Catullus 63

Original Latin

Super alta vectus Attis celeri rate maria,

Phrygium ut nemus citato cupide pede tetigit,

adiitque opaca silvis redimita loca deae,

stimulatus ibi furenti rabie, vagus animis,

de volsit ili acuto sibi pondera silice,

itaque ut relicta sensit sibi membra sine viro,

etiam recente terrae sola sanguine maculans,

niveis citata cepit manibus leve typanum,

typanum tuum, Cybebe, tua, mater initia,

quatiensque terga tauri teneris cava digitis

canere haec suis adorta est tremebunda comitibus.

'agite ite ad alta, Gallae, Cybeles nemora simul,

simul ite, Dindymenae dominae vaga pecora,

aliena quae petentes velut exules loca

sectam meam exsecutae duce me mihi comites

rapidum salum tulistis truculentaque pelagi

et corpus evirastis Veneris nimio odio;

hilarate erae citatis erroribus animum.

mora tarda mente cedat: simul ite, sequimini

Phrygiam ad domum Cybebes, Phrygia ad nemora deae,

ubi cymbalum sonat vox, ubi tympana reboant,

tibicen ubi canit Phryx curvo grave calamo,

ubi capita Maenades ui iaciunt hederigerae,

ubi sacra sancta acutis ululatibus agitant,

ubi suevit illa divae volitare vaga cohors,

quo nos decet citatis celerare tripudiis.'

simul haec comitibus Attis cecinit notha mulier,

thiasus repente linguis trepidantibus ululat,

leve tympanum remugit, cava cymbala recrepant.

viridem citus adit Idam properante pede chorus.

furibunda simul anhelans vaga vadit animam agens

comitata tympano Attis per opaca nemora dux,

veluti iuvenca vitans onus indomita iugi;

rapidae ducem sequuntur Gallae properipedem.

itaque, ut domum Cybebes tetigere lassulae,

nimio e labore somnum capiunt sine Cerere.

piger his labante languore oculos sopor operit;

abit in quiete molli rabidus furor animi.

sed ubi oris aurei Sol radiantibus oculis

lustravit aethera album, sola dura, mare ferum,

pepulitque noctis umbras vegetis sonipedibus,

ibi Somnus excitam Attin fugiens citus abiit;

trepidante eum recepit dea Pasithea sinu.

ita de quiete molli rapida sine rabie

simul ipsa pectore Attis sua facta recoluit,

liquidaque mente vidit sine quis ubique foret,

animo aestuante rusum reditum ad vada tetulit.

ibi maria vasta visens lacrimantibus oculis,

patriam allocuta maestast ita voce miseriter.

'patria o mei creatrix, patria o mea genetrix,

ego quam miser relinquens, dominos ut erifugae

famuli solent, ad Idae tetuli nemora pedem,

ut apud nivem et ferarum gelida stabula forem,

et earum omnia adirem furibunda latibula,

ubinam aut quibus locis te positam, patria, reor?

cupit ipsa pupula ad te sibi derigere aciem,

rabie fera carens dum breve tempus animus est.

egone a mea remota haec ferar in nemora domo?

patria, bonis, amicis, genitoribus abero?

abero foro, palaestra, stadio et gyminasiis?

miser a miser, querendum est etiam atque etiam, anime.

quod enim genus figurast, ego non quod obierim?

ego mulier, ego adulescens, ego ephebus, ego puer,

ego gymnasi fui flos, ego eram decus olei:

mihi ianuae frequentes, mihi limina tepida,

mihi floridis corollis redimita domus erat,

linquendum ubi esset orto mihi Sole cubiculum.

ego nunc deum ministra et Cybeles famula ferar?

ego Maenas, ego mei pars, ego vir sterilis ero?

ego viridis algida Idae nive amicta loca colam?

ego vitam agam sub altis Phrygiae columinibus,

ubi cerva silvicultrix, ubi aper nemorivagus?

iam iam dolet quod egi, iam iamque paenitet.'

roseis ut huic labellis sonitus citus abiit

geminas deorum ad aures nova nuntia referens,

ibi iuncta iuga resolvens Cybele leonibus

laevumque pecoris hostem stimulans ita loquitur.

'agedum,' inquit 'age ferox i, fac ut hunc furor

fac uti furoris ictu reditum in nemora ferat,

mea libere nimis qui fugere imperia cupit.

age caede terga cauda, tua verbera patere,

fac cuncta mugienti fremitu loca retonent,

rutilam ferox torosa cervice quate iubam.'

ait haec minax Cybebe religatque iuga manu.

ferus ipse sese adhortans rapidum incitat animo,

vadit, fremit, refringit virgulta pede vago.

at ubi umida albicantis loca litoris adiit,

teneramque vidit Attin prope marmora pelagi,

facit impetum. illa demens fugit in nemora fera;

ibi semper omne vitae spatium famula fuit.

dea, magna dea, Cybebe, dea domina Dindymi,

procul a mea tuos sit furor omnis, era, domo:

alios age incitatos, alios age rabidos.

