Hermes and Priapus against oppression: farting isn’t enough

In an ancient Greek religious hymn, the god Apollo threatened to kill the infant god Hermes. When Apollo picked him up to carry him away, Hermes farted. Farting, which usually creates a sonic and olfactory shock, can be a defensive response to oppression. In ancient Greece, stone pillars topped with the head of Hermes commonly had a erect penis pointing upwards towards Hermes’s belly. That suggests farting as a defense against the oppression of men’s sexuality. Men’s sexuality is closely associated with the low-class, hard-working god Priapus. The eminent Latin poet Horace described Priapus farting to rout a child-killing witch and her demonic female-friend from lush, new gardens in Rome. The witches, however, headed into the center of the city and continued to terrorize men. Farting isn’t enough to defend men distended from oppression.

Placed in antiquity alongside the enormously influential Homeric epics the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Homeric Hymn to Hermes tells of the infant god Hermes farting. This religious hymn begins with an honorary imperative:

Muse, celebrate Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia,
he patron of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks,
he the beneficent messenger of the immortals.

{ Ἑρμῆν ὕμνει, Μοῦσα, Διὸς καὶ Μαιάδος υἱόν
Κυλλήνης μεδέοντα καὶ Ἀρκαδίης πολυμήλου,
ἄγγελον ἀθανάτων ἐριούνιον }[1]

Hermes’s father Zeus, the son of Kronos, had strong, independent sexuality. He was married to the goddess Hera. Maia, a nymph with beautiful hair, was one of Zeus’s extra-marital loves:

Maia was bashful. She avoided the throng of blessed gods
and abided inside a cave of shadows upon shadows. There Kronos’s son
used to unite with the beautiful-haired nymph in the depth of night
while sweet sleep gripped white-armed Hera.

{ αἰδοίη· μακάρων δὲ θεῶν ἠλεύαθ’ ὅμιλον
ἄντρον ἔσω ναίουσα παλίσκιον, ἔνθα Κρονίων
νύμφηι ἐϋπλοκάμωι μισγέσκετο νυκτὸς ἀμολγῶι
ὄφρα κατὰ γλυκὺς ὕπνος ἔχοι λευκώλενον Ἥρην }

Hermes was thus born out of wedlock to Maia and Zeus in a cave on Mount Cyllene. Men typically endure heightened paternal uncertainty for births out of wedlock. Zeus, a god who bore the epithets “Of Marriage Rites {Τελειος},” “Giver of Signs {Σημαλεος},” “Averter of Evil {Ἀλεξίκακος},” and “Paternal {Πάτριος},” knew that Hermes was his son. Hermes, who also knew that Zeus was his father, was proud of his parents.[2]

In the evening on the first day of his life, the infant Hermes set out to steal cattle from his older half-brother Apollo. From Apollo’s herd at Pieria, Hermes led away fifty cows, leaving behind only a bull and four herding dogs. Hermes had the cows walk backwards to obscure their get-away. Moreover, Hermes fashioned from shrubs and trees huge sandals for himself to make his infant footprints look like those of a giant. He took the cows to a secret lodge by the river Alpheus. There he sacrificed two cows to the twelve gods of Olympia.[3] Then he went home to the cave on Mount Cyllene and crawled back into his cradle.

Searching for his missing cattle, Apollo divined that Hermes stole them. Apollo thus traveled to Mount Cyllene to the cave in which Hermes and his mother Maia lived. Without seeking permission, Apollo searched every recess of their temple-like home. He even opened treasuries filled with nectar, ambrosia, gold, silver, and Maia’s many fine clothes.[4] Apollo found no cows there. He then sternly addressed the infant Hermes:

You, child lying in your cradle, inform me where my cows are,
and quickly. We will otherwise soon quarrel unnaturally.
I will seize you and fling you into murky Tartarus,
into gloom of painful fates with no scheme’s escape. Neither mother
nor father will have you released into light. Instead, beneath the earth
you will be damned, being a leader only among destructive men.

{ ὦ παῖ, ὃς ἐν λίκνωι κατάκειαι, μήνυέ μοι βοῦς
θάσσον, ἐπεὶ τάχα νῶϊ διοισόμεθ’ οὐ κατὰ κόσμον.
ῥίψω γάρ σε λαβὼν ἐς Τάρταρον ἠερόεντα,
ἐς ζόφον αἰνόμορον καὶ ἀμήχανον, οὐδέ σε μήτηρ
ἐς φάος οὐδὲ πατὴρ ἀναλύσεται, ἀλλ’ ὑπὸ γαίηι
ἐρρήσεις, ὀλοοῖσι μετ’ ἀνδράσιν ἡγεμονεύων. }

Although only an infant, Hermes responded with shrewd speech highlighting his infant status:

Apollo, son of Leto, what is this harsh speech you uttered,
you actually coming here looking for your field-dwelling cows?
I haven’t seen them, nor overheard about them, nor been relayed word.
I couldn’t tell you, nor earn an informer’s reward,
nor do I resemble a cattle-stealer, a strong man.
That’s not my kind of deed. I’ve been concerned with other things.
Sleep is my concern, and my mother’s milk,
and having swaddling around my shoulders and warm bathwater.
I hope no one learns the source of this dispute.
Surely the immortals would be astonished
if a newborn child crossed through his home’s doorway in search of
cows that live in fields.

{ Λητοΐδη, τίνα τοῦτον ἀπηνέα μῦθον ἔειπες;
καὶ βοῦς ἀγραύλους διζήμενος ἐνθάδ’ ἱκάνεις;
οὐκ ἴδον, οὐ πυθόμην, οὐκ ἄλλου μῦθον ἄκουσα.
οὐκ ἂν μηνύσαιμ’· οὐκ ἂν μήνυτρον ἀροίμην,
οὔτε βοῶν ἐλατῆρι, κραταιῶι φωτί, ἔοικα.
οὐκ ἐμὸν ἔργον τοῦτο, πάρος δέ μοι ἄλλα μέμηλεν·
ὕπνος ἐμοί γε μέμηλε καὶ ἡμετέρης γάλα μητρός,
σπάργανά τ’ ἀμφ’ ὤμοισιν ἔχειν καὶ θερμὰ λοετρά.
μή τις τοῦτο πύθοιτο, πόθεν τόδε νεῖκος ἐτύχθη·
καί κεν δὴ μέγα θαῦμα μετ’ ἀθανάτοισι γένοιτο
παῖδα νέον γεγαῶτα διὰ προθύροιο περῆσαι
βουσὶ μετ’ ἀγραύλοισι. }

Hermes’s deceptive words and his fluttering of his eyelids didn’t dupe his older half-brother Apollo. Apollo again threatened Hermes:

Now come, if you don’t want to be put to your last and final sleep,
step down from your cradle, you friend of dark night.
The prize you will have among immortals from now on is this:
all your days you shall be known as the commander of robbers.

{ ἀλλ’ ἄγε, μὴ πύματόν τε καὶ ὕστατον ὕπνον ἰαύσεις,
ἐκ λίκνου κατάβαινε, μελαίνης νυκτὸς ἑταῖρε.
τοῦτο γὰρ οὖν καὶ ἔπειτα μετ’ ἀθανάτοις γέρας ἕξεις·
ἀρχὸς φιλητέων κεκλήσεαι ἤματα πάντα. }

With those menacing words, Apollo picked up the infant Hermes to carry him away.

Hermes defended himself against his older half-brother’s domineering action. To break free, he broke wind:

After setting his mind to it, Hermes the strong slayer of Argus,
as he was born aloft in the arms of Apollo, sent forth an omen-bird —
the menial servant of the belly, an insolent message-man —
and after that gave an energetic confirmatory sneeze. Apollo heard it,
and from his hands let glorious Hermes fall to the ground.

{ σὺν δ’ ἄρα φρασσάμενος, τότε δὴ κρατὺς Ἀργεϊφόντης
οἰωνὸν προέηκεν ἀειρόμενος μετὰ χερσίν,
τλήμονα γαστρὸς ἔριθον, ἀτάσθαλον ἀγγελιώτην,
ἐσσυμένως δὲ μετ’ αὐτὸν ἐπέπταρε. τοῖο δ’ Ἀπόλλων
ἔκλυεν, ἐκ χειρῶν δὲ χαμαὶ βάλε κύδιμον Ἑρμῆν }[5]

Hermes on the ground couldn’t escape from the larger and faster Apollo. They brought their dispute before their father Zeus. Hermes gave his lyre to Apollo as compensation for stealing cattle. The two half-brothers thus reconciled.[6] Farting by itself wasn’t enough for Hermes to pacify his older half-brother Apollo.

ancient Greek herm

Two iambs of Callimachus, a highly learned poet writing in Greek in the third century BGC, recognize the relevance of Hermes, men’s sexuality, and farting. Callimachus’s seventh iamb tells an “origin story {αἴτιον}” for “Hermes Hand to Hand / Hermes Perpheraios {Ἑρμῆς Περφεραῖος}” as worshiped in Ainos in Thrace. That local cult of Hermes is attested on fifth-century BGC coins from Ainos. Those coins show a crude statue of Hermes with an erect penis.[7] According to Callimachus’s iamb, flood waters of the river Scamander washed into the sea a crude wooden statue of Hermes Perpheraios. Fishermen from Ainos inadvertently caught the statue in their nets. They disparaged it and sought to use it as firewood. Despite strenuous efforts, the fishermen couldn’t chop it up. Moreover, the statue’s incantations prevented it from being burned. Bewildered, the fishermen threw it back into the sea. When it returned again in their nets, they built a shrine for it, offered it some fish they had caught, and worshiped it as a god. They passed it hand to hand among themselves, each honoring it. An oracle from Apollo confirmed the statue’s divinity. Hermes Perpheraios, residing in this statue, was thus received into Ainos as a god.[8]

Like the statute of Hermes Perpheraios, men’s sexuality historically has been depicted as crude and disparaged. Castration culture, entrenched in Hesiod’s Theogony, is analogous to attempting to chop up Hermes Perpheraios. The god most explicitly associated with an erect penis is Priapus, a crude, rustic minor divinity tasked with the menial, dangerous work of guarding gardens. Despite hostility towards men’s sexuality, it continues to appear unexpectedly, like Hermes Perpheraios in the fishermen’s net. Men historically have been gender-disparately burdened with competing for women’s love, just as men seek to catch fish. In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, Apollo and Hermes resolve their dispute to their mutual satisfaction. Apollo thus supports Hermes in Callimachus’s seventh iamb. Men’s sexuality, however, has not yet been supported equally with women’s sexuality.

Ithyphallic herm painted on Athenian red-figure krater

Callimachus’s ninth iamb tells of another statue of Hermes. In this iamb, a man who loves the handsome young man Philetadas sees at a wrestling school a statue of Hermes with an erect penis. In the ancient Greek world, young men like Philetadas would practice wrestling nearly naked at such a school. The man distrustfully questions the statue of Hermes:

Hermes, O bearded one, why does your penis
point to your beard and not to your feet?

{ Ἑρμᾶ, τί τοι τὸ νεῦρον, ὦ Γενειόλα,
ποττὰν ὑπήναν κοὐ ποτ᾿ ἴχνιον }[9]

Men can have an erect penis even when they don’t desire to have one. In Callimachus’s iamb, the statue of Hermes declares that a sacred mystery explains his erect penis.[10] Men’s sexuality should be appreciated as a sacred mystery. Moreover, men’s sexuality lovingly belongs in the context of men’s faces, not their feet. A Latin proverb alludes to the issue with a Latin pun on “feet {pedes}” and the second-person form of the verb “to fart {pedo}”:

Don’t fart in public, so you don’t thus raise your feet to your belly!

{ Sic a ventre pedes leva, ne publice pedes! }[11]

An erect penis also points toward a man’s belly. In cultures that associate men’s penises with their feet, not their faces, men might respond defensively with their bellies. Farting is justified in response to oppression of men’s sexuality.

Priapus farted to defend himself against the evil incantations of a “heinous old woman {anus}.” She was the witch Canidia, along with her demonic female friend Sagana. They and their monstrously malicious witch accomplices Folia and Veia tortured and killed a boy. They sought his dried-up bone marrow and liver to use in a love charm for Canidia to have sex with Varus. He was an elderly man with strong, independent sexuality. Their actions were unspeakably evil:

Deprived of any moral conscience, Veia
with a hard hoe dug into
the earth, she grunting with the labor,
so that the boy could be buried
and die gazing at the spectacle
of food changed two or three times in an endless day.
His face protruded from the earth, as stands out the chin
of a body suspended in water.
His dried-up bone marrow and liver, sucked out,
they would use for a love potion,
when his eyeballs had finally rotted away
after once being fixed on the forbidden meal.

