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These are my English translations of poems and epigrams by the ancient Greek poet Callimachus aka Kallimachos. His surviving poems come from various sources including the Greek Anthology and the Garland of Meleager. The epigrams of Callimachus were so admired in antiquity that they became part of the school curriculum.

For Gail White, who put me up to these translations.

Here I lie, Timon, hateful as ever;
curse me as you go, but please go, wherever.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here Saon,
son of Dicon,
now rests in holy sleep:
don't say the good die young, friend,
lest gods and mortals weep.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

Once sweetest of the workfellows,
our shy teller of tall tales
—fleet Crethis!—who excelled
at every childhood game …
now you sleep among long shadows
where everyone’s the same …
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

My friend found me here,
a shipwrecked corpse on the beach.
He heaped these strange boulders above me.
Oh, how he would wail
that he “loved” me,
with many bright tears for his own calamitous life!
Now he sleeps with my wife
and flits like a gull in a gale
—beyond reach—
while my broken bones bleach.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

Half my soul survives, but I don’t know whether Love or Death stole the remainder, only that it’s vanished, forever. Perhaps it flew back to the boys? And yet I often warned them, “Youngsters, don't let the vagabond in!” Now she flits and floats about, sick with love and fit to be stoned.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Excerpt from “Hymn to Apollo”
by Callimachus
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We have called him Phoibos and Nomios since he tended the yoke-mares of Amphrysos, fired with love for young Admetos. Lightly the cattle-herd waxed larger; nor did the flock’s she-goats lack kids under Apollo’s watchful eye; nor were the ewes barren without milk but all had lambs frolicking at their feet; and soon one would become the mother of twins.

Epikydes roams the hills, tracking every hare and hind through the frost and snow. But if someone says, "Look, here’s a wounded deer," he won’t touch it. And that’s how I am at love: wildly pursuing the fleeing game while flying past whatever lies available in my path.

Keywords/Tags: Timon, friend, sleep, gods, life, wife, love, death, death of a friend, Apollo, Saon, Dicon, young
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