Four Poems After Sannazaro by Alex Wong
PN Review 213, September - October 2013
Jacopo Sannazaro (1458- 1530) was one of the most important poets of the Italian Renaissance. He was a member of the humanist academy of Pontano at Naples, and a courtier of distinction under the last three Neapolitan kings of the Trastámara dynasty. Among his vernacular works, the greatest is his Arcadia, in prose and verse, an inspiration to Sidney. But he was lauded most for his Latin. His Vergilian epic On the Virgin Birth was, with Vida's Christiad, among the greatest sacred poems of the age; his Piscatory Eclogues, which exchanged the shepherds of Vergil and Theocritus for the fishermen of the Bay of Naples, set the example for a small genre. The following pieces are all based upon Latin works, in hexameters or elegiacs. They are dedicated to the memory of Prof. Philip Ford, a champion of Renaissance Latin poetry, who died this year.
For the essence of humanism is the belief that nothing which has ever interested living men and women can wholly lose its vitality.
                                                                                      - Pater
To the Ruins of Cumae, Most Ancient of Cities
An Elegy
In this place
Where piled
Illustrious walls
    Cumae's fame,
    Of Tyrrhene Sea
    First glory;
Whither hied
From far shores
Foreign guests
    To see the lair,
    The tripods of
    Apollo;
Where vagrant sailor
Met land
In your antique ports
    Questing a vestige
    Of the old flight
    Of Daedalus;
Inconceivable, once,
When your fate
Was fast:
In this place now, deep woods
Hide brutes
Of the wild.
Where latent lay the arcane
Fane of fate-saying Sybil, now pens up
    The pastor
    At vesper
His sated flock.
This senate which
In old times gathered
The sacred elders
    Of snakes is made the house
    And of the birds.
Full-freighted with
So many waxen
Busts of high-born fathers,
    The halls, a heap
    Lie, at last
    By their own
    Mass demolished.
Trodden, once-weighted
With sacred trophies,
The doorways all:
    Even dismembered gods
    The grass
    Covers.
So much of noble, from the worker's hand,
So many famous tombs
So many holy ashes, one vast ruin
Presses, one wide fall
Whelms.
And now within
The desolate house,
And everywhere
Dejected rafters,
    A foreigner sticks
    The spiny boar
    With spears.
Nor this doom did the god himself
Sing prophetic to the Hellene keels:
Nor that guiding dove, sent forth
The spacious ocean over.
And do we lament
    If the time
    Our lives
    Are given
    Flees
And soon is spent?
Hear, even cities violent
    Death
    Ravishes.
And if only these my oracles were delusive,
And long posterity should hold me vain;
Yet neither shall you forever fare, who enfold
Seven summits: neither you, who surge
Emulous from the surface of the waters.
And even you,
A hard thing to believe,
My own mother
The grim ploughman
    Will cleave
    And overturn
   Â
And say, 'This city too once had her fame'.
Fate drags men on
In force of fate
Even cities
And anything you see
Time itself will one day take away.
Conception
from De Partu Virginis
So much outsaid, at once she sees her home
Flare with a foreign light; it fills the house
     And then, she
Scarcely suffering ardent rays and flashing
     Fires, she
Dreads the more.
But the womb (strange to say, though an old story)
Without force, without spot to virtue, swells
      With the arcane word; vigour drives down
      Persecuted from the height;
Irradiant vigour and all-powerful
Vigour fulfilling all descends, and this
Is God, there; - God suffusing limb and limb,
Giving itself in mixture with the womb.
With such a touch the entrails of the girl
Shudder; Nature falls to quiet, and fears:
Inspired, as thundered upon: - and all perplexed
By whirling reel and storm of things weird;
Searches a cause occult, but feels the long
Power, and the greater will of godhead:
Solid earth is tossed;
And He whose sway is uttermost of all
Thunders along the left of the vacant vault
In testament to advent of a son
        So, wide abroad,
        All mortals hear,
Whom the great Ocean rings around,
And Tethys, and sand-throated Amphitrite.
