SAPPHO'S ODES

II

Final Part

Richard Vallance
Published in print in The Eclectic Muse ISSN 1181-8158, Vol. 11,
Christmas 2005, pp. 6-16, with an editorial commentary by Joe Ruggier, ed.
All six are also featured in multinational poetry anthology of 33 poets from 8 nations,
The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry
Ottawa: Describe Adonis Press, (c) 2005 ISBN  0-9737888-6-0
Copyright Richard Vallance
All Rights Reserved




Sappho, by Gustav Klimt







In regards as to how he reconstituted Sappho's Odes, Richard Vallance
writes … "Working from Loeb Classical Library's, "Greek Lyric I:
Sappho and Alcaeus", I have done my level best to reconstitute some
110 of these fragments into my own unified conception of 5 Odes, all
from my pen, illustrative of her greatness.  While some past poets, such
as Swinburne, have attempted to  "translate" some of Sappho's poetry,
no other poet in history, so far as I can tell, has so painstakingly laboured
as have I to bring them back to life in metre similar to that of her ancient
Aeolic Greek.   Still, some 70% of the verse you see here is my own
original poetry imagined into being from the crucible of Sappho's
fragments. "





Index
Odes I, The Night,
II, Love
and III, Symposium, The Feast
were published in our prior issue



Ode IV, LIKE THE GREAT POETS (I)


     Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
     Married to immortal verse,...

     George Frederic Handel, from "L'Allegro" [Parte Seconda, Air 32]
     after John Milton's "L'Allegro"
 


1

Come unto me, all my Graces rosy-armed,
come, daughters of Zeus, our Divine Creator,
come, come and inspire me, sublimely charmed
with your holiness, your frail translator.
 
2

Come, divinest lyre, come unto me
and revive in me your mortal voice.
Come then, Muses, fair and free,
lend my tears to your immortal voice.
 
3
 
Come, come to me, Muses, now as you leave
the mansions of your smiling father, Zeus!
Now, Aphrodite, lovelier, I believe,
than your Graces are, sign in me your truce.
 
4
 
Fair, O my goddess, my golden tressed,
Come unto me, I long for you again!
Aphrodite, whom young Gyrinno's blessed,
yes, come.  Come, salve my soul's icy pain.
 
5
 
Now I, wild, your messenger of spring,
like the full-throated nightingale who sings,
allow my poor lyre's strains to you to wing
on my stolen Olympian wings.
 
6
 
Even the finest bards of Earth may be
like roaming stars her plaintive silver moon
conceals when in all her fullness look! -- she
breaks on our wildest dreams from sleep's gloom.
 
7
 
Though I never may live to imagine
any girl who will hone her lyric skills
as I through futurity will, know my sin
is frailty.   And I am left all chills.
 
8
 
All other virgin's paëns fade!   I
raise sublimer music than them all,
I, your Lesbian singer, while I sigh
Apollo's wild songs, as I'm held in thrall!
 
9
 
Trilling more sublimely than any lyre's
notes is my graceful voice, purer than gold
is my every song that faithfully aspires
to sing all my joys to devotees untold.
 
10 
 
Aphrodite, how like a babe I sing!
Hearing my stunning Odes, yes, all rejoice
in every strophe or antistrophe I bring
before your altar, according to free choice.
 
11

As often as I've danced in the company
of my Lydian damsels by your full moon,
seeing our rosy-fingered sunset flee,
how long may we dance before I too swoon?
 
12
 
How long will I outshine your dimmest stars,
the Pleiades, or I surpass their light
on the seas before our full moon bars
us all in clouds and clouds my dimming sight?
 
13
 
How frosty is your moonlight fallen o'er
our fields where their dews are shed .  I weep
for poetry, while roses blossomed by our door
with chervil and melilot also fall asleep.
 
14
 
As often as I wander to and fro
before our bowered door, I recall you,
my holy Muses, and in the soothing flow
of my verse my soul pours out her rue.
 
15
 
In my visions have I watched you nightly,
Cyprogenia.   Pray, how long may I lead
my gossamer chorus, born of Aphrodite
into moonlit fields, to share our high love's need?
 
16
 
Though, now that rosy-fingered Dawn
draws near, I wonder, as I shiver so,
Muses, will you forsake me like the fawn
Aphrodite left dying in the bitter snow?
 
17
 
Fair haired Aphrodite, if only I
might die like the little, newborn fawn,
whom shepherds found alone in snow cradled
in death on the approach of winter's dawn!
 
18
 
Knowing this, I pray I attain the lot
of bards who perished so long before me,
who knew no lamentation while they sought
to serve their wild Muses on land and sea.

19
 
Believe me, Aphrodite, see, I grow
weary of my strains, your strong immortal strains.
I beg of you, goddess, come in, bestow
Death on my verse, oracle of my pains.
 