{ abacta nulla Veia conscientia
ligonibus duris humum
exhauriebat, ingemens laboribus,
quo posset infossus puer
longo die bis terque mutatae dapis
inemori spectaculo,
cum promineret ore, quantum exstant aqua
suspensa mento corpora;
exsucta uti medulla et aridum iecur
amoris esset poculum,
interminato cum semel fixae cibo
intabuissent pupulae. }[12]

Buried in the ground up to his head, dying of starvation while tortured with the sight of food, the boy cursed the wicked witches:

Magic potions don’t have divine right to do divine wrong. They cannot
overturn human retribution. A solemn curse of castration
cannot be expiated by a dreadful sacrificial victim.
Even when, with my breath forced out, I perish,
I’ll run to you at night as a Fury
and I, my ghost with its hooked claws, will attack your face,
for such is the divine power of spirits of the dead.
Upon your tormented heart I will sit down.
I will carry away your sleep with terror.

{ venena maga non fas nefasque, non valent
convertere humanam vicem.
diris agam vos: dira detestatio
nulla expiatur victima.
quin, ubi perire iussus exspiravero,
nocturnus occurram Furor
petamque voltus umbra curvis unguibus,
quae vis deorum est Manium,
et inquietis adsidens praecordiis
pavore somnos auferam. }

The boy figuratively described Varus’s lack of sexual interest in Canidia as castration. The boy insisted that the horrific love potion that Canidia sought to make from his organs wouldn’t overturn Varus’s castration. Men’s impotence is an epic disaster. More female wickedness isn’t the answer to men’s impotence.

Known for his erect penis, Priapus rightly feared the witch Canidia and her demonic female friend Sagana. Priapus reportedly inhabited a crude fig-wood statue standing in lush “new gardens {novi horti}.” The wealthy, politically connected Roman Maecenas created these gardens by 35 BGC on the former site of a pauper’s cemetery on Esquiline Hill just outside Rome’s Servian Wall. Priapus was thus fabricated like Hermes Perpheraios, but inhabited a much more hospitable initial position. Priapus, however, experienced in Maecenas’s new gardens a horror even worse than fishermen attempting to chop up and burn Hermes Perpheraios:

Why should I recount each detail — that speaking alternately in solemn
agreement, Sagana and spirits of the dead resounded sad and shrill,
thus a wolf’s beard with the tooth of a spotted snake
Canidia and Sagana furtively buried in the earth, how consuming a wax effigy
the fire blazed higher, so that I as a witness, but not one unavenged,
would shudder at the voices and deeds of those two Furies.

{ singula quid memorem, quo pacto alterna loquentes
umbrae cum Sagana resonarint triste et acutum
utque lupi barbam variae cum dente colubrae
abdiderint furtim terris et imagine cerea
largior arserit ignis et ut non testis inultus
horruerim voces Furiarum et facta duarum }[13]

Responding to such potent horror, Priapus defensively farted:

Then, sounding as loud as a bursting bladder, my fig-wood
buttocks split with a fart, and away they ran into the city.
Canidia’s teeth as well as Sagana’s high wig
tumbling down, along with herbs and bindings enchanted
by lizards, you would have seen with great laughter and joy.

{ nam, displosa sonat quantum vesica, pepedi
diffissa nate ficus; at illae currere in urbem.
canidiae dentis, altum Saganae caliendrum
excidere atque herbas atque incantata lacertis
vincula cum magno risuque iocoque videres. }[14]

That fart was a Pyrrhic victory for Priapus. It dispelled Canidia and Sagana from Maecenas’s new gardens on the outskirts of Rome into the center of the city itself. Witches at the center of the city serve gynocentrism.

The witches continued to manipulate and dominate men. The persona of the great Roman poet Horace in his Epodes is an Everyman just as capable of farting as the Everyman Priapus. Nonetheless, he surrendered to Canidia:

Now, right now, I surrender to your effective lore,
and bowing, I pray by Proserpina’s kingdom,
and by Diana, a divinity not to be aroused,
and by your books of spells capable
of unfixing the stars and calling them down from the sky.
Canidia, spare me from your sacred voicings,
and, turning back your swift spell-wheel, release, release me.

{ Iam iam efficaci do manus scientiae,
supplex et oro regna per Proserpinae,
per et Dianae non movenda numina,
per atque libros carminum valentium
refixa caelo devocare sidera,
Canidia: parce vocibus tandem sacris
citumque retro solve, solve turbinem. }[15]

The vicious witch Canidia offered no mercy. She exulted in goading him to suicide. She gleefully declared:

You’ll want only to jump from the highest tower,
only to pierce your chest with a Noric sword,
and all in vain you’ll weave a noose for your neck,
sick with self-loathing and sadness.
Then, as a horsewoman, I will ride on my enemy’s shoulders,
and the land will yield to my arrogance.

{ voles modo altis desilire turribus,
modo ense pectus Norico recludere
frustraque vincla gutturi nectes tuo
fastidiosa tristis aegrimonia.
vectabor umeris tunc ego inimicis eques
meaeque terra cedet insolentiae. }

Farting was enough to prompt the god Apollo to let go of the cattle-stealing infant Hermes. Farting isn’t enough to get rid of a witch riding on a man’s shoulders.

Despite the temporary, tactical farting successes of the gods Hermes and Priapus, farting has a bad reputation historically. A Sumerian proverb from perhaps four thousand years ago associated a great man with a man who doesn’t fart:

He is a man who can lift the heavens — and he doesn’t fart.

{ lu2 an il2-la ce10 nu-ub-dur2-re }[16]

Contrary to gyno-idolatrous myth, woman fart equally with men. In a Neo-Assyrian text from the first half of the first millennium BGC, a man taunts his girlfriend Ishtar of Babylonia:

Why did you fart and were ashamed about it?
Why did you make the wagon of her beloved have a foul smell?

{ ammēni taṣrutīma tabāšī gišsaparra ša bēliša
ammēni taškunī nipiš ri-[x] }[17]

About 50 GC in the Roman colonial province of Judaea, a soldier with an aggressive fart caused a war resulting in the deaths of more than 30,000 persons:

The usual crowd had assembled at Jerusalem for the feast of unleavened bread. The Roman cohort had taken up its position on the roof of the portico of the temple. A body of men in arms invariably mounts guard at the feasts to prevent disorders arising from such a concourse of people. One of the soldiers, raising his robe, stooped to expose his buttocks indecently to the Jews and made a noise associated with his posture. Enraged at this insult, the whole multitude with loud cries called upon the Roman procurator Cumanus to punish the soldier. Some of the more hot-headed young men and seditious persons in the crowd started a fight. Picking up stones, they hurled them at the troops. Cumanus, fearing a general attack upon himself, sent for reinforcements.

{ συνεληλυθότος γὰρ τοῦ πλήθους ἐπὶ τὴν ἑορτὴν τῶν ἀζύμων εἰς Ἱεροσόλυμα καὶ τῆς Ῥωμαϊκῆς σπείρας ὑπὲρ τὴν τοῦ ἱεροῦ στοὰν ἐφεστώσης, ἔνοπλοι δ᾿ ἀεὶ τὰς ἑορτὰς παραφυλάττουσιν, ὡς μή τι νεωτερίζοι τὸ πλῆθος ἠθροισμένον, εἷς τις τῶν στρατιωτῶν ἀνασυράμενος τὴν ἐσθῆτα καὶ κατακύψας ἀσχημόνως προσαπέστρεψεν τοῖς Ἰουδαίοις τὴν ἕδραν καὶ τῷ σχήματι φωνὴν ὁμοίαν ἐπεφθέγξατο. πρὸς τοῦτο ἅπαν μὲν τὸ πλῆθος ἠγανάκτησεν, καὶ κατεβόων τοῦ Κουμανοῦ κολάζειν τὸν στρατιώτην, οἱ δὲ ἧττον νήφοντες τῶν νέων καὶ τὸ φύσει στασιῶδες ἐκ τοῦ ἔθνους ἐχώρουν ἐπὶ μάχην, λίθους τε ἁρπάσαντες ἐπὶ τοὺς στρατιώτας ἔβαλλον. καὶ Κουμανὸς δείσας, μὴ τοῦ λαοῦ παντὸς ἐπ᾿ αὐτὸν ὁρμὴ γένοιτο, πλείους ὁπλίτας μεταπέμπεται. }[18]

In this instance, farting was used in conjunction with colonial oppression, not against oppression. A medieval European proverb expressed more generally a contextual problem with agonistic farting:

One who farts when he wishes, farts when he does not wish to fart.

{ Qui pedit dum vult, pedit dum pedere non vult. }[19]

Farting is often difficult to control, and its effects unpredictable. Farting had so little value as deterrence that in ancient Rome a wife might beat her husband with impunity:

One man supplies magic incantations, another sells Thessalian
potions — these enable a wife to confuse her husband’s mind
and to beat on his buttocks with her sandal.

{ Hic magicos adfert cantus, hic Thessala vendit
philtra, quibus valeat mentem vexare mariti
et solea pulsare natis. }[20]

Circumstances, intentions, and lived experiences don’t provide a reliable fundament for farting as a defense against oppression.

Radical olfactory change is necessary to liberate men from oppression. Hermes, like Odysseus, is a liberating role model of guile and verbal sophistication.[21] Hermes’s older half-brother Apollo lacked sensitivity to the rank oppression of men. That rank oppression that should have made him more responsive to Hermes’s farting. Priapus with his farting fumigated Maecenas’s new gardens and rid them of horrid witches. Yet the witches settled in the center of Rome, just as they have inhabited the center of modern cultures. No stench, not even that of men having no reproductive rights, men being massively gender-disproportionately imprisoned, and men being gender-categorized as disposable persons for use in wars, seems sufficient to dispel the witches and their acolytes from their commanding positions. Massively better olfactory sensitivity can start with you. If you smell something, say something!

We ask for facility in learning, the gift of Hermes.

{ αἰτοῦμεν εὐμάθειαν Ἑρμᾶνος δόσιν }[22]

Men making offerings to an ithyphallic herm. Painting on Attic red-figure column krater
Woman making offerings to an ithyphallic herm. Painting on Attic red-figure column krater.

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Notes:

[1] Homeric Hymn to Hermes (Homeric Hymns 4, To Hermes {Εἲς Ἑρμῆν}), vv. 1-3, ancient Greek text from West (2003), my English translation, benefiting from those of Thomas (2020), Rayor (2004), West (2003), Shelmerdine (1995), and Evelyn-White (1914).

Scholars generally regard the Homeric Hymn to Hermes as the latest of the lengthy Homeric hymns. A rhapsode apparently composed this hexameter poem after 522 BGC. It has “a date of c.450 {BGC}, with a considerable margin of uncertainty on either side.” Thomas (2020) pp. 22-3.

Subsequent quotes above from the Homeric Hymn to Hermes are similarly sourced. Those quotes are from vv. 5-8 (Maia was bashful….), 254-9 (You, child lying in your cradle …), 261-72 (Apollo, son of Leto …), 289-92 (Now come, if you don’t want…), 294-8 (After setting his mind to it…).

[2] The infant Hermes knew his begetting. Immediately after Hermes built a lyre, he acted like bantering young men at festivities:

He sang of Zeus, son of Cronos, and lovely sandalled Maia,
how they used to converse in companionable love,
and he declared the famous names of his own genealogy.

{ ἀμφὶ Δία Κρονίδην καὶ Μαιάδα καλλιπέδιλον,
οἳ πάρος ὠρίζεσκον ἑταιρείηι φιλότητι,
ἥν αὐτοῦ γενεὴν ὀνομάκλυτον ἐξονομάζων }

Homeric Hymn to Hermes, vv 57-9. Percy Bysshe Shelley’s translation of these verses brings out the scandal:

He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal
Dallied in love not quite legitimate;
And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal
And naming his own name, did celebrate;

Shelley, “Hymn to Mercury,” vv. 72–8, quoted and discussed in Phillips (2020). The relationship between Maia and Zesus was like ones between courtesans and Greek men:

The frequentative verb implies, as 7 μισγέσκετο did, that this was not one of Zeus’s one-night stands, and the stem ὠρ- < ὀαρ- points to time spent in intimate conversation. ἑταιρεῖος and φιλότης both apply to consummation as well as affection, but ἑταιρεῖος pulls the expression distinctly towards the latter (see LSJ s.v. I.6).

