craven.fr (.ox.ac.uk)

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,
Et quod vides perîsse perditum ducas.
Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles,
Quum ventitabas quò puella ducebat
Amata nobis quantùm amabitur nulla.
Ibi illa multa cum jocosa fiebant,
Quæ tu volebas nec puella nolebat,
Fulsere verè candidi tibi soles.
Nunc jam illa non vult; tu quoque, impotens, noli,
Nec quæ fugit sectare nec miser vive,
Sed obstinatâ mente perfer, obdura.
Vale, puella, jam Catullus obdurat,
Nec te requiret nec rogabit invitam.
At tu dolebis, quum rogaberis nulla.
Scelesta, væ te! Quæ tibi manet vita?
Quis nunc te adibit? Cui videberis bella?
Quem nunc amabis? Cujus esse diceris?
Quem basiabis? Cui labella mordebis?
At tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.

This is, if I'm being honest, probably my favourite poem in any language. (Officially though that honour still belongs to the Iliad, the fons fontium.) I'm aware that this poem probably speaks to me so clearly now because it is simple to understand, and my tastes may well evolve with my language ability, but even so, it speaks to me on a very personal level (taking our puella as a personification of another feminine noun in my case...) Nunc jam illa non vult; tu quoque impotens noli, nec quæ fugit sectare nec miser vive, sed obstinatâ mente perfer obdura pretty much sums up the story of my coming to France. (Although I like to think I live without the venom of the last six lines!) And you know that it's a very personal poem for Catullus as well—how could anything published "ad se ipsum" not be?

The metre may be choliambic, which generally denotes a satirical tone, but as is so often the case in Latin poetry, the meter is used in deliberate counterpoint to the stress and content of the poem: Catullus is putting on a strong face, but we don't believe him. (This is something we can't do in English where stress and cæsura are bound to the metre; in Greek and Latin they are freed since the metre is quantitative and unrelated to stress, and this allows the poet to arrange harmonies and counterpoints that would not be possible otherwise. To say nothing of that distilled pith that is only possible in an inflected language.) Also, of course, as an English speaker, I am required to show partiality to iambs :-)

I've said before that it bothers me somewhat when a lyric poem uses proper names in the vocative, even though this is extremely common in Latin poetry. (I mean when they are specific individuals—I don't mean gods and muses and the like.) But that's because the poet is addressing someone whom he knows personally and the reader does not, so you can't help feeling a bit lost or left out. That is not the case here, though: here I love it! The difference being that we do feel like we know Catullus personally, because we know him through his poems.

Moreover structurally, he uses his name here in a way that ties the whole poem together: in the vocative in the first and last lines, and then in the nominative in the middle, a sudden surprising shift from the second into the third person that harmonises perfectly with the poet's own shift from self-pity to vengeful resolve. It's so impactful that if you're reading the poem out loud sitting down, at that point you almost feel the need to stand up! This poem is the perfect salve for anyone who has ever had his heart broken.