My Translation Journey

Attis flies in a speedy ship over the deep seas,

and as soon as his itching feet

strike Phrygian wood, he

steps into the goddess’s home–

shadowed and thick with trees–

with his soul driven by a raging fury, and his mind

wandering, heseizes a sharp stone and

tears off his testicles.

When he, no longer a man,

felt his limbs to his left

staining the

soil with

fresh blood,

his snowy-white hands

snatched a light drum–

your drum, Cybele,

your worship, Mother.

His trembling fingers beat the bull-hide as he began

to sing:

“Come, go together, everyone

to the high groves of Cybele!

Come together, Gallae,

Come together, Dindymene Mother’s wandering flock,

who seek foreign lands like exiles–

follow my path and take me as your leader!

You have carried yourselves over the sea’s

wild and savage waters

and sheared your flesh

with great hatred.

Lift Mother’s spirits now by

sprinting with wandering chaos!

Banish sluggish delay

from your mind!

Come together, and follow me,

to Cybele’s Phrygian abode,

where the voice of cymbals tinkle,

where heavy drums beat,

where the Phrygian piper sings deeply

into his curved reed and the

Maenads hurl their ivory-crowned heads with violence,

where the sacred rights are

shaken with piercing wails,

where the goddess’s wandering band

yearns to play–

come there, yes, there.

We must quicken our

hasty dancing steps.”

When Attis, a false woman now,

sang this song to her companions,

the troop suddenly howled—

their tongues quivering as

light drums moaned,

hollow cymbals clanged,

and the chorus, faster than ever,

fled toward green Ida.

Bound together with all her mad ones,

their breath falling out in heaves,

Attis presses on –

her driving spirit leading the band through the

shadowed wood.

Drum at her side,

she is wild, unbroken,

like a young calf dodging the yoke.

The swift Gallae follow

their racing leader.

And when finally, they,

exhausted from their struggle,

reach Cybele’s abode, they

slip into sleep in spite of their hunger.

Heavy weariness closes their eyes,

slackens their limbs, and lets their raging fury

melt away into the sleep’s soft embrace,

But then the gold-faced sun, its

shining eyes setting the white

sky and rough earth aflame,

forces the night’s shadows to flee with

its tireless horses.

Sleep, too, fled from Attis–

startled awake, speedy Pasithea

welcomed him into her lap of waking.

With his fury fallen away,

rising from his soft rest, Attis peers

down at his flesh – he sees,

with a lucid mind,

where he was,

what he had done,

what he had become.

His heart burns again as he

turns towards the open

shore, tear-filled eyes

gazing out into the glistening sea.

He whispered to his home

with anguish:

“Homeland,

my maker,

my mother,

I, wretched, have left you like

a runaway slave leaves his master.

I have come to Ida’s groves to

lie beside the icy abodes of wild beasts,

and wander, frenzied, through every lair.

O homeland, where are you now?

Where could I begin to seek you?

My eyes yearn to turn their

gaze back to you,

if only my mind could be freed from savage

madness for a few short moments.

Should I stay here, far from my home?

Should I stay away from

my country,

my friends,

my parents?

Should I be absent from

the forum,

the wrestling arena,

the stadium,

the gym?

O wretched, wretched me–

repeatedly I cry out for my

wretched, wretched soul!

For what form of life have I not been?

I was a woman,

a young man,

a youth,

a boy.

I was the flower of the gymnasium,

the pride of the wrestling ring!

Crowds at my door – they warmed the entrance for me,

and crowned my house with flower gardens.

At sunrise, I would awaken from my slumber…

And now, now, I am nothing but

a servant of the gods,

Cybele’s slave.

I am nothing but a Maenad now–

a fragment of my old self,

the barren husk of a man.

Should I stay here in green Ida’s frozen lands?

Should I live out my days beneath Phrygia’s high ridges,

while deer roam the woods and

boars lurk through the forest?

How I grieve now for what I have done.

Now– by god, now,

I repent.”

Hearing these words leave

his rose-tinted lips, their sound carrying

a new message to the goddess’s ears,

Cybele loosens the harnessed lions,

goading the beast in her left hand.

She speaks to it:

“Go now,” she urged,

“Go, savage one– drive him

crazy with madness,

strike him with passion,

force him back into the wood–

he longs too openly to flee my grasp.

Go now– let your tail lash your body

as you assault his body.

Let every inch of ice resound with your roars, and

shake the bronze mane on your thick neck.”

She speaks, the threatening Mother,

and loosens the harness with her hand.

Rousing from sleep,

the beast drives himself forward in fury–

running, roaring, ruining

the forest with his untamable step.

When he finds Attis,

near the wet, pale shore,

gazing into the marble sea,

he charges–

Attis, seized again with madness,

takes shelter in the savage wood.

There he stays for the rest of his sunrises:

a servant.

O Great Goddess Cybele,

Mother of Dindymus,

drive others to madness,

to fury!

Just please keep all your madness far away

from my home and

from my lady.