The Tragic Lesson of Verginia: Power and Tyranny

Guillaume Guillon Lethière (French, 1760 – 1832) The Death of Virginia, about 1825–1828, Oil on paper, mounted on canvas. Unframed: 73.5 × 117 cm (28 15/16 × 46 1/16 in.).
The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 2023.7

Livy’s History of Early Rome offers a timeless case study in the corruption of power through the story of Verginia. In Book 3, Appius Claudius – a member of the decemviri tasked with codifying Roman law – becomes consumed by lustful desire for Verginia, a young woman of plebeian birth. Unable to win her through legitimate means, he orchestrates a fraudulent court case to claim her as a slave, abusing his authority to ensure the verdict.

When her father Verginius, a soldier, arrives to defend his daughter, he finds the machinery of justice has been wholly perverted to serve Appius’s desires. Faced with no recourse against this tyranny, Verginius takes his daughter’s life in the forum rather than see her enslaved and defiled. His tragic act galvanizes both the people and army, leading to the overthrow of the decemviri and restoration of constitutional government.

The story has relevance today as we witness how unchecked power still corrupts, with modern figures who – like Appius – seduce both masses and elites with promises of reform while pursuing personal gain and dismantling democratic safeguards. The allusive poem I drafted below below explores this persistent danger, using Verginia’s sacrifice to illuminate the cost of our collective failure to recognize and resist tyranny in its early stages.


The Wages of Compromise: The Blood of Verginia

Beneath the rostra’s shadowed height, he stood,
The man whose gilded words had bought the crowd.
Their cheer, a wreath for virtue misconstrued,
Their gaze averted, though his deeds grew loud.
What harm, they thought, if petty sins abound?
A jest, a taunt, though brazen, met no plea;
The slights were not whispered, though unjust,
Personal gain o’er public trust was clear to see.

Yet they excused what honesty would shun,
For promised change, for vengeance lightly jested.
The wrongs of old made present wrongs seem none;
A brighter future claimed, though untested.
And so, unchecked, his shadow stretched and grew,
Till justice bowed before his grim designs.
A father’s hand, with love and fury true,
Struck down the bonds of tyranny’s confines.

Her blood, a warning, sanctified the square,
The people’s slumber shattered by her cry.
The forum rang with shouts that pierced the air,
The dream of freedom breathed, though she must die.
No longer could they feign or look away—
Their wish for ease had birthed a tyrant’s reign.
The jest of vengeance turned to ash that day,
And Appius fled, undone by grief and shame.

Let not the lesson fade within our time:
That deeds unchallenged fester into might.
To mock the law, to cloak a crime sublime
In promised gold, ensures the coming blight.
The people’s trust, the lords’ approving nod,
May crown a man or break his staff and rod.

Zbigniew Herbert’s Poem on Caligula’s Contempt: The Appointment of the Horse Incitatus

Gaius (Caligula). AD 37-41. Æ Sestertius. Photograph from CNG, Triton XXVII Auction, Lot 675.

The Roman Emperor Caligula, to demonstrate his contempt for the Roman Senate, appointed, by some accounts, his horse, Incitatus, to the Senate so that the horse could be made a consul of Rome. This ancient tale is called to mind by events of recent days, but not for reasons many may suspect. The following poem of Zbigniew Herbert (translated by Oriana Ivy) suggests that the horse had merits as an appointee which many of the recent suggested appointees do not.

***

Caligula Speaks

Among all the citizens of Rome

I loved only one

Incitatus–a horse

when he entered the Senate

the unstainable toga of his coat

gleamed in the midst

of purple-lined assassins

Incitatus possessed many merits

he never made speeches

had a stoic temperament

I think at night in the stable he read the philosophers

I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him

but his noble anatomy made it impossible

he accepted the honor of consulship with indifference

exercised authority in the best manner

that is not at all

he would not be persuaded toward a lasting liason

with my second wife Caesonia

thus unfortunately the lineage of centaur caesars

was not engendered

that’s why Rome fell

I determined to have him declared a god

but on the ninth day before the February calends

Cherea Cornelius Sabinus and the other fools

interfered with my pious plans

he accepted the news of my death with calm

was thrown out of the palace and condemned to exile

he bore this blow with dignity

he died without descendants

slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from Ancium

Tacitus is silent

about the posthumous fate of his meat

Mastering Language: Balancing Craft and Emotion in Poetry

As one who is new to crafting poetry, I am aware that my journey is one of growth, learning, and exploration. What follows is a discussion of the approach I have consciously adopted to refine my poems and avoid the criticisms and condemnations so freely voiced by those such as Wilde—“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic”—and Bloom, who remarked, “All bad poetry is sincere.”