Between the midmost of the blare in sky
       And crash of land,
The flying one, in beauty hastening
       With wings
Poised evenly in deftest balancings,
While all things shook, departed and swam through
       High places
The maiden watches him in soaring clouds
With pulsing shoulders slicing the immense
Space of the winds, ashine with painted plume,
Seeking the dome of heaven, through
               The breezes - whom
Watching the while with words the virgin followed:
    Mighty wings,
    Of towering aether
         Ornament - who
         Penetrate the
Tracklessness of things, and, flying on,
Leave far behind the clouds and eastern winds
O whether blissful stars in happy courses,
Sidereal signs revolving in their rings
Await you; or a house of high-built crystal
Beckons; lucid zones of a glass domain;
Or whether dwellings nearer to the breast
Of the Thunder-Master call you back to where
       Gapes at its crest
       Flaming Olympus land,
And Love, and burning breeze of liquid fires,
Feed you with themselves; go hence and bear
Your witness in our chastity's defence.
No more than this.
She bends her gaze
And runs uneasy beams along the mountains.
Phyllis
After the first Piscatory Eclogue
lycidas.
Mycon, lately, while I wandered
Our beaches close around, biding
The tunnies, that come to the feed;
I wondered why
So weirdly the ravens
Cried me; in crag and cavern
Water-fowl, perching wet, poured out
Plaintive sorrows into the sad rocks; -
When the arching dolphins neither leapt from the level
Sea, nor in the waves
Danced their dances, in their way; for the day was
When Phyllis whom we loved we covered in soil,
Wept at the mound for the godly shadow,
Wretched we; and after,
Even now, remain among
Desolate sea-breezes;
And rustic Pylemon never hesitates
To speak us solace.
             mycon.
Surely thus the reason, while I roamed
All the whole night over, here and there; -
While I passed Posillipo's wide slope,
And teeming waters of Nesis, in my quick boat -
That groaning gulls bellowed some mournful thing.
Phyllis to her death-rites;
Phyllis, if we may believe,
Herself was calling them on -
To grieving and the pieties of the grave.
             lycidas.
The sight of such a sad procession;
Now, my friend, I recollect it.
With these eyes, myself I saw
Those hands and faces; with these eyes,
What funeral, how wretched. Though at last
Greedy grief did not dash me despairing
Onto the cliffs and rocks; nor fire,
On her pyre, devoured me; and no god
Drowned me in the ocean.
             mycon.
Lycidas, my friend, do you not feel,
Happier this has been for her than if
Still now she were alive, and yet to bear
Lycotas' smoky caves, or the poor roof
Of bristly Amyntas; and were even
Seeking still for the hook some worthless bait,
Or weaving up, with slender osiers,
The tears of traps and nets?
But you, if you have any song
To wail old flames; sad words to witness
Long-beloved shades and ashes;
Friend, begin. The shore has lain out smooth
For you her yielding sands;
The crazy breakers lay their rumbling down.
             lycidas.
Indeed, these verses, lately, hastily,
Fashioned for her funeral, - I
From port's-end gazing on the beaches' bow,
Doing honour to the stones of her snowy grave; -
These I shall begin.
You, scatter with your hand, over the tomb,
Cypress with its cones; cover
With green myrtle the mound.
             mycon.
Look: from the cerulean sea
We bring you mosses; gleaming conches;
Nor do we spare
Coral sought the whole deep ocean through,
Hardly had from the bosom of the deep,
Torn from the sea-bed rocks …
                                           Now Lycidas,
Begin the solemn song.
Begin, while Milcon to the sun unfurls
His nets, and spreads around
His sodden ropes in circles on the sand.
             lycidas.
What rocky bluffs, what coastal caves
Will you lay open now to me,
             Divine Nereides?
