← v13n1, Spring 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 1

Catullus: Carmina, XL

Poor Ravidus, what fever in that brain

Has thrown you on my lines’ iambic blade?

What god to whom your plea was poorly made

Is goading you to fight me? That’s insane.

Or do you want the mob to laugh at you?

Is “fame” your goal, no matter how you’re known?

Fine. Now that you pursue my love, my own,

These lines will bring you pain you’ll always rue.