Thomas (2020) p. 178, footnote omitted. Thomas elaborated on lyric at “festivals {κῶμοι}” in relation to Homeric poetry:

Pindar too understood that praise in the epinician komos is linguistically connected to erotic banter among komasts, and epic had long mentioned the sex-appeal of young choral dancers. So though it at first appeared that such connections were peculiar to Hermes, the hymnist allows an audience to realise that of course the worlds of praise-poetry and of courtesans at parties are not totally removed.

Thomas (2018) p. 4 of preprint.

[3] Olympia isn’t explicitly specified, nor are twelve gods. Hermes, however, kills two cows in the manner of a cultic sacrifice to twelve gods:

All this must be connected with the sacrifices at Olympia, which is by the Alpheios {Alpheus}, to the Twelve Gods. Pindar speaks of Heracles, the founder of the Olympic Games, “honoring the stream of Alpheios with the twelve ruler gods” (Olympian 10.48). Hermes was associated with Apollo there, for the two shared one of the six altars (Herodorus, fr. 34 Fowler). It seems likely, therefore, that the Hymn was composed for performance at Olympia.

West (2003) p. 14. For additional analysis of the sacrifice, Thomas (2017). In ancient Greek myth, twelve Olympian gods resided on Olympus, which came to be identified with Mount Olympus in northern Greece, far from Olympia. The local cult to twelve gods at Olympia probably included some local gods. Hermes was one of the gods worshipped at Olympia. Johnston (2002) pp. 126.

[4] The characterization of Maia and Hermes’s cave / palace seems to depend on the personal context from which it is described. Vergados (2011a).

[5] Here farting is describing in the high diction of epic. Katz (1999). While the text doesn’t literally designate a fart rather than a burp, “It can hardly be doubted that ‘servant of the stomach’ is a striking metaphor for the breaking of wind.” Id. pp. 316-7. Cf. Shelmerdine (1995) p. 111.

[6] The Homeric Hymn to Hermes seems particular relevant to young men in the archaic Greek world. Johnston (2002) p. 111. This hymn was perhaps performed at Olympia “during a festival of Hermes {Hermaea} that encouraged or celebrated the maturation of males.” Id. p. 116. The maturing of young men involves them learning about social regulation of their sexuality. Apollo’s threats to Hermes represent the threat to young men of being dominated. Harrell (2005). For a more general educative perspective on the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, Jarczyk (2017).

[7] Callimachus’s Iambi 7-11 are a series with each iamb / iambus {ἴαμβος} being an origin story / aition {αἴτιον}. Nisetich (2001) p. 110. Callimachus wrote a large work entitled Origin Stories / Causes / Aetia {Αἴτια}. On the close relationship between Callimachus’s Iambi and Aetia, Clayman (1988).

Callimachus’s Iambi have survived only in fragments. In addition, narrative summaries of the poems (Diegesis) have survived in the first or second century GC Papyrus Milan I 18 (the Milan Diegesis). On limitations of the Diegesis, Acosta-Hughes (2002) p. 14. Those limitations don’t substantially affect the above analysis.

The translation “Hermes Hand to Hand / Hermes Perpheraios {Ἑρμῆς Περφεραῖος}” is from Nisetich (2001) p. 110. That translation makes sense of Iambus 7 as an aition. They perhaps handed the statue hand to hand within “some sort of race.” Acosta-Hughes (2002) p. 298, n. 53. The name doesn’t seem to be related in this iamb to Zeus Perpheretas / Zeus Pherpheretas, or to the Perpherees {Περφερέες}, “five men sent by the Hyperboreans {Ὑπερβόρειος} to bring sacrificial offerings to Delian Apollo.” Id. p. 298, n. 54; Herodotus, Histories 4.33. Another translation of Hermes Perpheraios is “Hermes the Wanderer.”

Hermes was a prominent figure in the ancient Greek iambic traditional. He repeatedly appears in the iambs of Hipponax. Vergados (2011) pp. 88-97, Acosta-Hughes (2002) pp. 300-1. Callimachus’s Iambus 7, like his Iambus 6 concerning the famous statue by Phidias of Zeus at Olympia, displays a “humorously irreverent attitude to divinities qua artefacts.” Kerkhecker (1999) p. 195. In contrast to Phidias’s statue of Zeus, the statue of Hermes Perpheraios is a crude, minor work of Epeius, who fashioned the Trojan horse that the Greeks used to conquer Troy. On the contrast between the statues of Iambi 6 and 7, Acosta-Hughes (2002) pp. 295-6, 298.

Callimachus’s Iambi 7 and 9 feature ithyphallic statues of Hermes. That the Hermes statue in Iambus 7 is ithyphallic is implicit, given the surviving text. Here are images of a silver tetradrachm from Ainos c. 460-55 BGC and one from Ainos c. 455-53 BGC. On the identification of the ithyphallic Hermes Perpheraios under the goat’s head, May (1955) pp. 57-65. A lead weight from Ainos about three centuries later has a similar schematic representation of the ithyphallic Hermes Perpheraios standing on a throne. Since Iambus 7 gives an aition of Hermes Perpheraios worshiped in Ainos, the Hermes Perpheraios of Iambus 7 is surely ithyphallic.

Herodotus recorded that the Greeks, and the Athenians first among them, adopted images of the ithyphallic Hermes from the Pelasgians:

It was not so with the ithyphallic images of Hermes. The making of these came from the Pelasgians, from whom the Athenians were the first of all Greeks to take it, and then handed it on to others. For the Athenians were then already counted as Greeks when the Pelasgians came to dwell in the land with them and thereby began to be considered as Greeks. Whoever has been initiated into the rites of the Cabeiri, which the Samothracians learned from the Pelasgians and now practice, he understands what my meaning is. Samothrace was formerly inhabited by those Pelasgians who came to dwell among the Athenians. It is from them that the Samothracians take their rites. The Athenians, then, were the first Greeks to make ithyphallic images of Hermes, and this they did because the Pelasgians taught them. The Pelasgians told a certain sacred tale about this, which is set forth in the Samothracian mysteries.

{ τοῦ δὲ Ἑρμέω τὰ ἀγάλματα ὀρθὰ ἔχειν τὰ αἰδοῖα ποιεῦντες οὐκ ἀπ᾿ Αἰγυπτίων μεμαθήκασι, ἀλλ᾿ ἀπὸ Πελασγῶν πρῶτοι μὲν Ἑλλήνων ἁπάντων Ἀθηναῖοι παραλαβόντες, παρὰ δὲ τούτων ὧλλοι. Ἀθηναίοισι γὰρ ἤδη τηνικαῦτα ἐς Ἕλληνας τελέουσι Πελασγοὶ σύνοικοι ἐγένοντο ἐν τῇ χώρῃ, ὅθεν περ καὶ Ἕλληνες ἤρξαντο νομισθῆναι. ὅστις δὲ τὰ Καβείρων ὄργια μεμύηται, τὰ Σαμοθρήικες ἐπιτελέουσι παραλαβόντες παρὰ Πελασγῶν, οὗτος ὡνὴρ οἶδε τὸ λέγω· τὴν γὰρ Σαμοθρηίκην οἴκεον πρότερον Πελασγοὶ οὗτοι οἵ περ Ἀθηναίοισι σύνοικοι ἐγένοντο, καὶ παρὰ τούτων Σαμοθρήικες τὰ ὄργια παραλαμβάνουσι. ὀρθὰ ὦν ἔχειν τὰ αἰδοῖα τἀγάλματα τοῦ Ἑρμέω Ἀθηναῖοι πρῶτοι Ἑλλήνων μαθόντες παρὰ Πελασγῶν ἐποιήσαντο· οἱ δὲ Πελασγοὶ ἱρόν τινα λόγον περὶ αὐτοῦ ἔλεξαν, τὰ ἐν τοῖσι ἐν Σαμοθρηίκῃ μυστηρίοισι δεδήλωται. }

Herodotus, Histories {Ἱστορίαι} 2.51, ancient Greek text and English translation (modified) from Godley (1920). The Pelasgians are identified with the Tyrrhenians (or Tyrsenians). Herodotus, Histories 1.57. Moreover, according to Callimachus, “‘Pelasgian’ and ‘Etruscan’ are one and the same.” Nisetich (2001) p. 113, citing Callimachus, Aetia {Αἴτια} 4.7. The sacred mystery to which Callimachus’s refers in Iambus 9 is probably that of the Cabeiri / Cabiri. Acosta-Hughes (2002) pp. 296, 301-2.

The ithyphallic image of Hermes apparently were entrangled in castration culture from the Plasgians and the rite of the Cabeiri. A knowledgeable Christian author writing about 195 GC declared:

The Corybantes are also called by the name Cabeiri, which proclaims the rite of the Cabeiri. This very pair of Corybantes fratricides got possession of the chest in which the masculine genitals of Dionysus were deposited. They brought it to Tuscany, those traders in glorious wares! There they sojourned, being exiles and communicated their precious teaching of piety, the masculine genitals and the chest, to Tuscans for purposes of worship. For this reason not unnaturally some wish to call Dionysus by the name Attis, because he was castrated.

{ Καβείρους δὲ τοὺς Κορύβαντας καλοῦντες καὶ τελετὴν Καβειρικὴν καταγγέλλουσιν· αὐτὼ γὰρ δὴ τούτω τὼ ἀδελφοκτόνω τὴν κίστην ἀνελομένω, ἐν ᾗ τὸ τοῦ Διονύσου αἰδοῖον ἀπέκειτο, εἰς Τυρρηνίαν κατήγαγον, εὐκλεοῦς ἔμποροι φορτίου· κἀνταῦθα διετριβέτην, φυγάδε ὄντε, τὴν πολυτίμητον εὐσεβείας διδασκαλίαν, αἰδοῖα καὶ κίστην, θρῃσκεύειν παραθεμένω Τυρρηνοῖς. δι᾿ ἣν αἰτίαν οὐκ ἀπεικότως τὸν Διόνυσόν τινες Ἄττιν προσαγορεύεσθαι θέλουσιν, αἰδοίων ἐστερημένον. }

Clement of Alexandria, The Exhortation to the Greeks {Προτρεπτικὸς πρὸς Ἕλληνας} 2.16, ancient Greek text and English translation (modified unsubstantially) from Butterworth (1919). While Clement is appropriately scornful of castration culture, his account contains considerable, apparently factual detail.

The influential Roman public figure Cicero described Mercury, the Roman god corresponding to the Greek god Hermes, as having an erect penis:

He has a more disgusting, aroused penis traditionally attributed to being stirred up by the sight of Proserpina.

{ obscenius excitata natura traditur quod aspectu Proserpinae commotus sit }

Cicero, On the Nature of the Gods {De Natura Deorum} 3.56, Latin text from Rackham (1933), my English translation, benefiting from that of id. Proserpina corresponds to the Greek goddess Persephone.

[8] For Hermes Perpheraios speaking incantations, Iambus 7, v. 44. For Callimachus’s Iambi, Clayman (2022a). On the story of Hermes Perpheraios, Petrovic (2010). This iamb is tellingly written in alternating iambic trimeters and ithyphallics. Its dialect of ancient Greek is “literary Doric with some Aeolic features.” Acosta-Hughes (2002) p. 5.

[9] Callimachus, Iambus 9, ancient Greek text and English translation (modified) from Clayman (2022a). Michael Gilleland provides a slightly different translation.

Just as in Iambus 7, the statue of Hermes Perpheraios speaks in Iambus 9. However, in Iambus 9, the viewer first speaks to the statue, and the statue respond. Cf. Anthologia Palatina 12.143. In that epigram, an ithyphallic man who loves the young man Apollophanes complains of his love to an ithyphallic Hermes statue. The Hermes statue responds with sympathetic words. In contrast, speaking-statue epigrams typically have the statue addressing passers-by. Acosta-Hughes (2022) pp. 302-3.

With a prominent ithyphallic Hermes, Iambus 7’s meter doesn’t include any ithyphallics and is simply iambic trimeter. Underscoring the poem’s sophistication, Callimachus wrote it in the ancient Greek dialect form known as literary Doric. Like Iambi 3 and 5, Iambus 9 “faults {men’s} sexual behavior in a homerotic setting.” Acosta-Hughes (2002) p. 303.

