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Read I, VI, VII, and XI for Roman Roads.
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Idylls
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A key figure in the development of Western literature, the Greek poet Theocritus of Syracuse, was the inventor of "bucolic" or pastoral poetry in the first half of the third century BC. These vignettes of country life, which center on competitions of song and love are the foundational poems of
the western pastoral tradition. They were the principal model for Virgil in the Eclogues and their influence can be seen in the work of Petrarch and Milton. Although it is the pastoral poems for which he is chiefly famous, Theocritus also wrote hymns to the gods, brilliant mime depictions of
everyday life, short narrative epics, epigrams, and encomia of the powerful. The great variety of his poems illustrates the rich and flourishing poetic culture of what was a golden age of Greek poetry.
Based on the original Greek text, this accurate and fluent translation is the only edition of the complete Idylls currently in print. It includes an accessible introduction by Richard Hunter that describes what is known of Theocritus, the poetic tradition and Theocritus' innovations and what
exactly is meant by "bucolic" poetry.
the western pastoral tradition. They were the principal model for Virgil in the Eclogues and their influence can be seen in the work of Petrarch and Milton. Although it is the pastoral poems for which he is chiefly famous, Theocritus also wrote hymns to the gods, brilliant mime depictions of
everyday life, short narrative epics, epigrams, and encomia of the powerful. The great variety of his poems illustrates the rich and flourishing poetic culture of what was a golden age of Greek poetry.
Based on the original Greek text, this accurate and fluent translation is the only edition of the complete Idylls currently in print. It includes an accessible introduction by Richard Hunter that describes what is known of Theocritus, the poetic tradition and Theocritus' innovations and what
exactly is meant by "bucolic" poetry.
172 pages, Paperback
First published January 1,-0270
This edition
- Format
-
172 pages, Paperback
- Published
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August 21, 2003 by Oxford University Press
- ISBN
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9780192839848
- ASIN
-
0192839845
- Language
-
English
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The reason I sought Theocritus' Idylls was that I wanted to find that mythical verdant grove which grows within the imagination of many, where meadows bloom profusely, fields bow beneath the heft of golden corn and rivers & rills babble around myrtled fanes of Pan. I had previously been looking for this Arcadia from Virgil, and it worked to a certain extent, even though the poet's goal was far from this. I am still looking, for Theocritus entered this realm only on occasion.
The Idylls differ from my phantasmic destination in that they are both ripe with humour and blowing in biodiversity (especially since all of them are not written by the same author). The descriptions of the surroundings can be very refreshing in their controlled simplicity, and the materialistic bragging of shepherds does evoke pictures of rustic bliss. However, the characters are not serene guardians of the forest, but they are juvenile, sex-hungry and even cantankerous at times—and this adds to the risibility of the work. It does come as a surprise that, in the sun-mottled greensward, beneath the cooling shades of acacias and cypresses, two sons of the soil trade barbs over how goat-like the other screamed upon being done from behind.
And by Jove there is diversity herein. We have bucolic readings of poetry, magical incantations, unassuming serenades, shepherdic braggadocio, homoerotic scenery pieces, festive speeches, cyclopic monologues, minimyths and -epics, idle chatter, blatant attempts at worming into the palaces of the mighty, crystal epithalamia, seductive to-and-fro, Dionysian madness and whatnot. As a collection, the work may stand a bit ill at ease due to the great variety, but the individual poems do proffer plenty of aesthetic joy from the ancient world. And occasionally from my Arcadia.
The Idylls differ from my phantasmic destination in that they are both ripe with humour and blowing in biodiversity (especially since all of them are not written by the same author). The descriptions of the surroundings can be very refreshing in their controlled simplicity, and the materialistic bragging of shepherds does evoke pictures of rustic bliss. However, the characters are not serene guardians of the forest, but they are juvenile, sex-hungry and even cantankerous at times—and this adds to the risibility of the work. It does come as a surprise that, in the sun-mottled greensward, beneath the cooling shades of acacias and cypresses, two sons of the soil trade barbs over how goat-like the other screamed upon being done from behind.
And by Jove there is diversity herein. We have bucolic readings of poetry, magical incantations, unassuming serenades, shepherdic braggadocio, homoerotic scenery pieces, festive speeches, cyclopic monologues, minimyths and -epics, idle chatter, blatant attempts at worming into the palaces of the mighty, crystal epithalamia, seductive to-and-fro, Dionysian madness and whatnot. As a collection, the work may stand a bit ill at ease due to the great variety, but the individual poems do proffer plenty of aesthetic joy from the ancient world. And occasionally from my Arcadia.
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I read about Theokritus as one of the earliest examples of pastoral poetry on a plaque in The Met. Since I enjoy such modern lights of the prosaic as Whitman, Collins, and Tolstoy, I was inspired to consciously begin a genre collection.
Theokritos frames his sixteenth idyll explaining that, "The Muses are gods. Being gods, they sing of gods. But we're men. Being men, let's sing of men." I feel this sentiment expresses the down-to-earth quality of all his poetry, which mostly praises such things as cows, fields, young love, and the agrarian life, with a sprinkling of heroic poetry dedicated to figures such as Hercules, Castor, and Polydeukes. Even then, he presents these heroes as accessible, without taking away anything from their excellence. For example, one of my favorite idylls tells the story of infant Hercules strangling serpents sent by a jealous Hera to devour him and his infant brother as they slept in a large shield on the floor of their house. Much more attention is given in the poem to their mother's fussing over them as to young Hercules' miraculous accomplishment.
