Translation copyright © 2003 John Svarlien; all rights reserved.
Not long ago I was a useless piece
Of wood, a fig tree's trunk. A carpenter
Debated what to make of me. I might
Have been a stool; instead he fashioned me
A god, Priapus. Awesome now, a god,
I panic thieves and birds. No thief gets past
My raised right hand. My crotch is armed with this
Obscenely long and red protrusion. Birds
Don't bother me. A reed stuck in my head
Spooks the pests and keep them off this new
And lovely park. A cemetery once
Disgraced this hill. The corpses carried here
Belonged to slaves. Their fellow slaves arranged
For cheap interment. Paupers shared the ground
In common graves. Pantolobus the sponge
Is buried somewhere here and Nomentanus
Who wasted all he had before he died.
That pillar over there marked out the lot:
A thousand feet in front, three hundred back,
And indicated that the monument
Should not descend to heirs. Today, however,
You'll find the Esquiline transformed. The bones
And litter swept away, the view is lovely:
A wholesome place to live or promenade
Some sunny afternoon along the rampart.
I haven't any problem handling vagrant
Thieves and prowling animals. The witches,
However, worry me. Their chants and drugs
Harry human souls. I've tried again and
Again to drive them off and stop their coming
Up here on moonlit nights to dig up bones
And baneful herbs. Nothing seems to work.
These eyes of mine have seen Canidia
Moving fast among the tombs. The robe she
Had on was black and tightly bound; her feet
Was bare, her hair disheveled. How she howled!
An older hag, Sagana, joined her wailing.
Their deathly pallor made the very sight
Of them bloodcurdling. Still I looked and saw
Them dig a trench with nothing but their nails.
I watched them sink their teeth into a lamb
As black as night and tear the thing apart.
The blood gushed down into the ditch – an offering
To make the dead come up and answer questions.
They held two dolls, one made of wool, the other
Of wax. The first was big and seemed to threaten
The one who had its waxen arms upraised
In supplication like a slave afraid
Of death. One witch addresses Hecate;
The other summons cruel Tisiphone.
Then serpents slithered out and Dis unleashed
Its dogs. The Moon, her face all red, refused
To witness such a sight and hid behind
A massive sepulcher. That's really what
I saw and if I'm lying, let my head
Be plastered white by crows and Julius
And dainty Pediatia and Voranus
The thief can pee on me and take a shit.
But why tell everything – how sad the sound
Echoed of dead, shrill voices answering
Sagana's questions, how the witches worked
With speedy stealth to bury a wolfhound's beard
And tooth of spotted snake, how high the flame
Exploded from the waxen doll, or how
I shuddered, witnessing this horror? Still
I took revenge and spooked those Furies bad.
My figwood ass squeezed out a fart. The blast
Of snapping timber boomed just like a popped
Balloon. The hags ran off in panic, back
To town. You should have seen Candidia.
Her teeth fell out. Sagana's wig flew off
Her head. The magic herbs and voodoo charms
They'd dropped lay scattered all across the ground.
It was enough to make you roar with laughter.
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