Marcus Valerius Martialis took his name form the month, being born in March around 40 CE. He was a Spaniard who left to find a niche in Rome, where his poetry became famous and he found himself recognised in the street.
Martial - for that's what the arrogance of the English did to his name - had some obsessions, and he wrote abut them over and again.
One thing that drove him dries me, too. The impossible shortness of life, and the way we live as if life was endless, as if we had heartbeats to waste.
He had a theme about living the big NOW, about not letting the attrition of every day erode the experience.
He had a sense of urgency, a drive - not to achieve, not to aggrandise himself - to drink in the vibrancy of every experience open to him. He knew where his happiness lay, and resented every moment he was dragged away from it.
March is a great time to celebrate a few of Martial's astonishingly contemporary poems.
Cras te victurum, cras dicis, Postume, semper.
dic mihi, cras istud, Postume, quando venit?
quam longe cras istud, ubi est? aut unde petendum?
numquid apud Parthos Armeniosque latet?
iam cras istud habet Priami vel Nestoris annos.
cras istud quanti, dic mihi, possit emi?
cras vives? hodie iam vivere, Postume, serum est:
ille sapit, quisquis, Postume, vixit heri.
You say you’ll live tomorrow, Postumus, always tomorrow.
Tell me, when is it coming, Postumus, this tomorrow ?
How far away is this tomorrow ? Where is it ?
Where will you go to get it ? Is it hiding in Parthia or Armenia ?
This tomorrow of yours: it’s already as old as Priam or Nestor.
How much, tell me, would this tomorrow cost to buy ?
You’re going to live tomorrow ?
It’s already too late, Postumus, to live today.
It’s a wise man who lived yesterday.
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