![[simpleton]](img/thesimp.gif)
June 3, 2010
Apollo and Daphne
Translated from Ovid, Changes: Chapter I, 452-567
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![[Apollo and Daphne by Poussin]](img2/verse/apollodaphnepoussin.jpg)
Phoebus' first love -- which blind chance didn't give,
but Cupid's cruel rage -- was Peneus' daughter Daphne.
Proud Delius, after defeating the snake, had seen this kid
bending his bowstring. "What's a lewd boy like you
doing with high-powered weapons?" he had said.
"Those heavy things would more become our shoulders, who
are able to give sure wounds to beasts and enemies,
we who just now with countless arrows squashed the swollen
Python so his noxious biles are pressed into the ground.
You just be happy to enflame the loves of the ignorant
with your torch, and don't try to claim our glories."
![[Because one male was angry at another, a woman was turned into a tree]](img2/verse/apolloandsnake.jpg)
"As your bow fixes all, mine shall fix you, Apollo,"
replied the son of Venus. "Just as a pack of animals
defers to God, so much less is your glory than mine."
And with a flap of beating wings the active one
passed through clouds to the shady peak of Parnassus, and drew
two fertile arrows from his quiver, missiles with separate
duties: This makes you flee; that makes you fall in love.
What causes love is gold and flashes a sharpened tip;
what makes aversion is blunt, with lead below its shaft.
This last one the god fixed in Peneus' daughter. The other
wounded Apollo, passing through his marrow bones.
The male loved instantly. The female fled the name
of love, preferring forest coverts and spoils of trapped
beasts. Single she was, emulating Phoebe:
A virgin's headband bound her wildly arranged hair.
Many suitors sought her. She, hostile, impatient
and disinterested in men, roamed the trackless
wood, nor cared what Hymen, love or marriage might be.
Often her father said, "Daughter, give me a son-in-law.
You owe me grandchildren, girl," her father often said.
Guiltily she dreaded the pine nuptial torch.
Her blushing shame suffused her beautiful puss. She said,
her smooth biceps fastening on her father's neck,
"Dearest parent, give me the pleasure of eternal virginity.
Diana's father gave her the same." And he obeyed her.
![[Unrequited love's a bore]](img2/verse/apollodaphnemaratti.jpg)
But however you wish it to be, your own grace cancels it,
and your own beauty repels your own prayers. Apollo
loves visions of Daphne; he wants to fuck her. Whatever
he wants he hopes. And his own oracles deceive him.
Just as light husks of corn incinerate;
just as bushes burn from flambeaus a traveler either
applied too freely or left behind at the break of day,
just so the god goes up in flames, so with all his heart
he's burned to ash, and with sterile hope he nurtures love.
He watches unkempt hair dangle about her neck
and says "What if it were combed?" He sees her eyes
twinkling as if with the fire of stars; her pretty lips,
which seeing is not enough. He sings her fingers, hands,
wrists and upper arms more than half naked,
and believes the hidden parts are better. Faster than a breeze
she flees, nor does she stop at his pleading words to her:
"Peneus' nymph, please stay! It's not an enemy following.
Nymph, stop! The lamb flees a wolf this way, the doe
a lion; and doves with trembling wings escape an eagle.
They flee enemies, but love is the reason I'm following you.
Poor me! Don't trip and get hurt, hunched in that low-class way;
don't let the brambles mark you, and I be the cause of your pain.
Harsh things are found where you're going. Run slower, please.
Restrain your flight, and I'll follow at a moderate pace.
But think about whom it is you please: not some hillbilly.
I'm no shaggy shepherd. Me, I don't watch
sheep and oxen. You don't know, rash girl, you don't know
whom you would flee, and why you flee. The Delphic world,
Tenedos, Claros, and the Palace of Patara are slaves to me.
My parent is Jupiter. Through me opens what is and was
and will be. Through me songs and tight strings harmonize.
Sure is our arrow — and yet another's surer still
that could make a wound in such a carefree heart. I
invented medicine. Around the world I'm prayed to,
and the healing power of herbs is within our grasp.
Oh! This is love no herbs can cure, for which my arts,
which benefit all others are useless to the master..."
He went on talking as Peneus' daughter fled
her fearful way, and left him with his unfinished speech.
And still she looked lovely; the winds bared her flesh;
blunt contending breezes shook her clothing loose;
light air sent a flow of hair trailing behind her;
and in flight her beauty was enhanced. But she couldn't hold up,
for Love so urged the young god not to waste his flatteries,
that he ran full out, following directly in her footprints.
![[It's supposed to be an honor to become somebody else's work of art]](img2/verse/apollodaphnebernini.jpg)
As a bloodhound spots a rabbit in an open field,
and sprinting, one seeks his prey, the other her life;
clinging, the one now almost thinks he has her, and with
his outstretched snout he grazes her soles. The other thinks
she may be caught already, and breaks free of those teeth,
and slips out of the mouth that's touching her. Just so
these two: The god is quick with hope, the girl with fear.
Sustained on wings of Love, he closes in, denies
her rest, and arches over her fleeing back, and with
his hot breath blows the scattered hairs of her neck.
She pales at his consuming force. Exhausted by
the work of rapid flight, seeing Peneus' waters,
she says, "Help me, father. If you command the floodwaters,
then let my beauty, which has pleased too much, be changed to nothing."
Just as she ends her prayer, a heavy torpor seizes
her limbs. Her supple belly is wrapped in a slender bark;
her hair grows into fronds, her arms into branches;
her so-quick feet sink in the form of lazy roots;
her head has the form of a treetop. Only her splendor remains.
![[Here's your wreath]](img2/verse/apollolaureltree.jpg)
Even this form Phoebus loves, and touching the trunk
still feels a trembling beneath the wooden sternum,
and with his arms embraces branches like they're arms.
He kisses wood, which still recoils from his kisses.
At which the god said, "Since you cannot be my wife,
at least you'll truly be my tree. Forever, Laurel,
my hair for you, my quiver, lute will be of you.
You will attend on Roman generals, as a joyful voice
sings Triumph, and long parades survey the Capitol.
Before the doors of Augustus you'll stand, a faithful guard,
to watch just as the oak stands between the gates.
As long as my head is graced by youthful uncut hair,
so keep forever the unbroken honors of your leaves."
The Paean had ended. With only her crafted branches the laurel
nodded, so that the treetop seemed a troubled head.
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