A faded blue cover
Turning green
Pressed, molded
Into an intricate pattern
Sighted from across the room
Tactile pleasure to hold and see
My blood runs raster
There is age here,
There are lifetimes of fingers
Furtively I check the date.
The title: works of Horace
Portrait protected by tissue paper
From the year 1861.
Ode one: to Maecenas
I read and laugh
Mistranslated, abused
Poetry from an age long past
I close the book and hold it
Who could complain?
They did the same
To Moliere, to Cicero
To every major foreign writer
Elevating their writing
With archaic flowery language
No matter what the author intended.
The lowest joke wrapped in beautiful pretense
I read on, their translation kills the meaning
It’s sickening in a way
To know what the poet wrote
And to see what someone calls
A literary translation.
I close it again and hold it
Taking comfort in its age
Culturally accepted butchery
Of language through interpretation
I kiss the cover
And place it back on the shelf.
Moving on, to the next hidden tome.