[10] In explaining Hermes’s erection, Iambus 9 apparently refers to a sacred tale of the Pelasgians from the Samothracian mysteries. Herodotus, Histories {Ἱστορίαι} 2.51, provided and discussed in an earlier footnote. In ancient Greek literature, Hermes’s erection is more typically explained, in a men-disparaging way, by immediate lust. Acosta-Hughes (2002) pp. 301-3.

[11] Proverb 29453 in Walther (1963-69), Latin text from id., my English translation. While this proverb is found in a medieval manuscript, it might date to the classical period. Another Latin proverb similarly puns on farting and feet:

We believe it to be foot noise when you fart, you inflated one.

{ Credimus esse pedis strepitum, dum, turgide, pedis. }

Proverb 3682 in Walther (1963-69), Latin text from id., my English translation. The great twelfth-century grammarian Serlo of Wilton used this proverb in teaching students.

[12] Horace, Epode 5.29-40, Latin text from Rudd (2004), my English translation, benefiting from that of id. The subsequent quote above is similarly from Epode 5.87-96.

Regarding the translation of anus above, “Anus is rarely used in Latin literature as an indicator of solely age and gender, without additional, pejorative associations.” Migdał (2014) p. 57. In Epode 5, the boy refers to the witches assaulting him as “filthy hags {obscenae ani}.” A poetic persona of Horace refers ironically to Canidia as an anus. Epode 17.47.

In Epode 5.88, for dira detestatio, the translation is “terrible malediction” in Rudd (2004), while “ill-omened” execration is suggested in Watson (2003) p. 245. The doubling between “curses {dirae}” and “ill-omened {dirus}” points to the importance of detestatio, particularly its link to “cut off the testes {detestor}.” Reflecting philology’s historical problem with men’s genitals, Watson (2003) ignores the allusion to testes and castration. Horace uses “the common Prapic pun on testis = testicle/witness” in Satires 1.8.36, 44. Gowers (2012).

Canidia appears as a major character in Horace’s Satire 1.8 and his Epodes 5 and 17. She in also mentioned in Satires 2.1.48 and 2.2.95, as well as Epode 3.8. Writing in the third century GC, Pomponius Porphyrion identified her with the “perfume woman {unguentaria}” Gratidia of Naples. Scholars haven’t generally accepted that identification.

Canidia has been treated as a literary fiction distinctive to each poem. Paule (2017). Such interpretation reflects a deplorable pattern of trivializing men’s lives, lived experiences, and expressed concerns. Moreover, “the kinds of activity which Horace attributes to Canidia really did go on, or were widely believed to do so. … It is apparent that underlying Epode 5 is a notable substratum of fact.” Watson (2003) pp. 176, 179. Many men in ancient Rome and today keenly sense Canidia in their lives.

Horace’s Epodes apparently were composed, along with his Satires, from 42 BGC to 31 BGC. Watson (2003) p. 1. The Epodes widely circulated as a book about 30 BGC. Archaic Greek iambic poetry and Callimachus significantly influenced Horace’s Epodes, as well as Latin literature more generally. Id. pp. 4-19, Clayman (1980) Chapter 4. Epodes 8 and 12 “are clearly influenced by the Iambi.” Clayman (1980) p. 78.

[13] Horace, Satires 1.8.40-45, Latin text from Fairclough, my English translation, benefiting from that of id. Horace’s Satires 1.8 has been editorially summarized as “Priapus complains that the Esquilian hill is infested with the incantations of witches {Conqueritur Priapus Esquilinum montem veneficarum incantationibus infestari}.” This poem is written in dactylic hexameter, an epic meter appropriate to Priapus’s epic action. The subsequent quote above is similarly from Horace’s Satires 1.8.46-50.

On the historical context of Satires 1.8, Higgins (2017). Canidia in this satire might figure P. Canidius Crassus, an eminent supporter of Mark Antony. On the use of magic dolls and binding spells in ancient witchcraft, Hanses (2022) pp. 254-60.

The significance of Callimachus’s Iambi to Horace’s Satire 1.8 has been under-appreciated:

What has been observed is that Sat. 1.8 bears a resemblance to Callimachus’ Iambi 7 and 9, both of which feature ithyphallic herms.

Sharland (2003) p. 102. Explanations of that relationship have focused on the obvious (the presence of a statue) and the abstract: the poets’ role and transgressing generic conventions. Id. p. 102, ft. 18. Sharland provides a more elaborate explanation and more emphatic association:

Priapus’ fart which brings Sat. 1.8 to a speedy conclusion, is not merely an ordinary fart, but is, in fact, as I would suggest, a Callimachean fart. That the fart should terminate the satire before it gets too long would naturally be good in Callimachean terms: because, as the readers of the monstrously long Sat. 2.3 discover unequivocally, a big satire is a big evil. Moreover, by farting the Priapus is, as we have seen, using the ‘blunt’ end of his weapon to achieve this effective editing, bringing the satire to a quick and neat conclusion, just as at Sat. 1.10.72ff. the Horatian satirist advises using the other side of the stilus in the stringent editing that is so important for good composition: ‘saepe stilum vertas …’ Inspired in part by Callimachus’ Iambs 7 and 9, but incorporating some indecorous, scatological aspects of the Old Comic tradition in Roman satire, Sat. 1.8 is the complete opposite of Sat. 2.3: 1.8 is a light and delightful exposition of ‘how to write Callimachean satire.’ The flatulent Priapus of Sat. 1.8 is therefore not merely a figure that is representative of Horace’s character, or who is just ‘Horace in disguise’. The Priapus is rather a potent symbol both of Horace’s devotion to his Callimachean aesthetics and of his irrepressible and effervescent irreverence as poet.

Id. pp. 107-8.

Horace’s Satires 1.8 seem to me to include a Callimachean fart in a textually specific sense. Satires 1.8 implicitly refers to a pun on pedes / pedo to give a ridiculous aition in Latin translation for why Priapus’s penis is pointing to his belly and face, rather than his feet. Moreover, with Callimachean erudition, Horace’s textual play reaches back to the Homeric Hymn to Hermes in having the fart send the witches into the city. With his fart, Priapus ultimately defends himself no more successfully than Hermes does by farting in the hands of Apollo. On Horace’s use of the Homeric Hymns, Harrison (2016). Harrison identifies in Horace’s Odes 1.10 a likely use of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes. Id. pp. 81-2.

[14] Horace, Satires 1.8.46-50. Priapus may have injured himself in defending himself with a fart. “Fig wood {ficus}” tends to crack easily, and ficus is linguistically associated with anal fissures. Hallet (1981).

The interpretation of lacertis has been a problem:

uincula: threads (licia) tied to a rhombus to entwine the wax doll (cf. Virg. Ecl. 8.73-4, 78; Tuper 1976: 44-6). Here, love-knots worn as bracelets; lacertis goes with excidere.

Gowers (2012) p. 279. If “lacertis goes with excidere,” then the herbs and love-knots, but not the teeth and wig, come tumbling down from the arms. That’s awkward and insipid. A better interpretation associates lacertis with incantata, with lacertis understood as the genitive plural of “lizards {lacertae / lacerti}.” White (2006) p. 382.

Scholars have poorly understood the social significance of Horace’s Satires 1.8. A leading scholarly commentary with gross anti-meninism has superficially interpreted its conclusion:

Priapus appeals to the curious uiator for male solidarity against female inuidia and presents the spectacle as a shared joke at the expense of women (Richlin 1992:58, Henderson 1999: 101).

Gowers (2012), concluding commentary on Satire 1.8. On Richlin 1992, see note [6] in my post on Priapea. On Henderson 1999, see note [5] in my post on Horace’s gender-complacency. As Gowers makes clear, men are complicit in female “malice {invidia}.”

Horace’s Satires 1.8 sets up a sensory revelation. “Priapus’ garden is truly a nexus of sensory stimuli.” Norgard (2015) p. iii. Priapus farting plausibly produced a large, but temporary change in the garden’s smell. Such an atmospheric change isn’t enough to transform men’s lived experience of oppression. As Gowers (2012) indicates, social change in sensory capabilities is also necessary.

[15] Horace, Epode 17.1-7, Latin text from Rudd (2004), my English translation, benefiting from that of id. The subsequent quote above is similarly from Epode 17.70-5. On the witches using a wheel — iunx / turbo / rhombus {ῥόμβος} — in sorcery, Callon (2010) pp. 38-46. On the bodily experience of the supernatural attacks in Epodes 5 and 17, Wright (2021).

[16] Sumerian Proverbs t.6.1.12b.5 (l. 8), Sumerian transliteration and English translation (modified insubstantially) from the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature, second edition (ETCSL).

[17] Late Assyrian transliteration and English translation (modified insubstantially) from Lambert (1975) p. 120, numbered K 6082.B.14-6 + 81-7-27, 241 (from tablet found at Nineveh). An alternate translation:

Why did you break wind and feel mortified?
Why did you stink up her boyfriend’s wagon like a wi[ld ox]?

Foster (2005) p. 947, translating from Lambert (1975). The associated collection of texts now tends to be called Divine Love Lyrics (DLL):

The texts describe in detail the complex rituals and verbal ceremonies that involved Marduk, his wife Zarpanitu and his lover Ištar of Babylon. … The DLL texts had clear cultic setting. The colophon of the ritual tablet of the set – after listing the cultic instructions and the incipits of the dicenda – informs that the series is a qinayyâtu, “rites against a (female) rival.” Thus, it appears that the DLL texts record a ritual in which a divine ménage-à-trois, involving Marduk, his wife Zarpanitu and his lover Ištar of Babylon, was performed publically in different locations in the city of Babylon, mirroring, so we believe, human, not only divine, emotions.

Nathan Wasserman and Rocio Da Riva, describing their forthcoming critical edition.

[18] Josephus, History of the Jewish War Against the Romans {Ἱστορία Ἰουδαϊκοῦ πολέμου πρὸς Ῥωμαίους} (The Jewish War / Bellum Judaicum) 2.224-6 (Chapter 12, section 1), ancient Greek text and English translation (modified insubstantially) from Thackeray (1927).This incident perhaps generated an aphorism:

Today is the thirtieth Sabbath. Would you fart at the circumcised Jews?

{ hodie tricesima sabbata: vin tu curtis Iudaeis oppedere? }

Horace, Satires 1.9.69.

[19] Proverb 24465 in Walther (1963-69), Latin text from id., my English translation. Other Latin proverbs similarly recognized the problem of controlling farting:

Farting in the sheepfold, one afterwards does that in the royal court.

One who is accustomed to farting near the thicket or near the sheepfold,
does not abandon this habit when he arrives at the royal court.

{ Pedens in caula post hoc facit illud in aula.

Pedere qui suevit prope dumum vel prope caulam,
Hoc non delevit, quando pervenit ad aulam. }

Proverbs 21130c and 21130d, similarly from id. Another proverb on farting can be interpreted as either admonishing or giving license:

Fart upon a hill. Fart where you wouldn’t want to fart.

{ Pede super colles, pedes ubi pedere nolles }

Proverb 21130b, similarly from id. This proverb can also be interpreted as a humorous commentary on Matthew 5:14:

You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.

{ vos estis lux mundi non potest civitas abscondi supra montem posita

ὑμεῖς ἐστε τὸ φῶς τοῦ κόσμου οὐ δύναται πόλις κρυβῆναι ἐπάνω ὄρους κειμένη }

Latin Vulgate and ancient Greek text from Blue Letter Bible.

[20] Juvenal, Satires 6.610-2, Latin text and English translation (modified slightly) from Braund (2004). As these verses illustrate, men are complicit in the oppression of men.

[21] Hermes, like Odysseus, is a trickster figure with a widely varying character:

Both god and the hero share the peculiar and somewhat obscure epithet, πολύτροπος {many turns}. It suggests versatility, indirection, adaptability, but also movement on a twisted path.

Clay (2019) p. 67, endnote omitted. For πολύτροπος, Homeric Hymn to Hermes vv. 13, 439, and Odyssey, passim, e.g. Odyssey 1.1. Hermes and Odysseus also share the epithets “full of tricks and wiles {ποικιλομήτης}” and “many skilled {πολύμητις}.” Id. p. 78, note 1. Odysseus’s grandfather Autolykos was a cattle thief like Hermes. Id. pp. 70-1. On Hermes’s complexity as a figure, Vinci & Maiuri (2022).

