Temple of Artemis;
Steal the cheese,
But remember
It isn't free!
For Artemis is always hunting!
Hunger.
But who puts out the dairy?
Wisdom.

For the kid who doesn't
Feel the need to thieve.
For the outsider of the pack;
For who wanders back
Carrying foodstuffs
They foraged,
They collected.

This is a leader.

"For why did you not steal, coward?!"
"I am not cowardly."
"Not fit then, lackey!?"
"I can lift, I can run."
"Then what was it?"
"The others couldn't."
"Your kind then, eh?!
You're kind then, eh!?"
"I'm good
As long as 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥."

It is for the stranger of the temple
Who is no stranger to the temple!

One who cares for the altars, one & all.

These are my English translations of poems and epigrams by the ancient Greek poet Callimachus aka Kallimachos. His surviving poems come from various sources including the Greek Anthology and the Garland of Meleager. The epigrams of Callimachus were so admired in antiquity that they became part of the school curriculum.

For Gail White, who put me up to these translations.

Here I lie, Timon, hateful as ever;
curse me as you go, but please go, wherever.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here Saon,
son of Dicon,
now rests in holy sleep:
don't say the good die young, friend,
lest gods and mortals weep.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

Once sweetest of the workfellows,
our shy teller of tall tales
—fleet Crethis!—who excelled
at every childhood game …
now you sleep among long shadows
where everyone’s the same …
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

My friend found me here,
a shipwrecked corpse on the beach.
He heaped these strange boulders above me.
Oh, how he would wail
that he “loved” me,
with many bright tears for his own calamitous life!
Now he sleeps with my wife
and flits like a gull in a gale
—beyond reach—
while my broken bones bleach.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

Half my soul survives, but I don’t know whether Love or Death stole the remainder, only that it’s vanished, forever. Perhaps it flew back to the boys? And yet I often warned them, “Youngsters, don't let the vagabond in!” Now she flits and floats about, sick with love and fit to be ******.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Excerpt from “Hymn to Apollo”
by Callimachus
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We have called him Phoibos and Nomios since he tended the yoke-mares of Amphrysos, fired with love for young Admetos. Lightly the cattle-herd waxed larger; nor did the flock’s she-goats lack kids under Apollo’s watchful eye; nor were the ewes barren without milk but all had lambs frolicking at their feet; and soon one would become the mother of twins.

Epikydes roams the hills, tracking every hare and hind through the frost and snow. But if someone says, "Look, here’s a wounded deer," he won’t touch it. And that’s how I am at love: wildly pursuing the fleeing game while flying past whatever lies available in my path.

Who are you, washed-up stranger? Leontichos found your corpse on the beach then carried you to this nameless tomb, sobbing for the fragility of life, since he too roams the seas like a gull.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To the Cup-Bearer
from “The Boyish Muse”
by Callimachus
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Decant the wine then toast "To Diokles!" Nor does the beautiful boy Achelous touch his hallowed ladlefuls. So beautiful the boy, Achelous, passing beautiful, and if any disagree, let me alone comprehend real beauty.

Pitiless ship, having borne away my life’s sole light,
I beseech you by Zeus, watchmaster of the harbor,
Return her!
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

They informed me of your death,
Heraklieitos,
and I wept with remorse
remembering how often we two had watched the sun set
on our discourse.
But although Death took all, he forgot one thing:
your Nightingales still sing,
nor can his foul hand ever touch them.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He stooped to strew flowers on his stepmother's tomb,
thinking she'd been changed for the better by her doom.
But he died when her monument landed on his head.
Moral: Stepmothers are dangerous, alive or dead.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flee the sea’s testy company,
mariner,
when the Kids are setting!
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We buried Melanippus that morning; then at sunset his sister Basilo joined him; for she couldn’t bear to bury her brother and live; then their father Aristippus bewailed a twofold woe and all Cyrene wept to see a household of happy children left desolate.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All the Cyclades are Elysian islands,
but Delos shines like a poem in the sea;
she cradled and suckled Apollo,
the first to recognize him as a god.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Halikarnassian, my dear friend,
although you lie elsewhere now,
reduced to mere ashes,
still your songs—your nightingales—survive;
nor will the underworld,
although it destroys everything,
ever touch them with its lethal hand.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“Wealth without goodness is worthless increase, while goodness requires substance.”—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“A poet’s lies should at least be plausible.”—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“A big book is a huge bore.”—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“Excessive knowledge is unwieldy, while a man with a loose tongue is like a child with a knife.”
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I forgot to remember,
I remembered to have forgot.

You know the crazy thing about clocks?
Well, eventually,
They all stop ticking.
Like a sun dial,
The gnomon stops
Without light to make shadows.
But the funny thing is,
Time goes on.
Time is a constant.

I remember to forget,
I forget in remembrance.

Is Time despondent?
Is Time ebullient?

Memory. What's it mean to me?
Thoughts. What's it mean to be?

Is Time periodic?
Is Time cyclical?

What I remember
Is all; that I haven't forgetten.

If Time had a name,
They were called Kronos.
If Time has a title,
It is the Ouroboros.

What I forget
Is nothing; that I haven't remembered.

I remember in forgettance.
I forget to have forgot.

"But what of these truths?" Asked Plato of Socrates.

"But what is truth in purest essence?
For what of the material is purely true?
Yet, by the very nature of the immaterial,
What may we ever quantifiably call truth which we ourselves have no alternative way of examining?
In going so far as to ask for an answer, you must already have proof.
What proof is there that there is truth?"
Spoke Socrates.