© by Richard Vallance 2005
 

January 8 2005; revised March 17 2005


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ODE V, THANATOS, YES, DEATH


    1
 
  Long before my birth, wild Apollo,
  elected me, your loving poetess,
  to Lesbos, and my Fate is true
  to you, your Grace.   Know I confess.

  2
 
  May I surpass the faint eternal stars,
  the Pleiades, or surpass their light
  falling on the Aegean the full moon bars
  with clouds as old age clouds my sight?
  
  3
  
  Apollo, surely you must know my heart
  will break, and like the high mountain oak
  you've snapped, your gales cut me apart
  as rainstorms fell me in one fell stroke.
  
  4
 
  Where wind runs on through your rain-swept clover
  it loosens my arms as long thunder clouds
  go sweeping along over and over
  you, even you, in your dusk's fainting shrouds. 
 
  5
  
  Apollo, has my gold lyre served you well?
  Apollo, strike, I ask, and fast bestow
  death on your oracle, whose minor spell
  is broken, as well your pining Muses know.
  6
  
  Know, though I may recline my head tonight,
  my failing breath oppresses me and I,
  I cannot muster strength enough to fight
  my fate's sealed decree, howling, "You must die".
  
  7
 
  Fair gods, night begs my panging heart to sleep.
  Midnight's come.  She glimmers around my bed:
  though I no longer toss, you'll see me weep
  for all those years I've lived alone in dread.
  
  8
 
  I may, I fear, when you, my Grace, appear,
  I may... may I no longer breathe or sigh
  for sad Orpheus I no longer hear
  playing his wild lyre for me, when I die?
 
  9
  No!   Shall I hear afresh the prophecy
  the new year's first winter storm forecasts?
  Dare I stare outside my hovel, there to see
  snow fall all around, though now it never lasts?
 
  10
 
  As long as winter's gone and died to spring,
  I may remain alive a while and greet
  Proserpine, to hear her gladly sing
  with Orpheus, "Was love so very fleet?"
 
  11
  
  My lovers long since dead, your piquant roses had
  bitter thorns for me.  They've bled me to the quick!
  Hear me now.   Yes, know I'm no longer sad
  to have lost you.   Know I die too, all too sick.
  
  12
 
  May there still linger a wild nightingale
  outside my greening sill who mimics me?
  Does her longing midnight's song exhale
  Diana's moonstruck moonlit mystery?
 
  13
  
  Yes, I hear you now, my plaintive nightingale
  in the yard, though are you flinging metric fire
  from your shimmered throat?  No!  Must your song fail
  me?  My throat's parched my voice.  Where is my lyre?
  
  14
    
  Thanatos, yes, oh Death, at last I hear
  your near approach!   Come in, though stealthily,
  like night.   Have you whispered in my ear?
  "Sappho, I Diana, strike!  Welcome me."
  
  15
 
  Soon I, like all Earth's weeping bards, shall be
  amongst her stars, Diana's silver moon
  concealing me, when in her fullness she
  breaks over Earth and still weeps for my life's gloom.
 
  © by Richard Vallance 2005
  January 15 and 26 2005, March 21 2005


 
 

  
 

 







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MANAGING EDITOR'S COMMENT:  "In my capacity as the
Managing Editor of TEM, in my capacity, also, as the fine Artist who
made the Papacy a work of art in my book, This Eternal Hubbub, I am
calling with the united voice of all the Artists of all Time upon the
Roman Catholic Christian Church A] to fish Sappho out of her hiding
place in the Tora Bora of God's Heaven for us all to gaze on her, applaud
her, congratulate her and tell her just how well we admire such a great
Pagan … B] to pay Sappho money for damages in an international Court
of Human Rights for the unspeakable crime, the irreparable harm that
some fundamentalist factions among the first Christians, the direct
ancestors of the modern Roman Catholic Christians, committed against
this poor Lady by burning her oeuvre and by virtually, and so self-
righteously, committing what may well be termed her soul to the flames.
Just imagine:  such an intelligent Primitive Artist who had none of our
modern comforts, no cookers, .no washing machines, no toilet and
sewage systems, no telephones, no radios, no modern Courts of Law nor
Copyright Law whereby to defend herself … her gorgeous poetry was
positively the proudest thing in her life as much as in the Life of her
primitive audience and the first Christians burnt it causing irreparable
harm to what may well be termed her Soul.  What do the Christians take
us for?   Do they think that God Himself does not care about the
beautiful Souls of such intelligent Primitive People who suffered things
which none of us are called upon to suffer in our modern sty of
Comfort?  People who were positively blameless in not knowing God or
Jesus Christ? –  and who, to become achievers such as Sappho was, did
not have the example of great ancestors to help them, unlike ourselves
who, to become achievers in our chosen field, have their example to
encourage and cheer us on? I am positively calling upon all modern
Roman Catholic Christians to compensate Sappho for the unbelievable
crime of their ancestors by paying her money for damages in an
International Court of Human Rights … poor great Lady!"

Joe M. Ruggier, Managing Editor of TEM, 6th October
2005