Catullus & Claudia – Carmina Latina

Carmen ad Claudiam

Claudia! Nomen tuum—haeret inter dentes
mel mixtum vitro simile. Nescio utrum
exspuam an glutiam. Lesbia sub cute
adhuc urit (illa meretrix!) dum tu sedes
inter costas meas—dolor diversus.
Rides maledicos meos. Lesbia risit
contemptim. Recitas carmina voce clara.
Amicitiae causa, dicis, sed di!
vox tua… Classes integras cepi
paucioribus viris quam tu evertis
uno supercilio. Furor? Ita. Scripsi
trecenta passeris carmina. Cervix
adhuc ungues eius fert dum somnio
gulam tuam.

Mitte auxilium. Vel noli. Modo basia. Non—abstine!
Amavi antea. Me insanum fecit.
Sed tu non es illa. Citas mea verba cenae,
iocos Graece facis. Molesta es. Peior—es sermo
cenae, vinum mediae noctis, rictus stultus aurorae.
Futui. (Ignosce.) Claudia, intra.

Heri nomen tuum dactylicis execratus sum.
Hodie in scrinio meo inscripsi.
Cras? Quis scit. Fortasse Troianum bellum
iterum tractabo, Helenam faciam beatam
ingenio tuo celeri, modo tuo furandi versus
Sapphus ut me vino strangules.
Lesbia fulmen erat—icta factaque.
Tu magis febris es: lenta, minusque iucunda
donec intellego non meminisse
quando spirare non doluit, quando parietes stabant,
quando carmina ulla sensum habebant.

Amici putant me opus habere medicina. Pillula.
Plus vini. Minus feminarum. Certe minus
scribendi “CLAUDIA” trans pectus meum
atramento lucernae dum hexametros compono
de manibus tuis. (Manus tuae! Perdidi omnes metros!)

Veni. Fer Aristophanem illum
quem mutuata es. Comoedias legemus, multum bibemus,
simulabimus amicitiam dum calamitates meae
se reorganizant. Conabor prohibere
manus tremere cum rides. Notabis
nova carmina non ei sunt. Mentiemur
polite. Cum discedes, iugulum secabo—
metaphorice. Iterum. Tum scribam. Tum flebo.
Tum plus scribam. Solitum. Nosti
iam morem. Legisti opera. Vides
exemplar: ama, obside, flagra, omitte
omnem dignitatem. Lava. Itera. Scribe. Sangui.

Sed adhuc hic es. Legis hoc. (Di servent
patientiam tuam, Claudia.) Ergo… cena?

—C. (Ruina)

Responsum Claudiae ad Catullum

Catulle, deliciae meae. Accepi… quid vocem?
Clamorem auxilii? Carmen amoris? Indicem doloris?
Sedecim metaphoras numeravi. Captus, ut
videtur, proprio dolore. Iterum.
“Mel mixtum vitro”? Ego sum? Quam… medicum.
Gratias ago. Fere.
Quamquam vere, Valeri, recuso
esse cuiusquam poeticum tormentum.
Metrum fractum est—animadverti—
circa manus meas. (Manus tuae! scripsisti.
Litteris maiusculis. Quam subtile.) Notavistine
me scaevam esse? Non? Nimis occupatus iugulo
tuo metaphorico secando, opinor.

Nomen meum in scrinio inscripsisti? Dulce.
Etiam damnum rerum. Misera supellex tua
passa est Lesbiam, Iuventium (discretus
non es), et nunc me. Lignum est catalogus certe
omnium qui te “insanum” fecerunt—
verba tua, non mea. Quamquam vera. Confirmavi.

Ecce quod amisisti dum dolorem documentas
dactylicis: risi cum scansio tua fracta est
in “CLAUDIA” trans pectus tuum.
(Verone? Di! Fecisti. Video
maculam.) Ridiculus es. Sed ecce probatio:
Rescribo. Tuo metro. Videsne?

Putas me versus tuos citare ut stranguleris?
Bene… ita. Sed etiam quia cum scripsisti
“da mi basia mille,” fregisti
aliquid in lingua. Fecisti linguam volare
non marcare. Carmina Lesbiae? Honeste,
nimia. Passeres, vero? Sed hymnus ille
fratri tuo ad sepulcrum—flevi. Vides,
Catulle, per theatralem voluntatem
et calamitates sexuales, invenisti
sonos vocalium doloris. Ideo recito
opera tua voce clara. Non ut te videam mergi
vino (modo praemium), sed ut reddam
verba factori. Oblivisceris
ea sobrium scripsisse, lima tersisse,
antequam misisses. Hic paenitentia acta,
haec “ruina” persona—velum solum est.

