We’ve gone through the basics of the Babylonian Theodicy: it’s twenty-seven stanzas, eleven lines each. The stanzas alternate between the words of a “sufferer,” who feels the world is unjust, and his friend, who argues for faith in the world and the divine. Within each stanza, all eleven lines begin with the same sign, leading to a sequence of twenty-seven signs that serve as an acrostic key.
For the graphic acrostic (where lines start with identified letters), that key is “I, THE PRIEST, LOVE THE GOD AND KING.” The first stanza’s verses should start with I, the second with T, and so on.
For the syllabic acrostic (where lines start with identified syllable-sounds), that key is “I am the ho-ly sor-cer-er of Ba-byl-on S.K.U., ad-or-ant of the de-it-y and em-per-or.” So the first stanza’s verses should all begin by sounding like I, the second by sounding like am, and so on.
Still, for a poem to feel like a poem, it needs some consistent rhyme and meter to sing on the page. For these final translations, I opted for a rhythm that I call “Gilligan’s Shakespeare.” Some lines have seven iambic feet, as in the theme for Gilligan’s Island, while some have five, as in much of Shakespeare.
The pattern goes 7-5-7-5-7-5-7-5-7-7-5. Some lines shave off the first (unstressed) syllable, and there may be a little variation in the stresses, but it should be consistent enough. This rhythm is designed for maximum flexibility, making it just about possible to balance the demands of acrostics, rhyming, and faithful-ish translation.
Even so, a graphic acrostic is much easier to handle than a syllabic one, and as you’ll see, I had to get a bit more creative with the syllabic translation. But the extra “music” in the syllabic acrostic is intriguing. It’s like an extra rhyme that goes on the front of a line instead of the end.
Graphic version:
Strophe I-Sufferer
1 Insightful one, I’ll tell you, and this story’s clear and true,
2 I’m troubled, friend, I’ve got a tale of woe.
3 Inside your heart and gut I know compassion pulses through.
4 In my distress, I’ll praise you as I go.
5 Inimitable is the power of your piercing brain;
6 In knowledge, you must know, you have no peer.
7 Is there a sage like you to whom I can recount my pain?
8 I’m finished, friend. My angst has met me here.
9 I was a youthful child when fate felled Father to a tomb,
10 Invasion from the Land-of-No-Return took Mother’s womb.
11 I’d no one then; my parents both met doom.
Strophe II-Friend
12 That’s terrible, my thoughtful friend, a miserable tale,
13 Though poisoned soil brews in your mental field.
14 Thoughts so unworthy spoil your meadows, make your reason frail;
15 That shining face of yours is care-concealed.
16 Time loans us parents; loans come due, so death must take them first.
17 They’ve ever said, "I’ll cross the Hubur stream.”
18 Think of humanity, the whole of it from best to worst.
19 The poor man’s son: can he reach wealth supreme
20 There in his father’s service? Rich men too make stingy lords:
21 The servant millionaire does not exist; deity’s wards,
22 They’re wealthier; in hard times, they’ll have hoards.
Syllabic:
Strophe I-Sufferer
1 Iconic sage, I’ll tell you, and this story’s clear and true,
2 I’m troubled, friend, I’ve got a tale of woe.
3 I know inside your heart and gut compassion pulses through.
4 I’ll praise you if you find it apropos.
5 Eyes, piercing, signify the power of your peerless brain,
6 Ideal in knowledge, sir, who is your peer?
7 I know no other to whom I can recount my pain.
8 I’m finished, friend. My angst has met me here.
9 I was a youthful child when fate felled father to a tomb,
10 Isle-of-No-Return usurped my incubating womb,
11 I’d no one then; my parents both met doom.
Strophe II-Friend
12 Amigo mio, what you tell’s a miserable tale,
13 Amanita poisoning your heath.
14 Amateurishly, you’ve spoiled your thinking, made it frail;
15 Amber’s dimmed your shining face as sheath.
16 Ambling steps ahead of us, our fathers pay death’s toll,
17 "Am I to cross the Hubur?" all have said.
18 Amply sampling countless people, human nature as a whole,
19 Am I to see a poor man’s son well-fed?
20 Am I to see a servant given generous rewards?
21 Amulets of deity protect gods’ servant wards,
22 Ambushed by care, they fall back on their hoards.
Tomorrow: a micross!