Richibi’s Weblog

   “Io Wearing Bovine Horns Watched over by Argos on Hera’s Orders“

                                                                                               (1st century AD)

 

           ______________

 

 

before moving forward with the trials 

of Io in Ovid’s poem, let me interject 

a few extracurricular opinions

 

a great work of art, be it poetry, prose,

a painting, a piece of music, is indicated 

by what you can read between the lines

 

this very Ovid is such an example, 

interrupted, as it is, by my

commentaries

 

but a better example, a more personal 

one, I would think, would be that of 

listening to music, and finding oneself 

wandering, often often, in all kinds of 

apparently unrelated areas of 

introspection, before being drawn 

back into the piece, the present, often 

unexpectedly, when it recaptures, with 

artful ingenuity, an arresting mixture of 

substance and style according to the

poet’s artistry, one’s errant attention, 

helping one find one’s way back home  

 

to rekindle again and again your 

attention, therein lies the art

 

the journey, the reverie, has been the

point of the music, where it is that the 

enchantment, and I use that word 

advisedly here, has taken you, that 

jaunt has been your part of the  

communication, which has turned it

into, indeed, a conversation

 

all art tries to do that

 

 

here are a few of my own reveries 

around Ovid’s poem, that it must be 

read as a cooperation in this instance  

between Ovid and John Dryden, who 

translated it, along with the help, here 

and there throughout the work, of a 

few other noteworthies, who must be 

acknowledged

 

it would be impossible to translate

alliteration, onomatopeia, other 

literary devices from one language 

to another, these exist only, and

specifically, in the individual 

vernacular, like fingerprints, the 

personal and particular impression 

of teeth, in people, for example 

 

of a more technical nature is the 

fact that though Dryden‘s verse

is in iambic pentameter, 

Shakespeare‘s shtick, a notably

conversational metre, Ovid‘s 

dactylic hexameter is of a heroic 

cadence, orotund and imperious,

like ceremonial music is 

unmistakably different from more 

lilting popular ditties

 

the point is that this translation of 

Metamorphoses must be read, in

my opinion, as a collaboration 

between Ovid for his substance, 

which is to say, the essential 

story, and John Dryden for his 

style

 

for better or for worse

 

otherwise we must learn Latin

 

 

an interesting element of the style,

meanwhile, I’ve uncovered, upon 

reading this text, is that the 

apostrophe that is often removed 

from verbs we see today with the 

e typically installed before the d, 

in the first line below, cry’d, for 

instance, reply’d in the next,

would’ve been that the poet was 

indicating, in his 1717, by the 

insistent elision, that the letter 

not be pronounced, where 

custom had earlier had it that it 

often was

 

for a more vivid impression, compare 

bless’d with blessed, both pronunciations 

still in use today, where the second 

spelling, the one with the e, is a 

throwback to a time when most of these 

participles would’ve been voiced in that

manner

 

1717, we learn, however incidentally, 

was a year when the English language 

was evolving, their is not was turning 

into their isn’t  

 

 

but back now to Ovid

 

                 Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry’d;
                 She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply’d:

 

how, between two profoundly 

different oratories, Inachus, Io‘s 

father, wonders, to translate 

 

see my exegesis above

 

                 About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw;
                 And wept, and then these tender words ensue. 

 

Inachus speaks

                 And art thou she, whom I have sought around
                 The world, and have at length so sadly found?
                 So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words
                 Thou answer’st not, no voice thy tongue affords: 

 

mutual words,a shared language

                 But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast;
                 And speech deny’d, by lowing is express’d. 

 

lowing, the sound a cow makes

                 Unknowing, I prepar’d thy bridal bed;
                 With empty hopes of happy issue fed. 

 

happy issue, children

                 But now the husband of a herd must be
                 Thy mate, and bell’wing sons thy progeny. 

 

bell’wing, bellowing 

Inachus fears Io will be mothering

calves

 

                 Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief:
                 But now my God-head but extends my grief:
                 Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,
                 And makes me curse my immortality! 

 

note that even the gods in this 

mythology suffer

                 More had he said, but fearful of her stay,
                 The starry guardian drove his charge away, 

 

The starry guardian, Argus

 

see above

                 To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height
                 He sate himself, and kept her still in sight. 

 

to sate, to refresh, satisfy

 

Io is still not out of the woods

 

R ! chard