Legi commentarios tuos, memento. Versio tertia
huius ipsius carminis me fecit
“digitum Aurorae.” Versio secunda: apem.
(Apem! Saltem mel vitreumque superavit
primos conatus.) Non insanus es, care.
Editas. Differt. Quamquam fateor
processus terribilis videtur foris.

Ergo cena? Ita. Fer vinum. Legemus. Sedebimus
nimis prope. Panicum capies, carmen scribes. Ego
Graecam tuam corrigam. Solitum. Sed primum,
lava atramentum. Conare stabilem videri. Simulabo
me nescire versionem quintam iam paratam
esse in mente tua, ubi reficior
Helena, Dido, vel dea quaedam quae
te melius delet. Fac cenam durare
antequam me mythos facias. Malo esse, vere,
femina quae fert Aristophanem
et disputat de scansione dum bibimus
quam inspirare alios threnos.
Ambo scimus quomodo illi finiantur. Quid censes—
potes supervivere vesperam ubi sum modo
Claudia, non metaphora?

Feram vinum. Noli flagrare. —C. (Adhuc hic)

Recognitio

I.

Commentarios inveni mane. Omnes versiones
tui quas scripsi. Duodecim Claudiae: una luna,
una mare vini colore (ignosce Graecismum),
una “basium tempestate cinctum,” una “tibiae autumni”—
ultima illa… di. Vere scripsi “tibiae”?
Versio septima te facit tres aves diversas.
Decima, conceptum abstractum. Undecima, ruinam
tua facie indutam. Solum verba
se componentia in dolorem gratissimum.
Numquam scripsi te scaevam esse. Numquam cepi
quomodo poculum tenes. Numquam simplicem
Claudiam quae Graecam meam corrigit. Quaesivi
solum quod metaphora facere potuit: meam
et tractabilem. Versum perfectum, exsanguem.

II.

Ecce quod carmina numquam dixerunt: sternes
cum vere rides. Non risus divinus.
Angulos paginarum plicas (barbara!). Breves
capilli nigri qui e nexu fugiunt. Orationes
longas de Aristophane. Modum quo
carmen fratris mei legisti—lente,
quodque verbum in lingua pensum. Quid dicere possem
de talibus? Non cantarent. Itaque
te mel vitreum feci. Coronavi
te neurosi mea. Ecce—doctus sum
dolorem pulchrum facere. Sic mersi
veritatem per annos. Omnis femina quam explicavi
dactylicis eram ego trabeatus. Vidisti
per omnia. Me vocasti. Et adhuc trahis
sellam tuam ad meam in taberna. Cur?

III.

Lesbia tandem discessit. Omnes
discedunt cum intellegunt se legere scripta
quae eis scripsi. Sed tu negas cadere
in partes. Fers comoediarum librum
et me rides de bello, de deis,
de poetis qui putant dolorem
esse personalitatem. “Catulle, taediosus es
cum mythicus. Sume olivas.” Offerens
lancem quasi pacis condiciones. Quas sunt, puto.
Rogas me cultros deponere,
desinere omnes quos amo in atramentum secare.
Serone est alium modum discere?

IV.

Heri nocte coepi carmen nonagesimum tertium:
“Quomodo scaevae manus pocula tenent.” Vulgare
ut rumores fori. Nemo mergitur. Nullae apes
vel mel. Solum manus tua, mammalis
et vera, cum cicatrice parva sub pollice.
(Dixisti te pisces squamando accepisse. Ego
sagittam Cupidinis mente feceram. Quam stultum.)
Fortasse vera carmina non acta sed lusae
attente—ut tu legis. Non clare
sed caute, quasi aliquid vivum tenes
quod spirare desinat si premas. Superbus sum
omnibus doloribus crystallinis. Sed ignoscam
mihi illos annos pulchrae querelae
ut unum verum scribam. Semel. Sine fuco.

V.

