- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Any poem that starts with sodomy and face-fucking in Latin is one of the most beautiful of all time. Let's not forget Baudelaire, though, who has a delectable verse about stabbing a woman and fucking the wound.Catullus 16, a poem so filthy that it wasn't until the late 20th century that it was even translated.
It quite literally is a Latin poet making a diss track responding to criticisms that his prose was too soft. It is fucking hilarious.
ORIGINAL LATIN:
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō,
Aurēlī pathice et cinaede Fūrī,
quī mē ex versiculīs meīs putāstis,
quod sunt molliculī, parum pudīcum.
Nam castum esse decet pium poētam
ipsum, versiculōs nihil necesse est;
quī tum dēnique habent salem ac lepōrem,
sī sint molliculī ac parum pudīcī
et quod prūriat incitāre possunt,
nōn dīcō puerīs, sed hīs pilōsīs
quī dūrōs nequeunt movēre lumbōs.
Vōs, quod mīlia multa bāsiōrum
lēgistis male mē marem putātis?
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō.
TRANSLATED TO ENGLISH:
I will sodomize you and face-fuck you,
bottom Aurelius and catamite Furius,
you who think, because my poems
are sensitive, that I have no shame.
For it's proper for a devoted poet to be moral
himself, [but] in no way is it necessary for his poems.
In point of fact, these have wit and charm,
if they are sensitive and a little shameless,
and can arouse an itch,
and I don't mean in boys, but in those hairy old men
who can't get it up.
Because you've read my countless kisses,
you think less of me as a man?
I will sodomize you and face-fuck you.
Ta tête, ton geste, ton air
Sont beaux comm' un beau paysage ;
Le rire joue en ton visage
Comme un vent frais dans le ciel clair.
Le passant chagrin que tu frôles
Est ébloui par la santé
Qui jaillit comme une clarté
de tes bras et de tes épaules.
Les retentissantes couleurs
Dont tu parsèmes tes toilettes
Jettent dans l'esprit des poètes
L'image d'un ballet de fleurs.
Ces robes folles sont l'emblème
De ton esprit bariolé ;
Folle dont je suis affolé,
Je te hais autant que je t'aime !
Quelquefois dans un beau jardin
Où je traînais mon atonie
J'ai senti, comme une ironie,
Le soleil déchirer mon sein ;
Et le printemps et la verdure
Ont tant humilié mon coeur,
Que j'ai puni sur une fleur
L'insolence de la Nature.
Ainsi, je voudrais, une nuit,
Quand l'heure des voluptés sonne,
Vers les trésors de ta personne,
Comme un lâche, ramper sans bruit,
Pour châtier ta chair joyeuse,
Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné,
Et faire à ton flanc étonné
Une blessure large et creuse,
Et vertigineuse douceur !
A travers ces lèvres nouvelles,
Plus éclatantes et plus belles,
T'infuser mon venin, ma soeur !
My favorite translation of the last lines is George Dillon's, the lover of Edna St. Vincent Millay, who co-translated together possibly the best single English version of Flowers of Evil.
And waken you by violent storm,
And beat you coldly till you swooned,
And carve upon your perfect form,
With care, a deep seductive wound —
And (joy delirious and complete!)
Through those bright novel lips, through this
Gaudy and virgin orifice,
Infuse you with my venom, sweet.
Such lovely language to describe such ugliness.