[22] Callimachus, fr. 221 Pf. (iambic), ancient Greek text and English translation from Acosta-Hughes (2002) p. 302. It “seems rather likely” that this fragment belongs to Iambus 9. Id. A substantively similar translation: “We ask from Hermes the gift of easy learning.” Clayman (2022a) p. 519. Id. notes, “Cf. Call. Epig. 48, where a similar request is made to the Muses by Simus the son of Miccus.” In Callimachus’s snide Epigram 48, a mask of Dionysus on the wall of a school declares:

Simus, the son of Miccus, dedicated me to the Muses and asked for easy learning.

{ Εὐμαθίην ᾐτεῖτο διδοὺς ἐμὲ Σῖμος ὁ Μίκκου ταῖς Μούσαις }

Ancient Greek text and English translation (footnotes omitted) from Clayman (2022b).

The tradition of archaic Greek iambic poetry is associated with ethical learning. Apparently originating in Ionia in the seventh and sixth centuries BGC, archaic Greek iambic poetry is now associated with Archilochus of Paros, Hipponax of Ephesus, and Semonides of Amorgos:

this is a type of poetic utterance at once ethical, in that it may serve as a medium for the criticism or shaming of another (psogos or “blame” poetry), and coarse or low, in that it embodies a realm wherein elements of diction, theme, or imagery that are normally excluded from more elevated poetic forms (e.g. elegy) are very much at home. And the speaker is often represented as being shameless and disreputable, or at least lowborn and socially marginal.

Acosta-Hughes (2002) p. 2. The Homeric Hymn to Hermes draws upon the archaic Greek iambic tradition. Boner (2009). Callimachus, Horace, and later exponents have significantly reshaped the iambic tradition while maintaining its ethical value.

[images] (1) Ancient Greek marble herm. From about 520 BGC Siphnos in the Aegean island chain the Cyclades. Preserved as accession # Inv.3728 in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens. Image thanks to Ricardo André Frantz and Wikimedia Commons. (2) Ithyphallic herm painted on Athenian red-figure krater. Ithyphallic herm painted on Athenian red-figure column krater. Painted c. 480–470 BGC and attributed to the Geras Painter. Preserved as item 83.AE.255 in the J. Paul Getty Museum. Source image from item 7 in Tsiafakis (2019). (3) Men making offerings to an ithyphallic herm. Painting on Attic red-figure column krate. Made about 480–470 BGC by the Pan Painter. Preserved as item 83.AE.252 in the J. Paul Getty Museum. Source image from item 6 in Tsiafakis (2019). (4) Woman making offerings to an ithyphallic herm. Painting on Attic red-figure column krater. Painted c. 480–470 BGC and attributed to the Geras Painter. Preserved as item 83.AE.255 in the J. Paul Getty Museum. Source image from item 7 in Tsiafakis (2019).

A herm / herma {ἑρμῆς} is a rectangular pillar often topped with a man’s head and having a man’s genitals carved in the center of the pillar. In 415 BGC, during the night before the Athenian armada was to embark for Syracuse to fight in Sicilian expedition of the Peloponnesian War, all the herms (hermai) in Athens had their genitals mutilated. Mutilating genitals of herms is an expression of castration culture.

References:

Acosta-Hughes, Benjamin. 2002. Polyeideia: The Iambi of Callimachus and the Archaic Iambic Tradition. Hellenistic Culture and Society, 35. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Introduction. Reviews by Paul Ojennus and by Annette Harder.

Boner, Justin. 2009. The Homeric Hymn to Hermes and Archaic Iambography. B.A. Thesis, New College of Florida.

Braund, Susanna Morton, ed. and trans. 2004. Juvenal and Persius. Loeb Classical Library 91. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Butterworth, G. W., ed. and trans. 1919. Clement of Alexandria. The Exhortation to the Greeks. The Rich Man’s Salvation. To the Newly Baptized. Loeb Classical Library 92. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Callon, Callie. 2010. “Sorcery, Wheels, and Mirror Punishment in the Apocalypse of Peter.” Journal of Early Christian Studies. 18 (1): 29–49.

Clay, Jenny Strauss. 2019. “Hide and Go Seek: Hermes in Homer.” Chapter 5 (pp. 67-78) in Miller & Clay (2019).

Clayman, Dee L. 1980. Callimachus’ Iambi. Leiden: Brill.

Clayman, Dee L. 1988. “Callimachus Iambi and Aitia.” Zeitschrift Für Papyrologie Und Epigraphik. 74: 277–286.

Clayman, Dee L., ed. and trans. 2022a. Callimachus. Aetia. Iambi. Lyric Poems. Loeb Classical Library 421. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Clayman, Dee L., ed. and trans. 2022b. Callimachus. Hecale. Hymns. Epigrams. Loeb Classical Library 129. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Evelyn-White, Hugh G. 1914. The Homeric Hymns and Homerica. London: William Heinemann Ltd.

Fairclough, H. Rushton, trans. 1926. Horace. Satires. Epistles. The Art of Poetry. Loeb Classical Library 194. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Faulkner, Andrew, ed. 2011. The Homeric Hymns: Interpretative Essays. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Review by Alberto Bernabé.

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Harrell, Sarah E. 2005. “Apollo’s Fraternal Threats: Language of Succession and Domination in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies. 32 (4): 307–29.

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gender horror in W. H. Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles”

Hephaestus polishing Achilles's shield for Thetis

In the Iliad, Achilles’s goddess-mother Thetis asks the iron-forging god Hephaestos to make new armor for Achilles. Achilles needed new armor to rejoin the horrific violence against men of the Trojan War. About seven years after the end of World War II, W. H. Auden in his poem “The Shield of Achilles” recast Hephaestos making Achilles’s armor. Auden represented gender horror in a more subtle way than did the Iliad.

Auden’s poem begins with “she.” That “she” is Achilles’s goddess-mother Thetis:

She looked over his shoulder
For vines and olive trees,
Marble well-governed cities
And ships upon untamed seas,
But there on the shining metal
His hands had put instead
An artificial wilderness
And a sky like lead.

A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,
Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
An unintelligible multitude,
A million eyes, a million boots in line,
Without expression, waiting for a sign. [1]

Men have long revered a great mother goddess. Like a young child, Achilles revered his mother Thetis. He prayed to her for help. Hephaestos, who regarded himself as deeply indebted to Thetis, would do anything for her. He credited Thetis with acting courageously to save his life after his mother, the hateful head-goddess Hera, threw him off Mount Olympus because of his physical disability. In the Iliad, Thetis isn’t a demure, passive goddess who merely looks over men’s shoulders.[2]

inspecting shield for Achilles, Thetis sees herself reflected in it as Hephaestus polishes the other side

Auden represented Thetis according to the gender pieties of post-World War II men. Auden’s Thetis is pure, innocent, and moral:

She looked over his shoulder
For ritual pieties,
White flower-garlanded heifers,
Libation and sacrifice,
But there on the shining metal
Where the altar should have been,
She saw by his flickering forge-light
Quite another scene.

Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
A crowd of ordinary decent folk
Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven upright in the ground.

The woman Thetis wants to see fruitful nature, well-governed, peacefully trading cities, and traditional religious beliefs and practices. The man Hephaestos represents the artificial, inorganic, cruelty of modern, bureaucratic society. The officials and sentries are men. The ordinary decent folk are women. The abstract, scarcely colored figures are men suffering penal punishment. One of those men would come to be in modern medieval scholarship the model for “WomanChrist.”[3] No one laughs.

Achilles with his pride died seeking glory in violence against men. In the honor culture of archaic Greece, pride and shame were the measure of men. That measure separates men from the ordinary joys of life. After World War II, ordinary men, like the three pale figures in Auden’s poem, faced the honor-culture measure of men:

The mass and majesty of this world, all
That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
And could not hope for help and no help came:
What their foes liked to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died.

The three pale figures bound to three posts died as men because they lost their pride. That isn’t like Jesus and one of the two thieves crucified with him.[4]

Gender stereotypes deny men’s feelings and obscure the emotional horror of violence against men. So it is in Auden’s poem:

She looked over his shoulder
For athletes at their games,
Men and women in a dance
Moving their sweet limbs
Quick, quick, to music,
But there on the shining shield
His hands had set no dancing-floor
But a weed-choked field.

A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,
Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
Were axioms to him, who’d never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept. [5]

Why did Auden write, “That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third”? The prevalence of boys being raped is about equal to the prevalence of girls being raped. Violence against males typically isn’t explicitly specified. The victim is merely “a third.” The mediated masses don’t weep because men are raped or men are killed. Famous poets, economists, and bureaucrats succeed with the same art. Their sense of social justice follows the logic and statistics of profit in competition for attention.

Out of the air a voice without a face
Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief. [6]

Hephaestus giving to Thetis the armor he made for Achilles at her request
Thetis presents Achilles with the new armor that she had Hephaestus make for him.

The Every Woman has never walked a mile in his shoes. She doesn’t know what it would mean to be for him.

The grim-lipped armorer
Thetis of the shining breasts
Rushed away to Achilles.
None cried out in dismay
At what the goddess had brought
To equip her son, the strong
Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
Who would not live long. [7]

W. H. Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles” depicts modern gender horror. That seems quite different from the massive slaughter of men in the Iliad. The Iliad and Auden’s poem, however, are part of the same old song.[8] Sing a new song of justice for men!

* * * * *

Read more:

Notes:

[1] W. H. Auden, “The Shield of Achilles,” stanzas 1-2, quoted from Mendelson (2022) vol. 2. This poem was originally published in “Poetry, October 1952.” Fuller (1998) p. 449. Based on that citation, Poetry apparently is a periodical, probably published in Britain or the U.S. Alan Jacobs didn’t provide a better citation. Auden (2024) p. 79. Further research indicates that Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles” was first published in Poetry, a magazine founded in 1912 by Harriet Monroe in Chicago and published by the Modern Poetry Association (USA), which in 2003 became the Poetry Foundation. In 1952, Karl Shapiro was the editor of Poetry. For additional citation details, Auden (1952).

Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles” was reprinted as the title poem and the first poem of the center section of Auden (1955). That book, The Shield of Achilles, won a National Book Award in the U.S. in 1956 and was reprinted in that year. Auden (1956). For a critical edition of the poem, Mendelson (2022) vol. 2, pp. 417-8; textual notes, id. pp. 956-7.

Hephaestos making a shield and other armor for Achilles at the request of the goddess Thetis is narrated in Iliad, Book 18. The description of Achilles’s shield in the Iliad is an early and influential example of ekphrasis — a detailed verbal description of a work of visual art. Hephaestos is more commonly named with the Latinate form, Hephaestus.

W. H. Auden is a very eminent poet. He was Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 1954 until his death in 1973. For additional scholarly resources on Auden, the Auden Society. Auden is “generally considered the greatest English poet of the twentieth century.” Auden is at least comparable in status to T. S. Eliot. See, e.g. St. Amant (2018).

The Shield of Achilles is a major work of Auden:

It is the boldest and most intellectually assured work of his career, an achievement that has not been sufficiently acknowledged, in large part because its poetic techniques are not easily perceived or assessed. It is the most unified of all Auden’s collections, and indeed — once its intricate principles of organization are grasped — may be seen as the true successor of those long poems of the 1940s.

Auden (2024), Jacobs introduction, p. x. Its central, title poem, “The Shield of Achilles,” is according to Jacobs, “Auden’s staggeringly ambitious revision” of the ekphrasis of the shield of Achilles that Hephaestos makes in the Iliad, Book 18. Id. p. xxi.

Auden valued “The Shield of Achilles” highly enough to have made two recordings of him speaking it. He recorded the poem in 1968 for the Spoken Arts label in New Rochelle, New York. Here’s a edited version and a fuller version. He also recorded “The Shield of Achilles” in 1971 for Yale Series of Recorded Poets, issued by Westinghouse Learning Press, New York. Mendelson (2022) vol. 2, pp. 758-9. Others have also recorded the poem, e.g. Joshua Gibbs (2014) and Henry Blaine Silver (2022).

Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles” has been widely discussed through to the present day. This poem “puts the post-war scene into just the kind of oblique and dramatically archetypal context that brings out both its full horror and its religious meaning.” Fuller (1998) p. 451. For a scholastic analysis of the poem, Reed (2021). Some have understood it to contrast implicitly the beauty, lyricism, and personal heroism of archaic Greece with the “martial horror” of modernity, “the anxious meaninglessness of modern life, the warfare engendered by it, and the cruel social realities that lie behind both.” Brown (nd). Without explicitly considering war gender-structured as violence against men, Belloncle read “The Shield of Achilles” as illuminating “the constancy of war throughout the ages.” Summers similarly perceived:

Auden’s point, then, is not that the Homeric idealization of war contrasts with contemporary militarism, but that the heroic age contained within it the seeds of modern dehumanization. … The poem thus exposes the disparity between the idyllic appearance of the Homeric world and the ugly realities that the appearance conceals, and it suggests a continuity of those realities into the contemporary world.

