Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Fortune, Empress of the World
The stately magnificence of the hymn to Fortune (Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi: “Fortune, Empress of the World”) with which Carl Orff's 1935-6 pagan oratorio, Cármina Burana, both begins and ends, either belies, or comments ironically, on the over-the-top quality of the lyrics.
In this not-very-literal rendering, I've attempted to forefront this tone of self-parody. The speaker is a poet who's down on his luck, and in response hits back with both fists.
For all the good it does.
O Dame Fortune
O Dame Fortune, Queen
of it all: like the Moon
you wax and wane,
always in flux.
Despicable life
she either hurts or heals,
as fancy takes her.
It’s guaranteed:
wealth and power
will melt away like snow.
Dame Fortune—
you hollow bitch—
you’re a Wheel that spins
but goes nowhere.
Anything good
is bound to evaporate.
So, Veiled One, Shadow,
since it seems
you always plague
me in particular,
go ahead, take up your whip.
Here’s my bare back:
beat me!
That Dame Fortune—
she’s always against me,
no matter what I think or do.
I’m crushed, I’m broken,
always in chains;
always, she strikes down
strength. So somebody
strike a chord—one, two
—and let’s all
whine together!
Above: Nigel Jackson, Wheel of Fortune
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