Northcoast Antiquarian

Some time ago, I noted a small but telling anachronism in a modern translation of Homer: the appearance of blue in a poetic world that had not yet learned to name it as a discrete chromatic color. The observation was not novel, but it was instructive. Once noticed, such moments have a way of reappearing.

Recently, I encountered the same impulse in a translation of Hesiod’s Theogony.

Hesiod, Theogony 279 (Greek)

τῇ δὲ μιῇ παρελέξατο Κυανοχαίτης
ἐν μαλακῷ λειμῶνι καὶ ἄνθεσιν εἰαρινοῖσι.¹

Two Modern Translations

One careful, respectful, the other good, but slightly reckless:

“with her alone the dark-haired one lay down in a soft meadow among spring flowers.”²

“The Blue-haired god slept with Medusa on the gentle meadow amidst the spring flowers.”³

Both translators footnote that Poseidon is being named without being named, identified solely by an epithet.

Nothing in the Greek has changed. The verb (παρελέξατο), the setting (ἐν μαλακῷ λειμῶνι), even the delicacy of the spring flowers (ἄνθεσιν εἰαρινοῖσι) remain constant. The divergence lies entirely in Κυανοχαίτης.

In archaic Greek, κυανός does not function as a discrete color term. It denotes depth, darkness, sheen—the quality of shadowed mass rather than hue. Joined to χαίτη, it identifies Poseidon by a familiar epic epithet: dark-haired, dark-maned, sea-deep. To render this as “blue-haired” is not a neutral literalism; it imports a modern chromatic category into a poetic system that did not yet organize perception in that way.⁴

Set beside the Greek, the difference becomes immediately visible. “Dark-haired” preserves the archaic register and the restraint of epic diction. “Blue-haired,” by contrast, draws the line forward abruptly. In contemporary English, blue hair belongs less to gods than to declarations—of taste, rebellion, or personal idiosyncratic identity. The sea recedes, and instead of an elemental god rising from its depths, one half-expects the crash of a punk rock concert to break into Hesiod’s meadow, amplifiers humming where spring flowers had been.

These moments are small, but they matter. Translation is always interpretation, but it is also a discipline of restraint. When modern colors slip too easily into ancient verse, they do more than brighten the palette; they alter the weather of the poem itself.

Read alongside Feeling Blue, this passage suggests that the problem is not isolated or accidental, but persistent: whenever modern color names intrude too confidently into archaic poetry, they risk replacing ancient depth with contemporary noise.

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Notes

1. Hesiod, Theogony 279, Greek text in Glenn W. Most, ed. and trans., Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia, Loeb Classical Library 57 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018), 24.
2. Ibid., 25.
3. Barry B. Powell, trans., The Poems of Hesiod: Theogony, Works and Days, & The Shield of Herakles (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017), 49.
4. See LSJ, s.v. κυανός; Brent Berlin and Paul Kay, Basic Color Terms: Their Universality and Evolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969); W. E. Gladstone, Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age, vol. 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1858).