesbia!

Curate ut valeatis,

Salvete Omnes!

Not only was I affronted with the damage sustained to my car, but I developed a slight cold. While I recovered, I decided to pen a poem about my lady love and my feelings about her, because what better way to recover than let out your emotions through beautiful words about a beautiful lady!

Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus, rumoresque senum severiorum omnes unius aestimemus assis! soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda. da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus inuidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Let us YOLO, my Lesbia, and let us love,

And let us value the rumours of TMZ and People Magazine

To be worth one euro (although I doubt that'll last for long).

The sun rises and falls

(although your brightness rivals it, as it shines 24/7)

But when that's gone, I must dream a dream

Of times with you gone by

As I sleep for endless nights.

Facebook Poke me a thousand times, then another hundred,

Then another thousand, then a second hundred,

Then yet a thousand more, then another hundred.

Then, when we've poked each other so many thousand times,

We'll mix them up so that we don't know,

And so that no one can be jealous of our love when TMZ reports

(After hacking our accounts)

How many pokes we've exchanged.

Curate ut valeatis,

Salvete, omnes!

I offer my deepest and most heartfelt apologies that I was not able to communicate with you all earlier; some piece of debris had the nerve to puncture one of the tires on my exquisite travel vehicle and I was unable to return to civilization until a wonderful friend of mine (whom I might write about later) drove out and rescued me, waving a napkin to tease me as only close friends can. While I was waiting for my ride, I decided to pen a poem to honor my beautiful car. As always, I hope you enjoy my poem, however curious its origin story may be. 

Phaselus ille, quem videtis, hospites, ait fuisse navium celerrimus, neque ullius natantis impetum trabis nequisse praeterire, sive palmulis opus foret volare sive linteō. Et hoc negat minacis hadriatici negāre litus Insulāsve Cycladās Rhodumque nobilem horridamque Thraciam Propontida trucemve Ponticum sinum, ubi iste post phaselus antea fuit comāta silva; nam Cyrōtiō in iugō loquente saepe sibilum edidit coma. Amastri Pontica et Cytore buxifer, tibi haec fuisse et esse cognitissima ait phaselus, ultimā ex origine tuō stetisse dicit in cacūmine, tuō imbuisse palmulās in aequore, et inde tot per impotentia fretā erum tulisse (laevă sive dexterā vocaret aura, sive utrumque Iuppiter simul secundus incidisset in pedem), neque ulla vota litoralibus deis sibi esse facta, cum veniret a mari novissimo hunc ad usque limpidum lacum. Sed haec prius fuere: nunc reconditā senet quiete seque dedicat tibi, gemelle Castor et gemelle Castoris.

This Lamborghini, which I languish in, my friends

Feels like it is the fastest of all cars, ever

And like it is incapable of not pummeling any other car in a race,

Be it a Honda Odyssey or a Maserati

At that point, there would be no need to try

And this car doesn't think that bumpy Roman roads would make him try,

Or Gallic footpaths or Colosseum chariot courses,

Or even the Apennines or the Mediterranean Sea

(Yes, this car can travel on water; esne iratus, frater?)

Where this current car was previously underground ore

Which sort of sat in the ground and sparkled for a bit

Oh great steel and iron supply of faraway lands

Clearly you already know how your brethren are melted down for automobiles

My Lamborghini asserts that from its blueprint days

It has climbed the highest of mountains

And navigated the most treacherous of waters

It carried its master, wherever its special-order tires would carry it

Without popping, or its 7.2 liter V8 engine would zoom without running

Out of gas, answerable to no one on earth or to vehicular higher powers after

Gracefully dropping from the sky like an auto-angel.

But alas, those were days of yore, when a stick on the freeway didn't turn the 

Entire car into something less functional than a buggy without a horse;

Perhaps if it keeps up like this it's getting sold

To become the new Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. So there, "ultra-durable" tires.

Curate et valeatis,

Salvete Omnes!

I hope you are all doing well. My Lesbia is still recovering from the loss of her iPhone and is staying in her home during all hours of the day and night.

I, meanwhile, have gone on a road trip to see the sights and scenes of the neighboring areas. My means of traveling: a wonderful, beautiful red Lamborghini. I have been hard-pressed to find a means of communicating with all of you and have taken the time to let you know that I will tell you all about my journey upon my return.

Until then,

Curate ut valeatis,

Salvete Omnes.

Today I am grieve. Because my Lesbia is heartbroken over a death. A death that is so tragic, I could not hold my feelings inside; instead, I shall share them--in a poem.

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque, et quantum est hominum venustiorum: passer mortuus est meae puellae, passer, deliciae meae puellae, quem plus illa oculis suis amabat. nam mellitus erat suamque norat ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem, nec sese a gremio illius movebat, sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc ad solam dominam usque pipiabat. qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum illuc, unde negant redire quemquam. at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis: tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis o factum male! o miselle passer! tua nunc opera meae puellae flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

Mourn, oh gods of 'love'

And all men who roam this earth:

The iPhone of my girlfriend has died,

Dropped into a toilet and shattered;

iPhone, obsession of my girl

Which she loved more than herself (or me)

For it was midnight-black and its Siri knew the whims of her mistress

Like a fangirl knows everything about One Direction

Nor did it ever leave her firm grasp,

but instead entertained her alone with Angry Birds

and Youtube videos.

Now it goes on a dark journey

to the land of deceased phones,

a place from whence no iPhone, Android or Blackberry (hah!) may return.

But may it go awfully for you, the darkness

of the technology wasteland, you who devour all beautiful phones

For so beautiful a phone have you snatched from me

O wicked fate! O poor little iPhone!

Now, because of your malice, my girl's eyes

Are smeared with mascara and tears.

Curate ut valeatis,