The Art of Moving the Soul: My Approach to Poetry

My approach to poetry is grounded in a vision that goes beyond crafting words into aesthetically pleasing forms; it is about shaping language into something that moves the reader deeply. Poetry is, at its heart, the pursuit of connection, of reaching into the depths of an emotion and distilling it into a form that resonates universally. To accomplish this, I focus on balancing the technical mastery of language with an awareness of emotional truth—crafting a poem not to be admired for its sophistication but to stir something fundamental within its audience.

Mastery of Language and Artifice

A poet must be a master of language—but this mastery is more than an extensive vocabulary or a mastery of grammar. It encompasses an intimate understanding of all the artifices of language, from metaphor and rhythm to sound, cadence, and imagery. Each of these elements is a tool that, when used with precision and intention, can amplify the emotional power of a poem.

  • Metaphor and Symbolism are central to my work. I believe that a well-crafted metaphor can reveal truths that straightforward language cannot reach. Metaphor allows me to take the deeply personal and translate it into the universal. It transforms emotions into imagery that transcends the particularity of my own experiences, inviting readers to see their own reflections within the lines.
  • Sound and Rhythm are equally crucial. Poetry is inherently musical, and I strive to create an aural experience that mirrors the emotional landscape of the poem. The rhythm of a line, the careful use of alliteration or consonance, can evoke a specific mood—whether it be urgency, tranquility, or dissonance. This musicality helps bridge the gap between the reader’s intellect and their emotional response, drawing them into the essence of the poem.
  • Precision in Word Choice is another aspect of my approach. Every word in a poem must be chosen with purpose, as the weight each carries is amplified by the brevity and density of poetry. Words must be evocative, precise, and imbued with the potential to convey a spectrum of meanings. The challenge lies in selecting words that are capable of evoking the complexity of emotion I aim to convey, while still maintaining accessibility for the reader

What I Seek to Avoid

While I strive to use all the tools of language, I am cautious of letting craft overpower emotional authenticity. There is a risk in focusing too heavily on technical mastery—in creating something that is elaborate but lacks heart. A poem must not be an exercise in showing off the artifices of language; it must always remain rooted in emotional truth.

Additionally, I seek to also avoid the temptation to use language that is obscure simply for the sake of complexity. My aim is to create poetry that is layered and nuanced but still accessible. Complexity should be employed to deepen meaning, not to obfuscate it. When a poem becomes a puzzle that requires solving, it runs the risk of alienating readers, making them admire or – more likely – curse the poet’s intellect rather than inviting them to connect with the poem’s core. To me, poetry should not be a performance to impress but a bridge to connect—to take a feeling, a moment, and expand it in such a way that it becomes a shared experience.

Lessons from Rhetoric: Demosthenes vs. Cicero

In approaching poetry, I often reflect on an anecdote I read years ago about two of history’s great orators: Demosthenes and Cicero. Cicero was celebrated for his eloquence—when he spoke, people said, “What a fine orator.” His speeches were technically perfect, full of rhetorical sophistication, and they garnered admiration for their artful construction. But when Demosthenes spoke, people said, “Let us march.” Demosthenes moved his audience to action; his speeches were not simply admired, they were felt deeply, and they inspired his audience to do something.

This comparison informs my approach to poetry. While I value the craft—the meter, the rhythm, the careful construction of lines—I strive for something more. I want my poems to move the reader, to evoke a response that goes beyond admiration for a well-crafted verse. I want them to feel the emotional urgency behind the words, to resonate with the core truth of the poem, and perhaps even to be stirred to reflect, to act, or to see the world a little differently. My goal is to use the artifice of language not as an end but as a means—to make my words sing, not just for beauty’s sake but for the sake of the emotion and meaning that lie beneath.

