Many keep moving on to escape one thing or another that has become too unpleasant or intolerable. "Misfortunes" for vast numbers are a regular part of life. I wonder how many get off so easy as the contented farmer. The poem speaks of a life that had an amazing run of good luck. The unbroken lucky streak may have nothing to do with the farmer's never having left his birthplace in search of new places to explore or re-locate to. I doubt there's any reliable formula for a lifelong stretch of good luck. Always stay home, never leave your birthplace, and you'll always be well and content? The poem seems a tad utopian. The writing is simple and clear but I can't regard the implied message as true. Fate doesn't favor people because they never leave home. A human life free of worry, anxiety, pain, troubles of every kind, is in fact unimaginable to me. People typically have unwelcome things on their minds; disease strikes anyone anywhere at any time; I have never known anyone that seemed to possess a carefree mind. I don't think Nirvana exists on Planet Earth.
A story where you leave a contented life in search of adventure, and then find you've bitten off slightly more then you bargained for, and finally return to your roots, only too glad to appreciate what you once took so much for granted, seems much more realistic to me.
Actually, the idea of one not feeling the need to travel to the far distances of the world to discover themselves and finding meaning, and that the best journey they’ll have is building a home, tending land and raising a family seems more original and surprising—and refreshing—in our days.
One can climb Mount Kilimanjaro, travel many places and meet tons of interesting people but that doesn’t necessarily bear the kind of fruit described by Claudian.
I find it more refreshing and realistic in respect to what a good life might entail. And it’s not like Claudian was some uneducated hick. Chopping wood and gardening are some of the most meditative things one can do to boot.
Many people have found more fulfillment in seclusion than in the hustle-bustle of a busy world. And many more have yearned for such a life as the old farmer. Wasn’t that need for clarity of spirit the whole impetus behind the western monastic tradition? Bede found a useful and satisfying life even though he spent nearly all of it inside the confines of Jarrow Monastery.
The poem, I think, is not recommending a lifestyle or dodging social realism. It is a poem written about 400 A.D., by Claudian, the last great poet of the classical tradition. Claudian was court poet for the Roman emperor Honorius. He wrote for an elite class of bureaucrats and court officials, who took no note of the approaching disaster that would soon befall the Roman Empire. Ten years after this poem was written, Claudian was dead, and the Visigoths would sack Rome and pillage Italy. En route, they could have ransacked the old man’s farm, and probably did. If reality is what we want for him, he or his descendants probably had plenty to weep about, if they even survived.
The point, I think, is this--perhaps Claudian saw the wealth and glitter and superficiality of the imperial court and wanted to point out that it lacked something important. I ran across this poem in its Latin original and thought the sentiment was lovely. No one had ever attempted to translate it into English verse. For me, the poem is simply a reminder of what we all ought to know—that the possibility of contentment is all around us. And finding it is not a complicated matter. We don’t need to travel the world, or change our job, or automobile, or spouse, or home, in order to achieve it. It can be found by spending one's life on a farm. We simply need to open our eyes and, more importantly, our hearts.
The old man of Verona seems to have found a peace that was real, though admittedly fragile. And he was lucky, as the first word of the poem says (“Felix” in the Latin). The stability of that era soon ended, and a darkness soon fell on the classical world that would last for centuries. So I would ask the Commentariat for indulgence--don’t begrudge the old farmer his good fortune! Does he really need to hear the ravens croaking in the background that life is full of sorrow?
"So I would ask the Commentariat for indulgence--don’t begrudge the old farmer his good fortune! Does he really need to hear the ravens croaking in the background that life is full of sorrow?"
I couldn't agree more, Carey.
The idea that poetry needs to kneel to the darkness and suffering of the world seems strange and morbid. It's already there. Why celebrate it? Poetry at its best usually offers some consolation or timeless wisdom on how to persevere and transcend such temporal suffering and grief.
The Trials of Hercules, Dante's Comedy, Aeschylu's Prometheus all seem like prime examples.
After all, Dante decided to call his epic a "Commedia" for a reason: it ends well! The poet wanted us to take heart, and not be afraid to face the fires of Hell in order to make it to the higher spheres.
I'm happy for Claudian, glad he wrote the poem, and glad you translated it!
But he saw 'the wealth and glitter and superficiality of the imperial court' first. I myself now live a life as secluded as I can make it, but not before spending six years in Australia with as exotic a wife as I could find and following as exotic an occupation as I could.