What grasses from a secret shore,
             Our Father, Glaucus; -
What herbs with magic juices will you show,
Glaucus, by the powers of which,
Leaving the land behind me, wretched I,
Made a new dweller in the ocean-flood, -
Shall follow you among the midmost waves,
Transformed in body, with two-pointed tail
             Beating the marble foam?
Why should I in misery long for life
On lonely earth, no Phyllis left for me?
What shall I now find sweet; - now, with my light
Ripped away? For what, here, should I hope?
Why should I linger any longer now,
Luckless - to look on desiccated shrubs
             And desert beaches, lie
Supine upon these clammy weeds of the sea,
And throw my words, vain words, at a deaf tomb?
And this is the marriage, these
The happy wedding rites
             I am to celebrate.
And thus does Venus give the joys at last,
Joys of the long-wished, pine-torch-blazing day?
And does Lucina thus
             Grant only fear in the dark?
Who, my Phyllis; who took you away?
Away from me, - sole solace of my life,
             Once; and only hope? -
Now a pain and everlasting grief,
             Deep in the heart.
             It was not given
             Me with you
             To join in sleep
             So long desired
             Nor pluck what sweet things youth held out to us;
             Nor us to lead
             Together linked
             Life to its latest years.
Now,
          So hard to think it so,
                                                This stone
Covers you over.
                            And for me, you are nowhere.
Nowhere on earth is Phyllis; but story and shade
Trouble my wretched nights with sleeplessness;
And I am wretched; and in what land, at last,
Shall I pursue you? Which way shall I follow?
- Once, because of you, I loved the land;
The people; happy cities between walls.
Now what joy I have is from the wave,
My wandering all the bounds of the great profounds,
My straying as I will in stormy waters,
Mixing with Triton crowds, and ocean beasts
That live among the rocks, and even among
The ugly bodies of the monstrous seals;
Out, where I may never see the land.
And now? Now to that land
Tended so many years; and men; and towns:
Farewell. Farewell, dear beaches, and farewell
Phyllis, my best -
                        For you,
By the flowing waters, we shall build
Seven altars: seven shaggy calves,
             Beasts of the mighty sea,
We will sacrifice; a yearly rite,
For you
              And we will hang for you
Garlands of oysters, seven to a string;
Oysters and murex and white shiny pearls.
Here, Nisaeë; and Cymodoce,
               All shaken loose, her flaxen hair;
Soft Palaemon, come with his noble mother;
And Panope; and she who guards the deeps
Of Sicily, Galatea, will, for you,
Weave solemn dances, and sing out the songs
That from a godly heart
Prophetic Proteus taught,
Weeping the funeral of great Achilles,
Soothing the bitter grief of Thetis,
In song.
Dear one, whether you are blessed to dwell
In the high heavens, or now
Among Elysian ghosts,
You follow fish through Lethe's light
Pellucid pools; or pluck, with a sweet hand,
Eternal blossoms; crocus and narcissus,
             And vivid amaranth;
And mix with tender violets the pale green
Of drooping sea-weed; - yet watch over us,
             And softly come.
For ever you shall be
A power of the waters;
Always an omen of joy for fishermen.
As to the nymphs, and Nereus,
And golden Amphitrite:
             So will the lucky fishing boats pour out
Libations to your soul.
For now, accept this final song,
Over your tomb; a song the fisherman,
Tying the line to the bending rod, may read;
And from the steep cliff, sigh: -
             In the lap of her beloved Siren
                                Phyllis lies.
             River Sebeto, blessed by the twin graves
                                You flow.
             mycon.
Lycidas, your verses are sweet music;
I would not rather hear
The halcyon's lament, or in damp grass
By waterside the swan in sweet complaint.
For ever may Megaria
Offer you conches by the score,
And from its rocky crags, may Mergelline
Yield you oysters, and sea-urchins … Friend,
Since night puts off her shadows darkening,
The sun not scaling, yet, the heavens' span: -
Begin again. Repeat your song for me;
For it is pleasant to hear songs repeated.
             lycidas.