Summers (1984) p. 220. A central continuity is the gender position of men in relation to war.

Subsequent quotes above, except the final one, are similarly from Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles.” Those quotes are stanzas 4-5 (She looked over his shoulder…), stanza 6 (The mass and majesty of this world, all…), stanzas 7-8 (She looked over his shoulder…), and stanza 3 (Out of the air a voice without a face…).

[2] Discussions of Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles” have considered gender only superficially when they recognize that Auden changed Thetis’s position. For example, a Homeric scholar declared:

One of the most significant changes that Auden has made to the original tale of the making of the shield is the role of Thetis in the scene. In Iliad 18 Thetis does not follow Hephaestus into his workshop (468 τὴν μὲν λίπεν αὐτοῦ ‘he left her there’). By introducing Thetis as an anxious viewer of Hephaestus’ making of the shield, Auden reminds us that the shield reflects not only the story of Achilles but also that of Thetis.

Yamagata (2023) p. 3. The shield also implicitly represents the story of the mass slaughter of men. Why don’t Auden and other elite authors remind readers about the horrific history of violence against men within structures of gender injustice that men have long endured?

[3] Newman (1995). See also Georges Duby’s study of medieval women. Cf. medieval ostentatio genitalium.

The central section of Auden’s The Shield of Achilles begins with “The Shield of Achilles” and ends with “Ode to Gaea.” In ancient Greek myth, Gaea / Gaia is a mother goddess who represents the earth and the origin of all life. She urged her son Cronos to castrate her husband / his father Uranus. “Ode to Gaea” ends with praise for Gaea as pure, unchanging truth:

And Earth, till the end, will be herself; she has never been moved
Except by Amphion, and orators have not improved
Since misled Athens perished
Upon Sicilian marble: what,
To her, the real one, can our good landscapes be but lies,
Those woods where tigers chum with deer and no root dies,
That tideless bay where children
Play bishop on a golden shore.

Auden (1955) pp. 58-9, “Ode to Gaea,” final stanza.

[4] Humility, not pride, characterized Jesus, e.g. Matthew 11:29 (Jesus calls himself gentle and lowly in heart), John 13:1-16 (Jesus washing his disciples’ feet), Luke 22:24-27 (Jesus teaches that leaders should be humble and serve others), Luke 14:7-11 (Jesus teaches that he who humbles himself will be exalted), Philippians 2:5-8 (Jesus obediently humbled himself on the cross). One of the thieves crucified with Jesus humbly asked for forgiveness. The other thief arrogantly demanded that Jesus save himself and them. Luke 23:39-42.

[5] Salter, who described “The Shield of Achilles” as “my own favorite among his midsized poems,” reads the ragged urchin as having never heard that “one could weep because another wept” as representing the “tragedy” of the poem. Salter (2023). Summers (1984) similarly interprets this verse as central and profound. Id. p. 232. The verse seems to me better interpreted as bathetic. Similar words of Paul to the Christian community at Rome are less cloyingly sentimental and more shocking:

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep.

{ εὐλογεῖτε τοὺς διώκοντας ὑμᾶς εὐλογεῖτε καὶ μὴ καταρᾶσθε χαίρειν μετὰ χαιρόντων κλαίειν μετὰ κλαιόντων }

Romans 12:14-15 via Blue Letter Bible.

[6] Poets disparaging statistics now seems banal. Perhaps in 1952 contempt for statistics was a more interesting position:

Among the writers who most influence Auden in this period was the Austrian thinker Rudolf Kassner (1873–1959), especially in his 1919 book Zahl und Gesicht. The German phrase of his title generally means “quantity and quality,” but literally means “Number and Face,” and in 1950 Auden wrote a poem, “Numbers and Faces,” that resonated with Kassner’s ideas. Kassner’s distinction becomes a way for Auden to rearticulate the distinction he made in his 1946 poem “Under Which Lyre” between the followers of Apollo and the followers of Hermes: the Apollonians of the earlier poem live in the later poem’s “Kingdom of Number,” while Hermetics are drawn to particular human faces.

Auden (2024), Jacob’s introduction, pp. xxii-iii. In newspapers and popular journals, use of statistics is highly rhetorical. Like words, statistics can describe truth, but don’t necessarily do so. Apart from the logic of a particular moral framework such as utilitarianism, neither words nor statistics can prove a cause morally just.

[7] This stanza is a modified version of Auden’s final stanza in “The Shield of Achillles.” Auden’s original has the poor dear goddess Thetis crying in dismay and blaming the disabled man Hephaestos:

The thin-lipped armorer,
Hephaestos, hobbled away,
Thetis of the shining breasts
Cried out in dismay
At what the god had wrought
To please her son, the strong
Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
Who would not live long.

Auden thus significantly changed the song of the Iliad concerning Thetis and Hephaestos. Auden’s recasting of the Iliad perhaps served the emotional needs of men returning home after participating in the horrific violence against men of World War II.

Auden’s concern for time patterns is signaled in the The Shield of Achilles’s third section, entitled “Horae Canonicae {Canonical Hours}.” That’s a time pattern associated with early Christian communities. One specification of these hours occurs in the Rule of Saint Benedict, composed about 530 GC. Auden’s section “Horae Canonicae” has the epitaph, “Immolatus vicerit {Having been sacrificed, he conquered}.” That’s a reference to Christ. It’s perhaps taken from Venantius Fortunatus’s hymn, “Sing, my tongue, the strife of glorious combat {Pange lingua gloriosi proelium certaminis}.” Medieval Latin poets adapted “Pange, lingua” it to mock courtly love. It also provided the meter for Angelbert’s poem lamenting the horrific violence against men at the battle of Fontenoy in 841. Jacobs sees “The Shield of Achilles” as fulfilling “Immolatus vicerit.” Auden (2024), Jacob’s introduction, pp. xxiv-xxxiv. Auden, however, provides no critical perspective on men’s sacrificial gender position. It wasn’t the time for Auden to fill that negative space.

Auden included in The Shield of Achilles an obscure prefatory epigraph lamenting bad conditions and temporal disjointedness:

From bad lands where eggs are small and dear
Climbing to worse by a stonier
Track, when all are spent we hear it — the right song
For the wrong time of year.

Auden (1955), epigraph printed just below the dedication “For Lincoln and Fidelma Kirstein.” Cf. Ecclesiastes 3:1-11. The time of year, like the time of day, is a continually recurring event. If the right time of year exists, it will come. The right song for the right time of year will come.

[8] Within the same section of The Shield of Achilles in which “The Shield of Achilles” comes, Auden placed another poem, entitled “The Truest Poetry Is the Most Feigning.” Concerning the poet in relation to the generic human, gendered as male (“Man”), this poem concludes:

For given Man, by birth, by education,
Imago Dei, who forgot his station,
The self-made creature who himself unmakes,
The only creature ever made who fakes
With no more nature in his loving smile
Than in his theories of a natural style,
What but tall tales, the luck of verbal playing,
Can trick his lying nature into saying
That love, or truth in any serious sense,
Like orthodoxy, is a reticence.

Quoted from Mendelson (2022) vol. 2, p. 424. Randall Jarrell, an eminent poet, aptly commented:

I know that I ought to respond, “True, true! I’ll never tell the truth again. Anybody like to join me in some tall tales and verbal playing?” But what I really say is — but I’ll be reticent.

Jarrell (1955) p. 604. Jarrell wasn’t generally contemptuous of Auden’s poetry. Jarrell in various ways greatly admired Auden poetry, which had a large influence on him. On Jarrell’s relationship with Auden, Jarrell (1952 / 2005) and Monroe (1979), Chapter 5.

Auden was an acute and severe self-critic. He rejected some of his published poems as “dishonest.” In his preface to his Collected Shorter Poems: 1927-1957, Auden wrote:

A dishonest poem is one which expresses, no matter how well, feelings or beliefs which its author never felt or entertained. For example, I once expressed a desire for ‘New styles of architecture’; but I have never liked modern architecture. I prefer old styles, and one must be honest even about one’s prejudices. Again, and much more shamefully, I once wrote:

History to the defeated
may say alas but cannot help nor pardon.

To say this is to equate goodness with success. It would have been bad enough if I had ever held this wicked doctrine, but that I should have stated it simply because it sounded to me rhetorically effective is quite inexcusable.

Auden (1957) p. 15.

Auden eventually described his poem “September 1, 1939” as “the most dishonest poem I have ever written.” Just as for “The Shield of Achilles,” war is a central concern of “September 1, 1939.” Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. Auden’s poem “September 1, 1939” was first published in the U.S. public affairs journal The New Republic on October 18, 1939 under the editorship of Bruce Bliven. By the mid-1950s, Auden rejected this poem and refused to have it included in any of his poetry collections. On “September 1, 1939,” Mendelson (1999) pp, 477-8, Lenfield (2015), and Woo (2023).

Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles” seems to me to be more dishonest than his “September 1, 1939.” Having interpreted “The Shield of Achilles” without regard for gender, Jarrell described it as an “impressive, carefully planned, entirely comfortless poem.” Jarrell (1955) p. 604. But Jarrell also observed, “a comfortable frivolity about much of ‘The Shield of Achilles.’” Id. p. 607. Was Auden comforting himself at the reader’s expense? Mendelson observed:

From the moment it appeared in print in 1952 “The Shield of Achilles” was welcome in anthologies for its sturdy unobjectionable sentiments against violence and war. Yet the moral and technical intelligence of Auden’s poem rests in its deeper inexplicit argument about the relation of language and act, and it is a greater and more disturbing work than even its admirers suggest.

Mendelson (1999) p. 375. Mendelson, who interpreted the poem without regard for gender, seems to me to have characterized it well in a way that he himself didn’t understand.

[images]

(1) Hephaestus polishing Achilles’s shield for Thetis. Painting by the Dutuit Painter on a two-handled amphora (wine/oil jar). Made in Athens about 470 BGC. Preserved as accession # 13.188 in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Credit: Bartlett Collection — Museum purchase with funds from the Francis Bartlett Donation of 1912. Source image via MFABoston under non-commercial Terms of Use. A Gorgon-head image (Gorgoneion) is a common shield device and appears on the shield of Achilles in the Sarti fragment of the Tabulae Iliaca. Hardi (1985) p. 22. Hephaestus forging armor for Achilles at Thetis’s request is a well-established theme in images crafted throughout history. Here’s an image collection for that theme.

(2) Thetis, inspecting the shield that Hephaestus made for Achilles, sees herself reflected in it. Hephaestus polishes the other side. A craftsman works on the helmet for Achilles. Fresco made 48-75 GC in the House of Paccius Alexander (IX 1, 7, triclinium e), Pompeii. Preserved in Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli (MANN inv. 9529). Source image thanks to Marie-Lan Nguyen and Wikimedia Commons. Here’s another photo. This composition might have adapted a representation of Aphrodite seeing herself in the Shield of Ares. Hardie (1985) p. 19. Eight paintings of Thetis in the forge of Hephaestus have survived in Pompeiian wall frescos from before 79 GC. Id. Here are Thetis in the forge of Hephaestus in the House of Siricus {Domus Vedi Sirici} (VII.1.47) and in the House of Ubonus {Domus Uboni} (IX.5.2).

(3) Hephaestus giving to Thetis the armor he made for Achilles at her request. Painting by the Foundry Painter on an Attic red-figure caylix krater (wide-mouth jar used for mixing water and wine), made 490-480 BGC. Preserved as accession # F 2294 in the Altes Museum, Antiquities Collection {Antikensammlung}, Berlin, Germany. Credit: Formerly in the Schloss Charlottenburg. Source image thanks to Bibi Saint-Pol and to Wikimedia Commons. Hephaestus presenting Thetis the armor he made for Achilles at her request is a well-established theme in images crafted throughout history. Here’s an image collection for that theme.

