Ides of March

The Ides of March has long been considered an ill-fated day. Julius Caesar was assassinated on March 15, 44 B.C. Historians note that it is likely that a soothsayer named Spurinna had warned Caesar that danger would occur by the ides of March. William Shakespeare included the phrase "Beware the ides of March" in his play Julius Caesar.

The ides were the 15th days of four months (Martius, or March; Maius, or May; Quintilis, or July; and October) in the ancient Roman lunar calendar; they were the 13th in all other months (originally, Aprilis, or April; Iunius, or June; Sextilis, or August; September; November; and December. Ianuarius, or January, and Februarius, or February, were added later). 

The word ides comes from the Latin word idus, which is possibly derived from an Etruscan word meaning "to divide." The ides were originally meant to mark the full Moon (the "halfway point" of a lunar month), but because the Roman calendar months and actual lunar months were of different lengths, they quickly got out of step. The ancient Romans considered the day after the calends (first of the month), nones (ninth day before the ides, inclusive), or ides of any month as unfavorable. These were called dies atri.(Old Farmer's Almanac)

Note: Rather than post an ominous 'Ides' poem, I chose this one by Hafiz on celebration.

Hafiz

Spring and all its flowers

now joyously break their vow of silence.

It is time for celebration, not for lying low;

You too - weed out those roots of sadness from your heart.

The Sabaa wind arrives;

and in deep resonance, the flower

passionately rips open its garments,

thrusting itself from itself.

The Way of Truth, learn from the clarity of water,

Learn freedom from the spreading grass.

Pay close attention to the artistry of the Sabaa wind,

that wafts in pollen from afar,

And ripples the beautiful tresses

of the fields of hyacinth flowers.

From the privacy of the harem, the virgin bud slips out,

revealing herself under the morning star,

branding your heart and your faith

with beauty.

And frenzied bulbul flies madly out of the House of Sadness

to unite with the flowers;

its love-crazed cry like a thousand-trumpet blast.

Hafez says, and the experienced old ones concur: all you really need is to tell

those Stories of the Fair Ones and the Goblet of Wine