Scarriet is flying in new translations to the March Madness arenas for the 2023 tournament!
Rumor has it Marla Muse will be more visible than ever this year.
Swarms of visitors have invaded the swanky beach city of Colombo, (6 million!) Sri Lanka (Ceylon) anticipating the clash of great ‘sex and death’ poems.
The Greeks want more representation. They feel the Roman poets get more attention simply because their sex poems are filthier.
“Not true,” says Marla Muse. “The ancient Greeks are more racy.”
Marla Muse has been mocked in every quarter for this remark.
She shot back in Greek, the translation being roughly, “Go fuck yourself.”
But we all need to remember this tournament features death more than sex, really. And the top officials at Scarriet demand excellence and good taste over everything. Passion, sure. No prudery. But good taste above all. Poe has burrowed into the soul of the most influential on the Scarriet board. Poe said Taste (between Truth and Passion and connecting them) is, in fact, the true realm of the poem.
Please join us in celebrating this new translation in the Ancient or Early Bracket, sometimes called the Augustus Bracket, the Socrates Bracket, or the Caesar Bracket:
NEVER AGAIN, ORPHEUS -ANTIPATROS or ANTIPATOR OF SIDON 150 B.C.
Never again, Orpheus
Will you lead the enchanted oaks,
Nor the rocks, nor the beasts
Independent of men and their twisted cloaks.
Never again will you sing to sleep
The roaring wind, nor the hail,
Nor the drifting snow, nor the boom
Of the sea wave, pale.
You are murdered now.
Led by your, mother, Calliope,
The Muses shed tears,
Over you, for years, their bright poetry.
What good does it do to mourn
For our sons when the immortal
Gods are powerless to save
Their children from death’s dark portal?
And this following translation, too good to be believed, of a poem by a Greek contemporary of Sappho, Alcaeus—who may have exchanged poems with her.
HEART-SICK HELEN -ALCAEUS 620 b.C.
Heart-sick Helen
clutched her breast and wept for Paris
who set small fires to deceive.
On his boat she stole away,
leaving the bed of her child and husband.
Angry Greece can no longer grieve.
All for Helen they kill. And never again
can war punish such noble and beautiful men,
sex and war hence to these a toy.
How many brothers of Paris
lie planted in black earth
across the plains of Troy?
And here, from the Napoleon or Romantic Bracket, in English… How many know this poem?
Lewti (rhymes with beauty!) is a name invented by the poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a terrific poet, if an overrated intellect. The English, according to Marla Muse, are overrated intellectually—a sexy and aggressive race. Sexy Samuel T! This is one of Coleridge’s best poems. And we suspect it’s hardly known. Haunting! And sexy! Blimey! You can almost smell the muddy boots and the opium…
LEWTI -SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1800 A.D.
At midnight by the stream I roved,
To forget the form I loved.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam
And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Tamaha’s stream;
But the rock shone brighter far,
The rock half sheltered from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew.—
So shines my Lewti’s forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair,
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the Moon it passed;
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colours not a few,
Till it reach’d the Moon at last:
Then the cloud was wholly bright,
With a rich and amber light!
And so with many a hope I seek
And with such joy I find my Lewti;
And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty!
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind,
If Lewti never will be kind.
The little cloud—it floats away,
Away it goes; away so soon?
Alas! it has no power to stay:
Its hues are dim, its hues are grey—
Away it passes from the Moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky—
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—
And yet, thou didst not look unkind.
I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high;
I ne’er beheld so thin a cloud:
Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below and now above,
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud
Of Lady fair—that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have perish’d
From fruitless love too fondly cherish’d.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—
For Lewti never will be kind.
Hush! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever:
Like echoes to a distant thunder,
They plunge into the gentle river.
The river-swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous Birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune!
O beauteous Birds! ’tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the Moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.
I know the place where Lewti lies
When silent night has closed her eyes—
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The Nightingale sings o’er her head:
Voice of the Night! had I the power
That leafy labyrinth to thread,
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently-swelling wave.
Oh! that she saw me in a dream,
And dreamt that I had died for care!
All pale and wasted I would seem
Yet fair withal, as spirits are!
I’d die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.
That’s all we have for now. The complete brackets will be released soon. Remember, all it takes is two wins (do the math) and your favorite poem is in the Sweet Sixteen!
We’re off to meet Marla Muse at her send-off party in Lesbos…