Catullus 16-22

Original Latin

Poems 18-20 are believed to be inauthentic and therefore omitted from this translation collection

XVI. ad Aurelium et Furium

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,

Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,

qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,

quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.

nam castum esse decet pium poetam

ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est;

qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,

si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici,

et quod pruriat incitare possunt,

non dico pueris, sed his pilosis

qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos.

vos, quod milia multa basiorum

legistis, male me marem putatis?

pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

XVII

O Colonia, quae cupis ponte ludere longo,

et salire paratum habes, sed vereris inepta

crura ponticuli axulis stantis in redivivis,

ne supinus eat cavaque in palude recumbat:

sic tibi bonus ex tua pons libidine fiat,

in quo vel Salisubsali sacra suscipiantur,

munus hoc mihi maximi da, Colonia, risus.

quendam municipem meum de tuo volo ponte

ire praecipitem in lutum per caputque pedesque,

verum totius ut lacus putidaeque paludis

lividissima maximeque est profunda vorago.

insulsissimus est homo, nec sapit pueri instar

bimuli tremula patris dormientis in ulna.

cui cum sit viridissimo nupta flore puella

et puella tenellulo delicatior haedo,

adservanda nigerrimis diligentius uuis,

ludere hanc sinit ut lubet, nec pili facit uni,

nec se subleuat ex sua parte, sed velut alnus

in fossa Liguri iacet suppernata securi,

tantundem omnia sentiens quam si nulla sit usquam;

talis iste meus stupor nil videt, nihil audit,

ipse qui sit, utrum sit an non sit, id quoque nescit.

nunc eum volo de tuo ponte mittere pronum,

si pote stolidum repente excitare veternum,

et supinum animum in gravi derelinquere caeno,

ferream ut soleam tenaci in voragine mula.XXI. ad Aurelium

XXI. ad Aurelium

Aureli, pater esuritionum,

non harum modo, sed quot aut fuerunt

aut sunt aut aliis erunt in annis,

pedicare cupis meos amores.

nec clam: nam simul es, iocaris una,

haerens ad latus omnia experiris.

frustra: nam insidias mihi instruentem

tangam te prior irrumatione.

atque id si faceres satur, tacerem:

nunc ipsum id doleo, quod esurire

me me puer et sitire discet.

quare desine, dum licet pudico,

ne finem facias, sed irrumatus.

XXII. ad Varum

Suffenus iste, Vare, quem probe nosti,

homo est venustus et dicax et urbanus,

idemque longe plurimos facit versus.

puto esse ego illi milia aut decem aut plura

perscripta, nec sic ut fit in palimpsesto

relata: cartae regiae, novi libri,

novi umbilici, lora rubra membranae,

derecta plumbo et pumice omnia aequata.

haec cum legas tu, bellus ille et urbanus

Suffenus unus caprimulgus aut fossor

rursus videtur: tantum abhorret ac mutat.

hoc quid putemus esse? qui modo scurra

aut si quid hac re scitius videbatur,

idem infaceto est infacetior rure,

simul poemata attigit, neque idem umquam

aeque est beatus ac poema cum scribit:

tam gaudet in se tamque se ipse miratur.

nimirum idem omnes fallimur, neque est quisquam

quem non in aliqua re videre Suffenum

possis. suus cuique attributus est error;

sed non videmus manticae quod in tergo est.

XXIII. ad Furium

Furi cui neque servus est neque arca

nec cimex neque araneus neque ignis,

verum est et pater et noverca, quorum

dentes vel silicem comesse possunt,

est pulcre tibi cum tuo parente

et cum coniuge lignea parentis.

nec mirum: bene nam valetis omnes,

pulcre concoquitis, nihil timetis,

non incendia, non graves rvinas,

non facta impia, non dolos veneni,

non casus alios periculorum.

atque corpora sicciora cornu

aut siquid magis aridum est habetis

sole et frigore et esuritione.

quare non tibi sit bene ac beate?

a te sudor abest, abest saliva,

mucusque et mala pituita nasi.

hanc ad munditiem adde mundiorem,

quod culus tibi purior salillo est,

nec toto decies cacas in anno;

atque id durius est faba et lapillis.

quod tu si manibus teras fricesque,

non umquam digitum inquinare posses

haec tu commoda tam beata, Furi,

noli spernere nec putare parvi,

et sestertia quae soles precari

centum desine: nam sat es beatus.

My Translation

Catullus 16: A Defense   

I will sodomize and face-rape you, 

cocksucking Aurelius and submissive Furius—

how dare you think you know me from just my poetry!