Ergo conatus centesimus nonagesimus quartus:
Claudia vinum fert. Legimus. Lucerna languet.
Non flagro. Metaphorae manent pauperes
et humi. Cum rides, sternes. Scio
quia adsum—non spectans e scaena
crastinum carmen anxium parans
sed praesens, disputans res parvas
utrum comoedia an tragoedia
propius vero. (Erras. Sed clara
cum irata.) Cum discedis, te sino ire—
nullus culter, nullum carmen, nulla pugna acta
cum deis de fato. Et si cresco
ad amorem—non mythum—considerabisne?
Virum, non metaphoram, qui discit paulatim
manere ad mensas ubi sedes?

Subscriptio:
Adhuc Catullus. Adhuc ad ruinam pronus.
Sed conans te videre.
Non solum per carminis vitrum.

—C. (Reparationem temptans)

Catullus & Claudia – English Poems

Song for Claudia

Claudia! Your name—it sticks between my teeth
like honey mixed with glass. I can’t decide
if I should spit or swallow. Lesbia beneath
my skin still burns (that bitch!) while you reside
somewhere between my ribs—a different ache.
You laugh at my reviewers. Lesbia sneered.
You read my poems aloud. For friendship’s sake
you say, but gods! your voice… I’ve commandeered
whole fleets with fewer men than what you wreck
with one raised eyebrow. Madness? Yes. I wrote
three hundred sparrow elegies. My neck
still bears her scratches while I dream your throat.

Send help. Or don’t. Just kiss me. No—refrain!
I’ve loved before. It drove me quite insane.
But you’re not her. You quote my words at dinner,
make jokes in Greek. You’re trouble. Worse—you’re dinner
conversation, midnight wine, dawn’s stupid grin.
I’m fucked. (Forgive me.) Claudia, come in.

Yesterday I cursed your name in dactyls.
Today I carved it on my writing desk.
Tomorrow? Who can say. Perhaps I’ll tackle
the Trojan War again, make Helen blessed
with your quick wit, your way of stealing lines
from Sappho just to watch me choke on wine.
Lesbia was lightning—struck and done.
You’re more like fever: slow, and much less fun
until I realize I can’t recall
when breathing didn’t hurt, when walls stayed still,
when poems made any sense at all.

My friends think I need therapy. A pill.
More wine. Less women. Definitely less
of writing “CLAUDIA” across my chest
in lamp-black while composing hexameters
about your hands. (Your HANDS! I’ve lost all meters!)

Come over. Bring that Aristophanes
you borrowed. We’ll read comedies, drink deep,
pretend we’re friends while my catastrophes
reorganize themselves. I’ll try to keep
my hands from shaking when you laugh. You’ll note
my newest poems aren’t for her. We’ll lie
politely. When you leave, I’ll cut my throat—
metaphorically. Again. Then write. Then cry.
Then write some more. The usual. You know
the drill by now. You’ve read my work. You see
the pattern: love, obsess, combust, forego
all dignity. Rinse. Repeat. Write. Bleed.

But you’re still here. Reading this. (Gods bless
your patience, Claudia.) So… dinner?

—C. (A mess)

Claudia’s Response to Catullus

Catullus, darling. Got your… what to call it?
Cry for help? Love song? Grocery list of pain?
I counted sixteen metaphors. Enthralled, it
seems, by your own suffering. Again.
“Mel mixtum vitro”? Honey mixed with glass?
That’s me? How… medical. I’m flattered. Sort of.
Though honestly, Valerius, I’ll pass
on being anyone’s poetic tort-
ure device. Your meter broke—I noticed—
right around my hands. (Your HANDS! you wrote.
All caps. How subtle.) Have you even noticed
I’m left-handed? No? Too busy at your throat
with metaphoric knives, I suppose.

You carved my name into your desk? That’s sweet.
Also property damage. Your poor furniture
has suffered through Lesbia, Juventius (discreet
you’re not), and now me. The wood’s a catalog, for sure,
of everyone who’s made you “quite insane”—
your words, not mine. Though accurate. I checked.

Here’s what you missed while documenting pain
in dactyls: I laughed when your scansion wrecked
itself on “CLAUDIA” across your chest.
(Did you really? Gods, you did. I see
the smudge.) You’re ridiculous. But here’s the test:
I’m writing back. In your own meter. See?