"Mentor, you ramble."
Spoke Plato.

"Pupil, I rumble!"
Spoke Socrates.

Maybe you were never ready
to carry a weight that’s so heavy.
If you can’t set the course,
you’re going to need to follow.
You can bring water to a horse
but you can’t make it swallow.

You have to put your foot down
to ever take a step forward.
From the city back to town,
from space bound to homeward.

But she’s a Medusa with a mirror,
frozen inlove with her own reflection.
You scream your lungs out but even near her,
you’re always ignored;under detection.

Maybe you were never prepared
to share a burden that should never be shared.
It’s been a few years; it’s been some time
since you lodged your last complaint.
I’d like to believe you’re now doing fine,
and you’d like to believe you’re just a saint.

You have to put your foot down
to ever take a step forward.
Follow the air bubbles to not drown
don’t turn a drama into a horror.

But she’s a Medusa with a mirror,
frozen inlove with her own reflection.
If she can’t move will you still fear her,
and her manipulation and deflection?

I sometimes forget Medusa was victim to a curse,
and I never tried to make it better but I sure as hell made it worse.
Maybe Athena could’ve been more forgiving and kind,
she didn’t have to leave her living, or she could’ve made her blind.
She could’ve plugged her ears
so she wouldn’t have to hear the screams
of the men who holds fears
of a woman who dreams.
She could’ve ripped off her nose
or just taken her voice,
sometimes that the way it goes
you just don’t get a choice.

But she’s a Medusa with a mirror,
frozen inlove with her own reflection.
Even if she could scream no one would hear her,
and long ago got used to the rejection.

Tes cheveux de braise,
Peu semblables à ceux des autres marseillaises ;
Et tes beaux yeux !
Ah... Plus prêts de moi, je les veux !

Et ton parfum exotique,
Dans le creux où se réfugie
Ta croix catholique ;
Dans ma tête, tout s'assagit !

Ton corps aphroditien,
Enfant bénie du feu,
Si tu le veux, je suis tiens...
– Muse ! Tu fais des envieux.

Tu es précieuse
Comme une nébuleuse.
Sous le soleil à peine chaud,
Oublie tes maux...

Partage moi ton lyrisme,
Qui m'inspire,
Comme ta belle voix de lyre :
"Quel érotisme !"

Crater and crevice,
Your surface yet sheathes,
A heart still beating, A core still aching,
For you have been torn,
Asunder your whole,
Her hands sent you tumbling,
Cast into the light,
You traveled past boundaries,
Oh great god of flight,
But this, you knew, would be your last fight.

Your surface ripped clean,
Yet you still endure,
Through frigid cold, through torrid heat,
Your surface still sheathes,
A heart still heating, A core still quaking,
Your form it still breathes,
You have melted, You have hardened,
Yet you still stand firm,
Shrunken and shaped, yet standing tall,
The smallest god still of iron will.

Krater and kylikes,
Do drink, Dear god, from silver sheen,
While time does move, and remakes, removes,
Temples and hymns once shouted to you,
Forgotten not, though lost to name,
For in the heavens, you do remain,
A pinprick framed by a praising sun,
Oh swift-tongued god, now etched in night,
Unshaken still, you burn so bright.

Aphrodite, immortal, enthroned in wonder,
Sky-daughter, webstress of love schemes, I entreat you
not to break my spirit with pangs of anguish,
Queen, Lady, Mother,

but now come to me, if in the past you ever
also heeded me when I cried from afar, and,
leaving behind the golden house of your father
Zeus, you descended

borne in a chariot yoked to a flock of lovely
sparrows flying fast over earth’s black richness,
thickly fluttering wings leading you a passage
through bright mid-heaven,

soon arriving, and you, O supreme in blessing,
eternity’s smile gleaming from your expression,
asked me now this time what again I suffered,
what did I pray for,

what beyond all else I would want to happen
with all my love-maddened heart: “Who now needs persuasion
to be led back to your affection? Who is it,
Sappho, who hurts you?

Though she now may run, she will soon pursue you;
now she may spurn gifts, but she soon will give them;
now she feels no love, but she soon will feel it,
even unwilling.”

Come to me this time again: act as my deliveress
from this mastering pain, and, as the fulfiller
of everything that my passion hopes for, take your
stand as my ally.

— translated from the Greek by Jon Corelis

What's the real moral of the story?
Why was Odysseus sent on that journey?
Like the horse which was used,
Like the dog he let die.
He hid his face
And led those he cared for astray.
Like men who ****** in the night,
Shapeless forces cursed them
Yet, light did not betray their sight.

He may have been a leader,
But he was only the bravest coward.

When he returned home
Life had long moved on,
For he was scarcely recognized.
Such are the ways like of the soldier,
Not far from the warrior-
These lifestyles where peace is deprived.

Where one couple's love
Is the scandalous affair,
Where one couple's love
Is firmly consecrated.

Why these are such matters
To go to war & die for,
Why these are such matters
To go to battle & **** over;

They're well & truly not.

Individual rights are young,
But even so
They are ancient.
Older than the Kings & God(s)?

As we enter and branch off
In & as each different stream of water,
Let us share flow equitably as pressure,
May no loose colmation of ignorance
Seperate us. To the maturity of our emotions
And to the equality of our intellect;
May we wash away
All the built up silt and dead rot,
Which if without purpose
Only exists as an obstacle
Toward greater understanding.
May we wind & wade not
Where we face arrest by impasses
But are found by oceans.
May we be worthy,
That we walk away
More than we entered.