Since my work is erotic, not polite enough, you suppose I have no shame. 

The poet himself is dutiful and chaste, but why must his verses be?

My writings are full of wit and charm 

because they’re erotic, not polite enough– 

they can incite lust! And not just in little boys, but 

in those grizzly, ancient men who can no longer perform. 

You all, even after you cherished all these thousands of kisses, 

do you think I’m a lesser man? 

I’ll sodomize, and I’ll face-rape you.

Catullus 17: A Simple Request for the Simplest Man

O Cologna, you wish to play on that daunting bridge– 

ready to jump! But you fear the awkward legs of the bridge, 

standing on weathered, second-hand planks, which may 

break off and collapse into the deep mud.

O Cologna, let a sturdy bridge be made to your liking, 

where even leap-frogging Salian dancers would be safe– but before that, 

O Cologna, give me the greatest gift of all: a good laugh. 

I’d love a certain neighbor of mine to plunge headfirst into the mud, 

where the overflowing, putrid swamp becomes the 

darkest and deepest of chasms. 

He’s a dimwitted fellow, with less sense than that of a two-year-old boy 

sleeping in his father’s cradling arms–

an absolute idiot, for even though he married a blossoming maiden, 

more delicate than any other pretty little girl,

(who must be watched more keenly than a plump grape bunch) 

he leaves her to play as she wishes! Doesn’t care at all, 

refuses to fulfill his manly duties, but instead, like an adler tree, 

crippled by an ax and lying limp in a Ligurian ditch, 

he forgets he has any woman at all. 

How senseless he is! he doesn’t see a thing, hear a thing– 

He doesn't know which man he is, or whether he is a man at all. 

O Cologna, let me toss him headfirst from your bridge

to see if I can rouse his listless soul and leave behind, 

in the thick mud, his helpless mind like a 

Catullus 21: Control Yourself

Aurelius, father of desire, 

in all ages, with all lovers, past, present, and future, 

you desire to fuck my boy. 

You’re not clandestine: you’re constantly with him, 

joking together, clinging to his every side. All for naught! 

For, since you plot against me, my stealthy cock will fuck you first. 

If you would simply be satisfied, I’d keep to myself –

but my poor boy! I grieve for him, for you teach him 

to hunger and thirst. 

Please, hold back while there’s still an ounce of modesty left within you–

if you do not, you shall reach your end, 

with my cock in your mouth. 

Catullus 22: A Poet’s Ignorance  

Varus, that man, Suffenus, whom we know well 

is charming, witty, cosmopolitan, and is the same man 

who, for many years now, has produced a wealth of poetry– 

perhaps a thousand, ten thousand, or even more!– 

all written not, like most, on cheap parchment, but on 

princely papyrus: new books with new roller ends and new brilliant red ties, 

ruled with lead and smoothed entirely with pumice. 

Yet, when you read them, that refined, lovely Suffenus 

transforms as if into a goat-milker or ditch digger – 

he becomes so strange! 

Why do we think this is? Is this the same man who one moment 

seems so courteous, a master of wit and clever joking, 

and the next is as crude and dull as a peasant? 

Yet, when he recalls his verses, his joy is uncontained–

how amazed he is by himself!

But the truth is, we all fall prey to this vanity.  

There is not a soul around us who can’t, in some way or another, 

be compared to Suffenus. 

Each of us lives in our own delusion: we simply do not see 

our own failings.  

Catullus 23: The Simplicity of Needs

Furius, you don’t have either slaves or money, 

or a bug, spider, or even heat, but 

you definitely have a father and stepmother,

whose teeth could chew even sand.  

Your lack is fine for you, 

and your father, and even his wooden wife. 

But of course you’re alright: all of you are well, 

with strong stomachs and nothing to fear–

not flames or total ruin or wicked deeds or poisonous slander,

and no chance of any future dangers. 

And, I suppose, since you have bodies drier than nude bone, 

or whatever is drier than that, 

bodies that can endure heat, cold, and hunger, 

why should you not be satisfied? 

You don’t suffer from 

sweat, spit, snot, or a runny nose and 

have an even greater cleanliness than most, for your asshole is 

cleaner than a salt dish:

in an entire year, you don’t defecate 

even ten times, and, when you do, 

it’s no larger than a bean or pebble – 

if you rubbed it with your hands, 

they’d stay perfectly clean.

These comforts are so wonderful, Furius–  

don’t resent them, or think them worthless– 

and stop begging for the same hundred sestertia you always ask for!

You are blessed enough.