Theokritos frames his sixteenth idyll explaining that, "The Muses are gods. Being gods, they sing of gods. But we're men. Being men, let's sing of men." I feel this sentiment expresses the down-to-earth quality of all his poetry, which mostly praises such things as cows, fields, young love, and the agrarian life, with a sprinkling of heroic poetry dedicated to figures such as Hercules, Castor, and Polydeukes. Even then, he presents these heroes as accessible, without taking away anything from their excellence. For example, one of my favorite idylls tells the story of infant Hercules strangling serpents sent by a jealous Hera to devour him and his infant brother as they slept in a large shield on the floor of their house. Much more attention is given in the poem to their mother's fussing over them as to young Hercules' miraculous accomplishment.
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Good, readable translation of Theocritus, though liberties are freely taken with the Greek text. Gow is still the standard translation, I think.
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Perhaps an accurate translation, but not one that works as English poetry.
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Good poetry--and good inspiration.
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Idyll 1
…"You would win the second prize to Pan…"
…"a woman resplendent in a dress and circlet.
She stands between two men with fine long hair, who compete
In alternating song, but do not touch her heart."
Perennial beauty of woman's prerogative, suitors' assays.
"…everyone knows you cannot
Take your song to Hades, place of oblivion, and save it there."
What a beautiful line! Now is the time for song, now the time for feats of poets, now for the psalmist to praise. Don't leave hymnody in a ghetto, or bend obsequiously to scientism and rationalism's music-less soul. This admonition is a carpe diem, a wise admonition to anyone who would craft song.
If hell is where there is only justice, not mercy, why do we give poetry mere hell, no leisure and grace to callowly learn elegance? Doesn’t praise spring from the kiss of justice and mercy, hesed and mishpat? Prior and perenially, poetry reaches its limits at the approach to the Light that gives light. Now it seems to perish at a doorstep from which the light of screens emanates.
"Love is surely cruel to you, helpless man."
In the grip of eros, referent for a perennial mystery. Wonderous forge of new worlds. Guileless, hapless, callow youths move to majestic plans beyond their reckoning. Mystery's exterminators rationalize a brutal control, a lethal, bombastic political elision that consciences can't catch up with.
"See how Love now drags me off to Hades."
Another perennial cry. You may berate love in your affectation but "what a man desires is unfailing love; better to be a fool than a liar."
"To live is still to hope- it's only the dead who despair." (I. 4)
"What a tiny wound, and what a mighty man it has tamed." (I. 4)
"A pig once challenged Athena, they say." (I. 5)
"…she
Flees if a lover pursues her, and pursues him
If he flees…
In love, you see, Polyphemous, foul often appears as fair." (I. 6)
"The singer who comes from Chios" is used to refer to Homer.
This appears to be a prophecy of COVID-19 written in the late 280s BC by the father of bucolic poetry, Theocritus, especially when one is in a more claustrophobic and militantly reactionary mood:
"He will sing how once the goatherd was shut up alive
In a wide chest, through a king's high-handed arrogance;
In his fragrant cedar chest he was fed by snub-nosed bees,
Who came from the meadows to bring him tender flowers,
Because the Muse had poured sweet nectar over his mouth…"
(Idyll 7, Lines 78-82)
Unfortunately, then the murder hornets arrived. But neither COVID-19, nor tyrants, nor murder wasps shall separate us from the love of Christ, from the Good from which all good comes.
…"You would win the second prize to Pan…"
…"a woman resplendent in a dress and circlet.
She stands between two men with fine long hair, who compete
In alternating song, but do not touch her heart."
Perennial beauty of woman's prerogative, suitors' assays.
"…everyone knows you cannot
Take your song to Hades, place of oblivion, and save it there."
What a beautiful line! Now is the time for song, now the time for feats of poets, now for the psalmist to praise. Don't leave hymnody in a ghetto, or bend obsequiously to scientism and rationalism's music-less soul. This admonition is a carpe diem, a wise admonition to anyone who would craft song.
If hell is where there is only justice, not mercy, why do we give poetry mere hell, no leisure and grace to callowly learn elegance? Doesn’t praise spring from the kiss of justice and mercy, hesed and mishpat? Prior and perenially, poetry reaches its limits at the approach to the Light that gives light. Now it seems to perish at a doorstep from which the light of screens emanates.
"Love is surely cruel to you, helpless man."
In the grip of eros, referent for a perennial mystery. Wonderous forge of new worlds. Guileless, hapless, callow youths move to majestic plans beyond their reckoning. Mystery's exterminators rationalize a brutal control, a lethal, bombastic political elision that consciences can't catch up with.
"See how Love now drags me off to Hades."
Another perennial cry. You may berate love in your affectation but "what a man desires is unfailing love; better to be a fool than a liar."
"To live is still to hope- it's only the dead who despair." (I. 4)
"What a tiny wound, and what a mighty man it has tamed." (I. 4)
"A pig once challenged Athena, they say." (I. 5)
"…she
Flees if a lover pursues her, and pursues him
If he flees…
In love, you see, Polyphemous, foul often appears as fair." (I. 6)
"The singer who comes from Chios" is used to refer to Homer.
This appears to be a prophecy of COVID-19 written in the late 280s BC by the father of bucolic poetry, Theocritus, especially when one is in a more claustrophobic and militantly reactionary mood:
"He will sing how once the goatherd was shut up alive
In a wide chest, through a king's high-handed arrogance;
In his fragrant cedar chest he was fed by snub-nosed bees,
Who came from the meadows to bring him tender flowers,
Because the Muse had poured sweet nectar over his mouth…"
(Idyll 7, Lines 78-82)
Unfortunately, then the murder hornets arrived. But neither COVID-19, nor tyrants, nor murder wasps shall separate us from the love of Christ, from the Good from which all good comes.
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did i read this? I guess i did in school. I remember a few. I liked the witch voodooing her unrequited lover
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