Venantius Honorarius Clementianus Fortunatus was born circa 540, near Treviso, Italy, to a family of minor nobility. He headed to Gaul in the mid-560's with the specific intention of becoming a poet in the Merovingian Court. Though political circumstances precluded his becoming court poet, he found a patron in Queen Radegunde. He is best known for two poems that have become part of the liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church — "Sing, O Tongue, of the Glorious Struggle" and "The Banners of the King are Lifted". Fortunatus is a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, commemorated on December 14.

James DenBoer is the author of four full-length poetry books, six chapbooks, a sholarly bibliography of an American poet, a number of broadsides, and two books of translations, from the Latin of Venantius Fortunatus, and from Spanish and French versions of Arabic and Hebrew kharjas. He has also worked with visual artists on collaborative books, and has appeared in seven anthologies. He has been given grants, awards, and prizes from many institutions: the International Poetry Forum's U.S. Award; the National Endownment for the Arts; the National Council on the Arts; the Author's League of America; PEN Center-New York; The Carnegie Fund for Authors, The Portland Review Prize, and the Walter Pavlich Memorial Poetry Award, among others. He lives in Sacramento, CA, and makes a meager living as a lackadaisical book scout.

Maria den Boer first developed a passion for Latin as an undergraduate at Calvin College (Grand Rapids, Michigan). Minoring in Latin, she took a tutorial with Ford Lewis Battles in which they translated John Calvin's Catechism of 1536. She is a secular Franciscan, with compelling interests in ecology and ornithology.

Black Jar, White Cup

So much food is brought here, a multitude of dishes;
I welcome them. of course, though with some hesitance,
because of your constant generosity to me.

These meats and vegetables fill a silver bowl;
By God, the foods swim in marvelous sauces!

A marble platter bears a whole garden,
the honeyed savor wafting lightly to my nose.
A glass dish is passed around, bearing plump chickens,
their wings pinned back — what a heaping weight!

Painted baskets of fruit are placed before us,
tempting, sating me with their perfume.

From a black jarI our milk into a white cup,
pleasing me splendidly. These gifts, served by
my holy mother,
and the one I call her daughter,
            bind the three of us in reverent affection.

White Eggs, Black Plums

One of you gives me tasty treats,
from the other I receive delightful fruits —

one sends eggs, from the other I get plums.
White gifts, black gifts, both just for me.

How can my stomach find peace
with all this rich food? Two eggs

were for me to eat now; to tell the truth,
I have tipped down four of them.

If only I deserved all the things that refresh
my very being every day —

as today, when I am a glutton at your command!