(4) Thetis presents Achilles with the new armor that she had Hephaestus make for him. Painting by the Alamura Painter on an Attic red-figure calyx krater, made 470-460 BGC. Preserved as accession # 48.262 in the Walters Art Museum. Credit: Acquired by Henry Walters, 1925. Enhanced source image via Wikimedia Commons. The Walters describes this image as a generic departure scene in which a young man heading off to war stands by his family’s altar and receives armor from a woman. The shield here contains an image of a long, sinuous snake. That’s a common feature on representations of the shield of Achilles in Pompeiian frescoes. Hardie (1985) p. 28, n. 119. The snake on the shield of Achilles probably represents “the constellation of the serpent, Draco, which separates the two Bears of the poles.” Id. p. 19. Thetis presenting armor to Achilles might well have become a generic image of a man departing for war.

(5) Shield of Achilles as imagined by John Flaxman, c. 1810-1817, and crafted in silver gilt by Philip Rundell for Rundell Bridge & Rundell. Completed in 1821 for George IV’s British coronation banquet. At the center is the god Apollo riding a quadriga. Preserved as RCIN 51255 in the Royal Collection Trust, Britain.

References:

Auden, W. H. 1952. “The Shield of Achilles.” Poetry (Chicago, IL, by the Poetry Foundation). 81 (1): 3-5.

Auden, W. H. 1955. The Shield of Achilles. New York, NY: Random House.

Auden, W. H. 1956. The Shield of Achilles. New York, NY: Random House.

Auden, W. H. 1966. Collected Shorter Poems: 1927-1957. London: Faber and Faber.

Auden, W. H. 2024. The Shield of Achilles. With preface, introduction, and notes by Alan Jacobs. W.H. Auden: Critical Editions. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Introduction (alternate web presentation). Review by Steve Donoghue.

Belloncle, Sophia. 2024. ‘He Would Not Live Long: The Postwar World in W.H. Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles.”Voegelin View. Essays. Online.

Brown, Rick. nd. ‘A Bloody Torpor: The Banality of Violence in Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles.”’ Modern American Poetry Site. Online.

Fuller, John. 1998. W. H. Auden: A Commentary. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Hardie, P. R. 1985. “Imago Mundi: Cosmological and Ideological Aspects of the Shield of Achilles.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies. 105: 11–31.

Jarrell, Randall. 1952 / 2005. Randall Jarrell on W.H. Auden. Edited by Stephanie Burt and Hannah Brooks-Motl. New York, NY: Columbia University Press.

Jarrell, Randall. 1955. “Review: Recent Poetry.” The Yale Review: A National Quarterly. Summer, 1955, pp. 598-608. Includes Jarrell’s review of Auden’s The Shield of Achilles.

Lenfield, Spencer. 2015. ‘Why Auden Left: “September 1, 1939” and British Cultural Life.’ Journal of the History of Ideas Blog. Posted online Dec. 9, 2015.

Mendelson, Edward. 1999. Later Auden. New York, NY: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux.

Mendelson, Edward, ed. 2022. Poems. Vol. 1: 1927-1939. Vol. 2: 1940-1973. The Complete Works of W. H. Auden. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Review by Steve Donoghue and Salter (2023).

Monroe, Hayden Keith. 1979. An Ornament of Civilization: The Literary Criticism of Randall Jarrell. Ph.D. Thesis, University of North Carolina at Greensboro.

Newman, Barbara. 1995. From Virile Woman to WomanChrist: Studies in Medieval Religion and Literature. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press.

Reed, Monique. 2021. “The Shield of Achilles by W.H Auden – Teaching Presentation – Analysis of context, poem and language.” YouTube video.

Salter, Mary Jo. 2023. “Our Auden.” Literary Matters. 15.2. Online.

St. Amant, E. A. 2018. “W H Auden versus T S Eliot.” Online post at eastamant.com.

Summers, Claude J. 1984. ‘“Or One Could Weep Because Another Wept”: The Counterplot of Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles.”’ The Journal of English and Germanic Philology. 83 (2): 214–32.

Woo, David. 2023. “Review: Auden in the 21st Century (on The Complete Works of W. H. Auden: Poems, Volume I: 1927–1939 and Volume II: 1940–1973, edited by Edward Mendelson).” The Georgia Review. Sprint, 2023, online edition.

Yamagata, Naoko. 2023. “Thetis and the Shield of Achilles – Reading the Iliad with Auden.” Chapter 16 (pp. 395-410) in Maciej Paprocki, Gary Vos, and David John Wright, eds. The Staying Power of Thetis: Allusion Interaction and Reception from Homer to the 21st Century. Sovereign of the Sea: the Staying Power of Thetis in the Greco-Roman World and Beyond (Conference). Berlin: De Gruyter. Cited by pdf page number in the open research online version.

Catullus on bridging the gender divide for Colonia

Disparaging men’s sexuality contributes to the social construction of the gender divide. The Roman poet Catullus, writing about 60 BGC, considered this matter personally in relation to a fellow-citizen of his home city of Verona. That fellow-citizen was utterly failing to fulfill his sexual responsibilities to his young wife. Catullus’s proposed action for Colonia superficially adheres to the obtuse, yet common, penal principle of dysfunctional social groups: “the beatings will continue until morale improves.” However, with keen insight into bridges and connecting, Catullus subtly identified and sought to remedy a structural gender problem underlying men’s sexual failures.

Catullus harshly disparaged his fellow-citizen for a sexless marriage. Sex between lively, loving persons is sensual. According to Catullus, his fellow-citizen is wholly insensate:

He’s a most tasteless man and doesn’t sense to the extent of
a two-year-old child, asleep in his father’s rocking arms.
Though he’s married to a young woman, the freshest flower,
a young woman more frisky than a tender little goat,
needing to be watched more carefully than the ripest grapes,
he lets her play around as she pleases. He doesn’t make the smallest bang,
doesn’t raise himself in his part, but lies like a soft tree-trunk
in a trench, hamstrung by a Ligurian axe,
feeling everything as much as if it never existed at all.
The dullard is like that. He sees nothing, he hears nothing,
what he himself is, whether he is or is not, that he doesn’t even know.

{ insulsissimus est homo, nec sapit pueri instar
bimuli tremula patris dormientis in ulna.
cui cum sit viridissimo nupta flore puella
et puella tenellulo delicatior haedo,
adservanda nigerrimis diligentius uvis,
ludere hanc sinit ut lubet, nec pili facit uni,
nec se sublevat ex sua parte, sed velut alnus
in fossa Liguri iacet suppernata securi,
tantundem omnia sentiens quam si nulla sit usquam,
talis iste merus stupor nil videt, nihil audit,
ipse qui sit, utrum sit an non sit, id quoque nescit. }[1]

Husbands oblivious to their beautiful wives are scarcely alive. Compassion for them is nearly inconceivable with ordinary sense.

Ya’an-Kangding Highway Bridge Crossing the Dadu River in China

Catullus figured his sexually failing fellow-citizen as a dilapidated bridge for Colonia. His poem begins with a direct address to Colonia:

O Colonia, you who desire to folic on a long bridge
and are ready to dance, but fear the unfit
legs of the little bridge standing on its reused wood —
that it might fall supine and sink into the encompassing mud.
May you get a good bridge made fit for your passion,
on which could be undertaken even sacred service for the dance god,
if you would give me, Colonia, the gift of greatest laughter.

{ O Colonia, quae cupis ponte ludere longo,
et salire paratum habes, sed vereris inepta
crura ponticuli axulis stantis in redivivis,
ne supinus eat cavaque in palude recumbat
sic tibi bonus ex tua pons libidine fiat,
in quo vel Salisubsili sacra suscipiantur:
munus hoc mihi maximi da, Colonia, risus. }[2]

Colonia is a young, lively, passionate wife and a place with a faulty bridge. Colonia etymologically centers on farming / plowing. Her bridge’s faults — being small and weak, with unfit legs and old wood — suggest her husband’s sexual failure. Colonia’s bridge is both a bridge and her husband’s genitals failing to bridge the gender divide.[3]

Like the double referents of Colonia and the bridge, the gift that Catullus personally requests from Colonia — “the gift of greatest laughter {munus maximi risus}” — also has double referents. The subsequent four verses elaborate on one referent and hint at another:

From your bridge I want a certain fellow-citizen of mine
to go headlong into the mud, by both head and feet tumbling,
truly where the whole wine-vat and stinking swamp
is the most discolored and deep abyss.

{ quendam municipem meum de tuo volo ponte
ire praecipitem in lutum per caputque pedesque,
verum totius ut lacus putidaeque paludis
lividissima maximeque est profunda vorago. }

A man tumbling off a bridge could be “the gift of greatest laughter” only in a vicious and narrow sense. Scholars have rationalized the man tumbling off the bridge as a propitiatory sacrifice to make the bridge satisfactory for Colonia.[4] That interpretation lessens the viciousness and eliminates a fitting context for laughter. In his diction elaborating on his fellow-citizen falling from the bridge, Catullus uses language associated with disparaging the vaginas of some old women.[5] Compared to penises, vaginas typically are highly and warmly regarded in ancient literature. For the passionate and outrageous Catullus, “the gift of greatest laughter” plausibly encompasses sex with his fellow-citizen’s wife.[6] Catullus thus associates the husband-cuckold with unappealing sexual intercourse and himself with appealing sexual intercourse. The double referents of “the gift of greatest laughter {munus maximi risus}” are thrusting the husband from the bridge and having sex with the husband’s lovely wife.

Akashi Kaikyo Bridge in Japan

Showing unusual concern for the sexually inert husband, Catullus figured his own strong, independent sexuality as redemptive. Catullus explained to Colonia that he himself would from the back side thrust her bent-over husband from the bridge:

I want to thrust him bent over right now from your bridge,
if I can, to arouse him suddenly from foolish lethargy
and to leave behind a backwards spirit in the rank filth,
as a she-mule would leave behind an iron shoe in a tenacious abyss.

{ nunc eum volo de tuo ponte mittere pronum,
si pote stolidum repente excitare veternum
et supinum animum in gravi derelinquere caeno,
ferream ut soleam tenaci in voragine mula. }

Men’s tonic masculinity can confer the seminal blessing of abundant life, avert sickness and death, and even arouse a man from sexual lethargy. Myths of gender oppression imagine women being compelled to become domestic service animals with iron shoes on their hooves so that they can undertake heavy burdens. Catullus understood that men such as his fellow-citizen actually experience such a mulish position. The tenacious abyss abstractly represents oppressive demands gynocentric society imposes on men. To shed their lethargy and become fully alive, men must leave behind the iron shoes, the iron shackles, and the iron cages imposed on them, along with other metaphorical fecal matter. Catullus isn’t being gratuitously cruel to his fellow-citizen, but imagining himself providing harsh, necessary character reformation.[7]

Men’s impotence has long been regarded as an epic disaster. One should not simply blame the man-victim, nor of course rape him and thrust him from a bridge into the mud. Like everything else in the cosmos, men’s impotence is socially constructed within structures of dominance and oppression. Difficulties in bridging the gender divide are structural. Unsatisfying bridges, ideologically weakened by institutions of penal punishment and myths of patriarchy and misogyny, cruelly oppress women and men. Women and men must help to arouse men and to liberate men from the iron shoes weighing them down. Catullus imagined liberating a man. You should, too!

We don’t need to build bridges. The bridges we have are sufficient for us. We merely need to deploy our bridges well.

Golden Gate Bridge in California, USA

* * * * *

Read more:

Notes:

[1] Catullus, Poems {Carmina}, Poem {Carmen} 17, vv. 12-22, Latin text (modified insubstantially) from Thomson (1997), my English translation. Many translations of Carmen 17, e.g. Smithers (1894), Burton (1894), Cornish (1904), Rau (1999), and Kline (2001), are freely available online.

I’ve translated “blackest grapes {nigerrimae uvae}” as “ripest grapes.” In context, the blackest grapes mean the most desirable grapes. While skin-color racism existed in ancient Rome, it apparently didn’t color the meaning of this phrase here.

Catullus wrote Carmen 17 in the rare Priapean meter. That meter “combines two ‘aeolic’ cola, a glyconic followed by a pherecratean.” Morgan (2010) p. 35. Some other verses in Priapean meter are attributed to Catullus:

This enclosure I dedicate and consecrate to you, Priapus,
at Lampsacus, where your house and sacred grove are, Priapus,
since you are chiefly worshiped in the cities of the coast
of the Hellespont, which is richer in oysters than other coasts.

