The Poet’s Betrayal

Anna Stoessinger

Catullus, you have never betrayed your words.

Everyone should be so lucky, to have you as their Cupid,

each fitted to another

and others to others

thousands and many thousands of couplets

joined in elegy.

Naturally it may take time

for one to find the other,

searching line after line,

careful not to miss a single detail,

while some always in the right place

succeed from the start,

boldly dressed capitals who like to be seen

by whole poems of words,

never blinded by metaphor,

never caught in the patterns of rhythm,

free to choose any whom the fates deem proper.

Or, as often happens,

a word too little chaste may belong to many,

and immodest, appear first with a verb,

then an adjective, even the most common crowd of nouns.

Still others, altogether shy and awkward,

are heard but seldom seen,

smaller voices, sadly overlooked,

often lonely, though never alone,

each promised in one poem’s time

to discover its own.

But you, Catullus, are lost in translation.

Your words have each other.

I am left to wonder, did you ever find another?

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