A solis ortus cardine

An abecedarius by 5th century poet Sedulius, Latin text here: http://www.thelatinlibrary.com/sedulius.solis.html
My translation below.  Merry Christmas.

From the turning of the sun's rise
all the way up to the limit of the earth,
We sing of the sovereign Christ
born from the virgin Mary.

The blessed author of the age

put on a servile body,
So that, freeing flesh from flesh,
he might not lose those whom he established.

He enters into enclosed viscera

for the sake of his celestial parent:
The womb of a girl carries the burden,
secrets which she had not known.

The home of her pure heart

suddenly becomes the temple of a god,
Untouched, not knowing a man,
she receives her son with a word.

Soon a mother has borne

he whom Gabriel had proclaimed,
whom, exulting from the womb of his own mother,
the enfolded John had perceived.

He suffered to lie down with the hay,

he abhorred not the stable,
And he was fed with a little milk,
through whom the bird does not hunger.

A chorus of celestial beings rejoices

and the angels sing to the god,
And openly in the presence of shepherds,
the creator of all things becomes a shepherd.

O impious enemy Herod,

why do you fear the Christ to come?
He who gives celestial kingdoms
does not snatch away mortal ones.

The mages were proceeding, following

a star going before them, which they had seen,
They seek light with a light,
they acknowledge the god with a gift.

A crowd of mothers cries out,

lamented the contended hostages,
Whose tyrant condemns thousands
as sacrificial victim with the Christ.

The lamb approaches the baths

of pure celestial water:
The sins, which he did not bestow,
he removes by cleansing us.

He gave faith with miracles,

having a god himself as a father.
Healing infirm bodies,
resuscitating corpses.

Urns of water redden,

a new kind of power,
And, ordered to pour out wine,
he changed its origin with a wave.

Bending at the knee, a centurion

pleads health for a young servant.
The flame of believing
extinguished the fires of fevers for many.

Peter, walking through the waves,

is lifted up by the right hand of the Christ:
By the nature which he had denied,
faith prepared a narrow way.

On the fourth day now the fetid

Lazarus received life,
And from all the chains he was made
for himself a free survivor.

The garment having been touched

obstructs the streams of horrid blood,
The wetting tears of the supplicant
may till the flows of blood.

Weakened all of body,

having been ordered suddenly to rise up,
By his steps, once again
the sick man was carrying his couch.

Then that scoundrel Judas

having dared to betray his master,
Was carrying peace with a kiss,
which he was not holding with his heart.

Truth is given with fallacies,

the impious flogs the pious,
And the innocent one fixed to a cross
is joined with brigands.

After the Sabbath, certain women

were conveying dry myrrh for the body:
whom the angel addressed,
the living one is not sheltered in the sepulchre.

O come, let us all sing

with sweet hymns to the Christ
having subdued Tartarus with a triumph,
he who, having been sold, redeemed us.

The only one of god trampled

the zeal of the hostile dragon
and the mouth of the evil lion,
and returned himself to the heavens.

Seneca, Epistle 54, for Dad

I'd been working on this translation for a little while after K brought it to my attention, and it seemed like Memorial Day weekend was a fitting time to post it.  If there's awkwardness in the translation, it's either because I generally prefer literalness to prettiness, or because my Latin's not very good.  Here's to you, Dad.

LIV
Seneca greets his Lucilius.

Bad illness had given me a long respite; suddenly it invaded me.  "Of what kind?" you say.  Certainly you ask with merit; none as such is unknown to me.  Yet I was assigned, so to speak, to one disease--by which Greek name I don't know how I may call it--suffice that it can be called aptly "shortness of breath".  An attack is similar to a storm, brief but very powerful; it desists within an hour, in general.  Who indeed breathes his last for so long?  All inconveniences and perils of the body have passed through me; none seem more troublesome to me than this.  And why not?  For whatever else there may be is just being sick, but this carries away the breath, life.  And so physicians call this the "practice for death."  For that breath will ultimately accomplish what it has often attempted.  Do you think that I cheer myself to write these things to you, because I have escaped?  I would do ridiculously, if at this end I am pleased as though with good health; more so than one who defers bail when he thinks to have won his case.  In truth, I have not ceased to find pleasure in happy & brave thoughts even in this suffocation.

"What is this?" I say.  "Does death so often put me to the test?  Let it do so; for I tested it for a long time."  "When?" you say.  Before I was born.  Death is to be not; what kind of thing it may be, now I know.  This death will be after me, because before me, it was.  If there is anything of torment in this, it would be necessary to have been so then too, before we went forth into the light; and yet at that time we felt no vexation.  I ask, would you not be speaking very foolish stuff, if one esteemed it of a lamp to be worse when it is extinguished, than the time before it is kindled?  We, too, are both extinguished and kindled; at the middle time we suffer something, but in truth there is deep security on both sides of that time.  Indeed, my Lucilius, unless I am mistaken, we err in this, because we point at a death to follow, when that death both will have preceded us, and will be going to follow us.  Whatever was before us, is death.  For what can be said in response--whether you do not begin or whether you end--when in each case is brought about the state of non-being?

And with such exhortations of this kind (unspoken of course, for there is not space for the words) I cease not to urge myself.  Then, little by little, that shortness of breath, which already began to be asthma, made greater intervals and was slowed, though still remained.  Thus far, although it may have desisted, the breath flows unnaturally; I sense a certain hesitation to it, and a delay.  Whatever it will be, so long as I may not heave a sigh from the soul.  Receive this from me to you; I will not tremble up to the end time, I was already prepared, I think nothing of the whole day.  But may you praise and imitate that man who is not reluctant to die, though he may please to live.  For what is the virtue when you are thrown out to exit?  Yet virtue is here too; indeed I am thrown out, but yet let me go out willingly, as it were.  Thus a wise man is never thrown out, since to be thrown out is thence to be expelled from where you may be unwilling to leave--and the wise man does nothing unwillingly; he escapes necessity because he wills that which is certainly going to be compelled.  Farewell.

Incantamentum

clavicula, the little key

Lux et umbra

 

sepia pencil on paper

Stately

My tribute to Joseph Gatto

Joseph Gatto, under whom I studied figure drawing at Art Center College of Design, was shot and killed in his home this past November. 
http://www.scpr.org/blogs/education/2013/11/25/15268/as-family-and-friends-head-to-funeral-joseph-gatto/
It was a shocking event: I remember being stunned as I was casually listening to the morning local news that day, and looked up to see his picture on TV.  The class which I took with him was the last drawing course he taught after a long career before concentrating on his jewelry-making.  He was a good man, and a good teacher, and I'll always appreciate what he taught me.  Here are a few of the pieces I drew that term, under his guidance.

Reginae