Craft and Emotional Truth in Harmony

Ultimately, my approach to poetry is about finding the balance between mastery of language and emotional authenticity. The artifices of language—metaphor, rhythm, sound, form—are powerful tools, but they must be used with intention. They must serve the deeper purpose of the poem, which is to capture and convey something genuine about the human experience. The artifice should be invisible, or at least secondary, to the emotional impact.

Like Demosthenes, I wish to create not just a polished, skillful verse but something that speaks directly to the heart of the reader, that moves them. The art of poetry, to me, is not in the cleverness of its construction, but in its ability to resonate—to create a moment of connection, a shared breath, a glimpse into the universal truths that bind us all.

I hope that my poetry steadily improves and meets the standards I articulated above, growing in emotional depth, linguistic mastery, and its ability to touch readers in meaningful ways.

Autumn’s Forgotten Dream: Poetry Inspired by Nargaroth’s Music

Autumn Rain by Leonid Afremov

The music in the YouTube video below, Forgotten Memory of a Dying Dream, has utterly captivated me. Its delicate piano notes, scattered like raindrops, lull me into a trance, much like the gentle patter of autumn rain. I find myself playing it on repeat, mesmerized by its melancholic beauty. The music is both soothing and evocative, drawing me into a realm of reflection and relaxation. Inspired by this, I felt compelled to offer a poetic response—an embrace, of sorts, to the mood it evokes. But please, I encourage you to listen to the music to fully appreciate the inspiration behind the poem—I have had it on repeat for days.


Autumn’s Forgotten Dream

The keys fall soft, like autumn rain,
A whispered sigh in quiet refrain.
Each note, a droplet, cool and clear,
Tells of dreams that disappear.

The melody drifts, a mournful breeze,
Through branches bare of summer’s leaves.
It echoes long, then fades away,
Like shadows at the edge of day.

In every pause, the silence hums,
A memory of what never comes.
The piano weeps in gentle streams,
For forgotten hopes and dying dreams.


The Past Is but a Map: A Poem for Embracing Lessons Learned

The Sower (oil on canvas, 1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.
The Sower (oil on canvas, 1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.

Note on the Origin of This Poem

This poem was inspired by a recent reflection on T.S. Eliot’s Burnt Norton, the first of his Four Quartets (with a nod to Augustine of Hippo’s Confessions, which I have also recently revisited). Eliot’s meditation on time has long intrigued me, particularly his exploration of the eternal present where past, present, and future are interwoven. His lines, “What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present,” reflect an awareness of unrealized possibilities lingering in memory, resonating with the tension between choice and fate.

While Eliot does not dwell entirely on regret, his imagery—such as “the passage which we did not take / Towards the door we never opened”—evokes a sense of paths unchosen and moments lost, suggesting an undercurrent of melancholy and reflection on missed opportunities.

This contrasts with my own perspective, which views the past not as a source of sorrow or lamentation but as a guide—a map to navigate the future. For me, the past should instruct us, not torment us. I focus not on what might have been but on the lessons that can inform where we must go next. As I recently discussed with one of my sisters, I learned more from my past failures, whether on school exams, work situations, or personal circumstances, than I did from my successes.

In short, regret is the most useless emotion.

Inspired by this distinction, I sought to explore these ideas poetically, offering a reflection on time that emphasizes the instructive value of the past rather than its potential to weigh us down with regret.


The Past Is but a Map

The past is not a chain of sorrow,
Not the dust of what we might have been—
But a map unfolding,
Marked by lines of roads untaken.
The tests we failed are etched more deeply
Than triumphs where we passed unscarred.
The echo of footfalls is not regret’s whisper
But instruction pointing forward.
The door unopened is not lamented
But a path unseen,
Waiting to instruct.
Hard lessons carve deeper than easy ones;
Each misstep, a mark of progress.
The teacher we resisted
Becomes the guide we heed.
There is no torment in yesterday’s shadow,
Only the light of what we must now become.
Ever forward, we glance back—
Not for grief,
But for direction,
For the past keeps its own counsel
As we shape the days to come.