But do not drive me further into sorrow,
Mycon; already my eyes and cheeks,
All pallid, have been drowned enough …
Look, how grief is drying up my throat
And makes my deep heart
             Quake with sobbing;
My voice sickens and leaves my gasping soul.
Yet some time I shall sing this song again,
             And more songs, better perhaps than this,
So long as the Muse does not forsake the singer.
And even for wind-borne ships to see, one day,
At Prochyta,
Or yet beneath the naked cliffs
That lie along Miseno's coast,
I shall write these verses out, and draw
Great rusty characters,
So sailors passing by, from the deep sea,
May read them over and say,
'Lycidas made these poems'.
But seeing all along the shore
Our friends, light-hearted, wait, and want
Your strength to heave the nets, then come,
And let us rise. I shall sit by her tomb.
You go to your companions; now is time
             To look for bait.
Your empty traps are floating without weight.
Thelgon
From the fifth Piscatory Eclogue
Galatea was sitting with me, here
Under this rock
Gazing at Capri and the lands that bear
The names of the Sirens
And far away, the burnt and coaly head
Of Vesuvius
Pointed out old Herculaneum,
Lying in ruins.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
Lord Triton, take these lover's groans to Nereus;
Lord Triton who with sinuous calling conch
Can make the waters over you resound;
Go tell the whales, wave-wandering, and tell
The bearded faces of the sea-bluff sides.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
Here first she met
At last alone
   With me,
The pleader
Here gave her snowy
Hand outheld -
   Sweet memory
And bitter
And held me dumb
With eyes' mute tensile gaze.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
Come, darling.
Why do you loiter?
I left
My friends, and
Fishing boat, only
For you.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
Here the poplar lets its shadow fall,
    Only for you.
I stroke its bark; I kiss its trunk;
Trace your foot-tracks here - and what
Your skin has touched, whatever it be,
    I decorate with flowers.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
Who is your favourite now? If fronded mountains
Please you most - mayflowers, munching goats -
   Then know
   I too
Am studying the music of the reed:
My songs have filled the beeches, scored with our names;
My pipe hangs proud, in the boughs, in the woods of Maenalus.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
But if you still love best
These shores, and all the treasures of the deep,
Who is more learned in the art
   Of herding fish?
Or gores the wave with trident true as mine?
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
And I would race with dolphins in
The bosom of the sea with you
    For judge, and never waver.
What profit in bravado? I
Have hardly time to count my hooks
    My ropes, and nets, on the sand …
Nets
Weighed down
With lead
Weels
Woven of willow
Of Sinuessa.
   Triton
   Lift from the surging sea
   Your face
   Of ocean blue.
The cliffs of Liguria know me,
   Coasts of Gaul:
So far I've hunted over sea and river.
The great Saône recalls me,
   And the Var,
And hideous feral beasts of British waters.
   Pull down your face
   Of ocean blue,
   Triton,
   Beneath the sea.
I've given you a poem, and you're still leaving.
No wind has carried you off, no foreign land.
But take my poem; I'll trouble you no further.
Go, have your fun devising, every night,
Dances, ever sultrier, ever new.
Â
   Father Triton
   Pull it down
   Your face
   Of ocean blue,
Alex Wong was born in 1988 in London, where for the most part he was schooled, though he spent much of his childhood in O’ahu, Hawai’i. He studied and now teaches English literature at the University of Cambridge. Poems Without Irony, his first collection of poetry, was published by Carcanet in 2016, and his original and translated verse has appeared in PN Review, New Poetries VI, The Forward Book of Poetry 2018, and elsewhere. He also edits and introduces the Selected Verse of Algernon Charles Swinburne and the Selected Essays of Walter Pater for Carcanet Classics. He is the author of a critical book, The Poetry of Kissing in Early Modern Europe (2017), and his studies of English literature have appeared in various periodicals. Shadow and Refrain is his second collection of poems.
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