Many keep moving on to escape one thing or another that has become too unpleasant or intolerable. "Misfortunes" for vast numbers are a regular part of life. I wonder how many get off so easy as the contented farmer. The poem speaks of a life that had an amazing run of good luck. The unbroken lucky streak may have nothing to do with the farmer's never having left his birthplace in search of new places to explore or re-locate to. I doubt there's any reliable formula for a lifelong stretch of good luck. Always stay home, never leave your birthplace, and you'll always be well and content? The poem seems a tad utopian. The writing is simple and clear but I can't regard the implied message as true. Fate doesn't favor people because they never leave home. A human life free of worry, anxiety, pain, troubles of every kind, is in fact unimaginable to me. People typically have unwelcome things on their minds; disease strikes anyone anywhere at any time; I have never known anyone that seemed to possess a carefree mind. I don't think Nirvana exists on Planet Earth.
A story where you leave a contented life in search of adventure, and then find you've bitten off slightly more then you bargained for, and finally return to your roots, only too glad to appreciate what you once took so much for granted, seems much more realistic to me.
Actually, the idea of one not feeling the need to travel to the far distances of the world to discover themselves and finding meaning, and that the best journey they’ll have is building a home, tending land and raising a family seems more original and surprising—and refreshing—in our days.
One can climb Mount Kilimanjaro, travel many places and meet tons of interesting people but that doesn’t necessarily bear the kind of fruit described by Claudian.
I find it more refreshing and realistic in respect to what a good life might entail. And it’s not like Claudian was some uneducated hick. Chopping wood and gardening are some of the most meditative things one can do to boot.
I couldn’t agree more with David's remarks.
Many people have found more fulfillment in seclusion than in the hustle-bustle of a busy world. And many more have yearned for such a life as the old farmer. Wasn’t that need for clarity of spirit the whole impetus behind the western monastic tradition? Bede found a useful and satisfying life even though he spent nearly all of it inside the confines of Jarrow Monastery.
The poem, I think, is not recommending a lifestyle or dodging social realism. It is a poem written about 400 A.D., by Claudian, the last great poet of the classical tradition. Claudian was court poet for the Roman emperor Honorius. He wrote for an elite class of bureaucrats and court officials, who took no note of the approaching disaster that would soon befall the Roman Empire. Ten years after this poem was written, Claudian was dead, and the Visigoths would sack Rome and pillage Italy. En route, they could have ransacked the old man’s farm, and probably did. If reality is what we want for him, he or his descendants probably had plenty to weep about, if they even survived.
The point, I think, is this--perhaps Claudian saw the wealth and glitter and superficiality of the imperial court and wanted to point out that it lacked something important. I ran across this poem in its Latin original and thought the sentiment was lovely. No one had ever attempted to translate it into English verse. For me, the poem is simply a reminder of what we all ought to know—that the possibility of contentment is all around us. And finding it is not a complicated matter. We don’t need to travel the world, or change our job, or automobile, or spouse, or home, in order to achieve it. It can be found by spending one's life on a farm. We simply need to open our eyes and, more importantly, our hearts.
The old man of Verona seems to have found a peace that was real, though admittedly fragile. And he was lucky, as the first word of the poem says (“Felix” in the Latin). The stability of that era soon ended, and a darkness soon fell on the classical world that would last for centuries. So I would ask the Commentariat for indulgence--don’t begrudge the old farmer his good fortune! Does he really need to hear the ravens croaking in the background that life is full of sorrow?
"So I would ask the Commentariat for indulgence--don’t begrudge the old farmer his good fortune! Does he really need to hear the ravens croaking in the background that life is full of sorrow?"
I couldn't agree more, Carey.
The idea that poetry needs to kneel to the darkness and suffering of the world seems strange and morbid. It's already there. Why celebrate it? Poetry at its best usually offers some consolation or timeless wisdom on how to persevere and transcend such temporal suffering and grief.
The Trials of Hercules, Dante's Comedy, Aeschylu's Prometheus all seem like prime examples.
After all, Dante decided to call his epic a "Commedia" for a reason: it ends well! The poet wanted us to take heart, and not be afraid to face the fires of Hell in order to make it to the higher spheres.
I'm happy for Claudian, glad he wrote the poem, and glad you translated it!
But he saw 'the wealth and glitter and superficiality of the imperial court' first. I myself now live a life as secluded as I can make it, but not before spending six years in Australia with as exotic a wife as I could find and following as exotic an occupation as I could.