You think I quote your lines to watch you choke?
Well… yes. But also because when you wrote
“da mi basia mille,” it broke
something in Latin. Made the language float
instead of march. Your Lesbia poems? Honestly,
a bit much. Sparrows, really? But that hymn
to your brother at his grave—I cried. You see,
Catullus, through your theatrical whim
and sexual catastrophes, you found
the vowel sounds of grief. That’s why I read
your work aloud. Not to watch you drown
in wine (just a bonus), but to feed
those words back to their maker. You forget
you wrote them sober, edited them clean,
before you sent them. This performed regret,
this “ruina” pose—it’s just a screen.

I’ve read your drafts, remember? Version three
of this very carmen had me as
“Aurora’s finger.” Version two: a bee.
(A bee! At least the honey-glass surpassed
those early efforts.) You’re not mad, my dear.
You’re editing. It’s different. Though I admit
the process looks alarming from out here.

So dinner? Yes. Bring wine. We’ll read. We’ll sit
too close. You’ll panic, write a poem. I’ll
correct your Greek. The usual. But first,
wash off the lamp-black. Try to act stable. I’ll
pretend I don’t know version five’s rehearsed
already in your head, where I’m recast
as Helen, Dido, or some goddess who
destroys you better. Make this dinner last
before you make me myth. I’d rather be, it’s true,
the woman who brings Aristophanes
and argues with your scansion while we drink
than inspire another set of threnodies.
We both know how those end. So what do you think—
can you survive an evening where I’m just
Claudia, not metaphor?

I’ll bring the wine. Don’t combust. —C. (Still here)

The Reckoning)

I.

I found my drafts this morning. Every version
of you I wrote. Twelve Claudias: one a moon,
one wine-dark sea (forgive the Greek immersion),
one “storm-wrapped kiss,” one “autumn’s fluted tune”—
that last one… gods. I actually wrote “fluted tune”?
Version seven has you as three different birds.
By ten, you’re abstract concept. By eleven, ruin
wearing your approximate face. Just words
arranging themselves into my favorite pain.
I never wrote that you’re left-handed. Never caught
the way you hold your wine cup. Never plain
Claudia who corrects my Greek. I sought
only what metaphor could make you: mine
and manageable. A perfect, bloodless line.

II.

Here’s what my poems never said: you snort
when truly laughing. Not a goddess-laugh.
You dogear books (barbarian!). The short
black hairs that escape your braid. Your paragraph-
long rants on Aristophanes. The way
you actually read my brother’s poem—slow,
each word weighed on your tongue. What could I say
about such things? They wouldn’t sing. And so
I made you honey-glass instead. I crowned
you with my own neurosis. Look—I’m trained
to make pain beautiful. It’s how I’ve drowned
out truth for years. Each woman I’ve explained
in dactyls was myself in drag. You saw
right through it. Called me out. And still you draw
your chair beside mine at the wine shop. Why?

III.

Lesbia left eventually. They all
leave when they realize they’re reading scripts
I wrote for them. But you refuse to fall
into the role. You bring your manuscript
of comedies and make me laugh at war,
at gods, at poets who think suffering
is personality. “Catullus, you’re a bore
when mythic. Have some olives.” Offering
the plate like peace terms. Which they are, I think.
You’re asking me to put my knives away,
stop carving everyone I love to ink.
Is it too late to learn another way?

IV.

Last night I started poem ninety-three:
“How left hands hold wine cups.” Pedestrian
as market gossip. No one drowns. No bees
or honey. Just your hand, mammalian
and real, with that small scar below your thumb.
(You said you got it scaling fish. I’d made
it Cupid’s arrow in my head. How dumb.)
Maybe real poems aren’t performed but played
attentively—the way you read. Not loud
but careful, like you’re holding something live
that might stop breathing if you squeeze. I’m proud
of all my crystallized pain. But I’d forgive
myself those years of beautiful complaint
to write one true thing. Just once. Without the paint.

V.

So here’s attempt one-hundred-ninety-four:
Claudia brings wine. We read. The lamp burns low.
I don’t combust. Metaphors stay poor
and earthbound. When you laugh, you snort. I know
because I’m there—not watching from the wings
preparing tomorrow’s anguished poetry
but present, arguing small things
like whether comedy or tragedy
maps closer to the truth. (You’re wrong. But bright
when angry.) When you leave, I let you go—
no knife, no poem, no performative fight
with gods about my fate. And if I grow
toward love—not myth—might you consider it?
A man, not metaphor, who’s learning bit
by bit to stay at tables where you sit?

Subscriptio:
Still Catullus. Still disaster-prone.
But trying to see you.
Not through poetry’s lens alone.