In Praise of Bumf

Catullus on waste paper

Catullus’s fickle girlfriend complained that he wrote lots of rude poems about her. She vowed to Venus and Cupid, gods of love, that if she got back with him, she would throw “the worst of poet’s favourite poems” - meaning his scurrilous squibs about her - into the fire (domain of the lame god Vulcan). Well, Catullus says, he will fulfil her vow by burning The Annals, a terrible series of poems by a fellow-poet called Volusius. He’s the worst of poets, and that book is his favourite! Catullus calls it cacata charta - paper to wipe one’s bum on. The English word ‘bumf’ is an abbreviation of ‘bum-fodder’, which has precisely that meaning.

The poem falls into two halves: in the first Catullus sets out the background, in the second he makes a prayer to Venus (listing her cult places around the Adriatic) to fulfil his girl’s vow by letting him burn “the worst of poet’s favourite poems”.

If only we had Volusius’ Annals to judge their quality for ourselves. The tone of the poem reminds me of the quip attributed to the musician Max Reger, which may be adapted to say: “I’m sitting in the smallest room in the house. I have some pages of your poetry in front of me. Soon they will be behind me.”

 The Annals by Volusius – bum-fodder of a book!
my girlfriend made a promise, and it’s now to you I look:
she vowed to sacred Venus and to holy Cupid too
that if I’d just get back with her and be contrite and true,
and stopped attacking her with my poetic sword and spear,
she’d give the favourite poems of the worst of poets here
to that lame-footed god in whose domain the fires burn,
and send them up in flames with worthless firewood in turn.
Yes, this is what was said by that most wicked girl, my love:
she made a witty jest while vowing to the gods above!

So now I ask, o Goddess born from waves of azure sea,
who dwell in pure Idalium and rolling Urii,
whose haunts are in Ancona and in Cnidus thick with reeds,
in Amathus and Golgi (where your favour lives and breeds),
and in Dyrrachium, the Adriatic’s traders’ shop:
record her promise and redeem it now from toe to top.
You surely think it’s witty and quite clever in its way,
so let’s get on and throw that book into the flames today!
That work replete with bumbling, graceless, verse I cannot brook, 
The Annals by Volusius – bum-fodder of a book.

Annālēs Volusī, cacāta carta,
vōtum solvite prō meā puellā.
Nam sanctae Venerī Cupīdinīque
vōvit, sī sibi restitūtus essem
dēsissemque trucēs vibrāre iambōs,
ēlectissima pessimī poētae
scrīpta tardipedī deō datūram
infēlīcibus ūstulanda lignīs.
Et hoc pessima sē puella vidit
iocōsē lepidē vovēre dīvīs.

Nunc, ō caeruleō creāta pontō,
quae sanctum Īdalium Ūriōsque apertōs
quaeque Ancōna Cnidumque harundinōsam
colis, quaeque Amathunta, quaeque Golgōs,
quaeque Durrachium Hadriae tabernam,
acceptum face redditumque vōtum,
sī nōn illepidum neque invenustum est.
At vōs intereā venīte in ignem,
plēnī rūris et īnfacētiārum
annālēs Volusī, cacāta carta.