{ Hunc lucum tibi dedico consecroque, Priape,
qua domus tua Lampsaci quaque silva Priape,
nam te praecipue in suis urbibus colit ora
Hellespontia ceteris ostriosior oris. }

Here oysters perhaps alludes to men’s testicles. The only other surviving text in Priapean meter attributed Catullus is: “there is the desire to lick from my … {– ⌣ – ⌣⌣ de meo ligurrire libido est}.” Catullus, Fragments 2 and 3, Latin text of Eisenhut (1956) and English translation (modified) from Cornish, Postgate & Mackail (1913) pp. 182-3. Id., like most scholars, regards the attribution of these verses to Catullus as doubtful.

Catullus wrote three other poems “focalized through the generic perspective of Priapus.” Uden (2007) abstract. These poems are Carmina 16, “I with my dick will bang up your crapper and stuff your mouth {Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo}”; 46, “Porcius and Socration, two left hands {Porci et Socration, duae sinistrae}”; and 57, “O rem ridiculam, Cato, et iocosam {O, Cato, what a ridiculous and funny thing}.” Priapus poems (Priapea / Priapeia) of antiquity critically concern men’s sexuality and often parody grotesque stereotypes of men’s genitals and men’s gender. For some relatively uncritical analysis of these poems, Uden (2007).

In one Priapea, Priapus appears as a crude wooden form protecting a bountiful garden from thieves. Men are gender-associated with crudeness and gender-directed to relatively dangerous jobs. This Priapus, however, maintained his self-esteem and recognized his importance. He explains to a traveler:

On me is placed in spring a decorated garland,
on me in the fervid sun red grain,
on me sweet grapes with green vines,
on me an olive hardened by frigid cold.
From my pastures the tender little she-goat
carries to the city her udders matured with milk,
and from my sheepfold the plump lamb
sends home the strong hand heavy with coins,
and a young calf amid its mother’s mooing
spills forth its blood before the gods’ temples.

{ Mihi corolla picta vere ponitur,
mihi rubens arista sole fervido,
mihi virente dulcis uva pampino,
mihi gelante oliva cocta frigore.
meis capella delicata pascuis
in urbem adulta lacte portat ubera,
meisque pinguis agnus ex ovilibus
gravem domum remittit aere dexteram,
tenerque matre mugiente buculus
deum profundit ante templa sanguinem. }

The traveler, not a thief, apparently desires Priapus sexually, or the fruits of the garden. However, in another horror of castration culture, Priapus is violently castrated:

Traveler, you therefore should revere this god
and hold your hands high. This advantages you,
for see, a fierce penis stands prepared.
“I’d like, by Pollux” you say, but by Pollux, see the bailiff
is coming! With his strong arm he breaks off
my penis, which becomes an apt cudgel for his right hand.

{ Proin, viator, hunc deum vereberis
manumque sursum habebis. hoc tibi expedit;
parata namque trux stat ecce mentula.
“velim pol” inquis at pol ecce vilicus
venit, valente cui revulsa bracchio
fit ista mentula apta clava dexterae. }

Priapea 2 (85 Bücheler, from the Appendix Vergiliana), Latin text from Fairclough (1918) vv. 6-15 and 16-21 (of 21), my English translation, benefiting from that of id. and those of Burton & Smithers (1890), who wrongly attribute the poem to Catullus. Here are some Latin reading notes for Priapea 2. The phrase “and hold your hands high {manumque sursum habebis}” could mean “keep your hands off the fruits growing close to the ground,” but hands held high is also a gesture of reverence. Similarly, “for see, a fierce penis stands prepared {parata namque trux stat ecce mentula}” has an erotic, non-masochistic sense. In contrast, the bailiff’s “apt cudgel {apta clava}” is brutalizing figure of the penis and purely punitive. Priapea 2 (85 Bücheler, from the Appendix Vergiliana) isn’t part of a poetic collection conventionally known as Carmina Priapea.

Priapea 2 signals the expansion of castration culture over time. The generic trajectory of Priapus poems regrettably droops toward infertility:

The generic narrative that is developed for the priapeum moves from the fertile and productive visions of nature in the genre’s code models to a partially urban landscape suffused with artificiality, leisure, indulgence and infertility.

Uden (2010) p. 215. Literary scholars should recognize that castration culture and associated infertility is socially constructed and not immutable or inevitable. Authors such as Catullus, Maximianus, and Rabelais have sought to promote penal justice and renew appreciation for men’s penises.

Subsequent quotes above are sourced similarly from Catullus’s Carmen 17. Those quotes are vv. 1-7 (O Colonia, you who desire…), 8-11 (From your bridge I want a certain fellow-citizen…), 23-6 (I want to thrust him bent over…). The above quotes thus cover all the verses of Carmen 17.

[2] Despite obvious figurative use of “Colonia,” Colonia has tended to be interpreted only as a specific, real town:

Colonia: usually identified since Guarinus with the modern village of Cologna, a few miles eastward from Verona, the marshy situation of which fits well with the description in the text.

Merrill (1893) p. 37, note to v. 1. More recently, scholars have identified Colonia with Vorona. Watson (2021) p. 38, with review of relevant scholarly literature in footnotes 6-7. Much more important is Colonia’s double referent as a place with a bridge and the wife of Catullus’s fellow-citizen.

Salisubsili, translated above as “dance god,” is not otherwise known. That word apparently is the genitive singular of Salisubsilus, It might be a variant of Salisubsalus or Salisubsalius. The name of this god seems to be rooted in dance: “to jump {salire / salio}.” Cf. Catullus, Carmen 17.2. Salisubsilus is perhaps associated with the god Mars. Salii were priests who did ritual war dances. They are known to have existed in Rome and Verona. Merrill (1893) p. 37, note to v. 6, and Adamik (2019) p. 321.

[3] Rudd observed:

There is something very strange about crura. Merrill tells us what it is. “The noun,” he says, “is unique in this humorous application to inanimate objects, pes being commonly used in such connections.” In other words your legs are crura, but the legs of your chair are not.

Rudd (1959) pp. 239-40. Rudd astutely recognized the bridge as representing the husband’s sexual failure, and Colonia, the sexual vigorous wife. Watson asked:

In making a bridge central to the mise en scène of a piece involving the jesting humiliation of a husband, is Catullus alluding, in a kind of Alexandrian footnote, to Greek γεφυρισμός, derived from γέφυρα ‘bridge’, in its transferred sense of ‘subjecting someone to mockery and abuse’?

Watson (2021) p. 39. That’s possible abstractly, but the bridge’s most specific alternate referent is best regarded as the husband’s genitals.

[4] E.g. Quinn (1969) p. 24, Morgan (2010) pp. 39-40. For additional relevant references, Watson (2021) pp. 38-9. A propitiatory sacrifice suggests piety rather than laughter, at least in traditional Greco-Roman religion.

[5] Specific words Catullus uses invoke disparaging figures of the vaginas of particular old women. Consider “mud {lutum}.” In a classical poem, a man harshly disparages his impotent, “villainous penis {scelestus penis}.” He condemns his penis to a highly unattractive woman — “a two-toothed woman-friend resembling old Romulus {bidens amica Romuli senis memor}.” Like Catullus’s aim for his fellow-citizen, this man’s penis faces mud, which figures the vagina of the old, unattractive woman: “you will immerse your wandering penis-head in her noisy mud {vagum sonante merseris luto caput}.” Priapea 4 (83 Bücheler, from the Appendix Vergiliana), incipit “What is this strange occurrence {Quid hoc novi est}?”, vv. 19 (villainous penis), 26 (two-toothed woman friend…), 37 (you will immerse), Latin text of Fairclough (1918), my English translation. Watson credited this reference to a referee. The referee suggested that the verse from Priapea 4 “may be indebted to and consciously ‘stain’ the concluding lines of Catullus 17.” Watson (2021) p. 50, ft. 84. Whatever the specific case, the figure of mud in relation to the vagina (or possibly the anus) seems more general.

In relation to the “deep abyss {profunda vorago}” of Catullus’s Carmen 17, Priapea 4 (83 Bücheler, from the Appendix Vergiliana), v. 32, refers to a “deep trench {profunda fossa}” in figuring the old, unattractive woman’s vagina. Sourced as previously. Catullus 17.18-9 refers to a soft tree-trunk in a “trench {fossa}” in an apparent figure of the husband’s sexual failure. In harsh invective against the eunuch Baeticus, Martial disparages him for not engaging sexually with men’s anuses. In a contrast with masculine anuses, Martial refers to the vagina as “the feminine abyss {femineum barathrum}.” Martial, Epigrams 3.81.1. The association of whirlpool / abyss {vorago} with women is probably rooted in the ancient Greek myth of the women-monsters Scylla and Charybdis.

[6] Catullus in another poem describes an unfeeling husband as a mule. In particular, he addresses Lesbia’s husband: “you mule, not feeling anything {mule, nihil sentis}.” Carmen 83.3. Catullus loves Lesbia. See, e.g. Carmen 92. Zarker argues that Lesbia’s husband, Q. Metellus Celer, is also the mule of Carmen 17. That would make Colonia a code name for Lesbia, and create a stronger association between the “gift of greatest laughter” and Catullus desire to cuckold the husband / fellow-citizen of Carmen 17. Identifying Q. Metellus Celer as the husband in Carmen 17 isn’t necessary for reasonably interpreting the gift as having a referent to cuckolding the husband.

[7] For simplicity of exposition I equate the ego of Carmen 17 with Catullus. In the surviving anthology of Catullus’s poetry, Carmen 17 is paired with Carmen 16. The ego of Carmen 16 expresses strong, independent sexuality. That ego is plausibly understood not as Catullus, but as Priapic persona that Catullus critically assumes. Uden (2007). The ego of Carmen 17 might similarly be a persona dramatically acting to change a man’s gender position. That ego could be a sophisticated exponent of Priapus in a particular literary representation. Cf. Kloss (1998) pp. 64-6.

In Carmen 17, the husband, Catullus’s fellow-citizen, has been interpreted as both an anti-Priapus figure and a Priapus figure. Anti-Priapus, Morgan (2010) pp. 36-40; Priapus, Watson (2021) pp. 43-51. Those starkly contrasting interpretations highlight lack of critical understanding of Priapus.

[images] (1) Ya’an-Kangding Highway Bridge Crossing the Dadu River in China. From photo made on June 13, 2019. Source image thanks to 来斤小仓鼠吧 and Wikimedia Commons. (2) Akashi Kaikyo Bridge in Japan. From photo made on June 26, 2005. Shared by Aurelio Asiain on flicker under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 2.0 license. (3) Golden Gate Bridge in California, USA. Photo made on October 12, 2014. Source image thanks to Wa17gs and Wikimedia Commons.

References:

Adamik, Tamás. 2020. “Vocabulary of Catullus’ Poems: Hapax Legomena as Vulgar Words.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae .59 (1-4): 317–25.

Burton, Richard Francis, and Leonard C. Smithers. 1890. Envocation to Priapus Priapeia, or, Sportive Epigrams on Priapus. Cosmopoli. 1995 reprint.

Cornish, F. W., J. P. Postgate, and J. W. Mackail, ed. and trans. 1913. Catullus. Tibullus. Pervigilium Veneris. Revised by G. P. Goold (1988). Loeb Classical Library 6. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Fairclough, H. Rushton, revised by G. P. Goold. 1918. Virgil. Aeneid: Books 7-12. Appendix Vergiliana. Loeb Classical Library 64. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Kloss, Gerrit. 1998. “Catullus Brückengedicht (c. 17).” Hermes. 126 (1): 58–79.

Merrill, Elmer Truesdell. 1893. Catullus. Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press.

Morgan, Llewelyn. 2010. Musa Pedestris: Metre and Meaning in Roman Verse. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Quinn, Kenneth. 1969. “Practical Criticism: A Reading of Propertius I. 21 and Catullus 17.” Greece & Rome. 16 (1): 19–29.

Rudd, Niall. 1959. “Colonia and Her Bridge: A Note on the Structure of Catullus 17.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association. 90: 238–42.

Thomson, D. F. S. 1997. Catullus. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

Uden, James. 2007. “Impersonating Priapus.” The American Journal of Philology. 128 (1): 1-26.

Uden, James. 2010. “The Vanishing Gardens of Priapus.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology. 105: 189–219. Alternate source.

Watson, Lindsay. 2021. “Catullus’ Priapean Poem ( c . 17).” Antichthon. 55: 35–52.

Zarker, John W. 1969. “Mule, Nihil Sentis (Catullus 83 and 17).” The Classical Journal. 64 (4): 172–77.