Book 3, letter 6: To Herodotus - the Scythian Sun Devil

Book 3, Letter 6

Part 1 of 2

To Herodotus: The Scythian Sun Devil

*

Dear Herodotus, father of history, father of lies.

Father of Stories.

I write to you today to share the legend of the Sun Devil, a Scythian cautionary tale. I'm not sure what it cautions, but when I put on my shaman's mask and stared into the mirror asking myself, What is the story of the Sun Devil...

This is the story my mask told me.

*

In the frozen north, where the land is a painting shaded white.

In the furthest peaks of the ice mountains, where the land flattens into a tabletop of stone and snow.

In the wasteland where the sun shines ceaselessly half of the year, and, grows darker every night thereafter.

In the frozen north, in the furthest peaks, upon the plateau of the sun, in the wasteland of ice and stone.

In that place dwells the Sun Devil.

Though this story is the only proof, you must believe that what I say is true, for my father taught it to me, as his father had taught it to him, and I have told the story every day to myself to keep it fresh in my mind, and you must believe it, even if you do not want to.

Even if it is not true.

In the frozen north, where the land is a painting shaded white, the Sun Devil wanders, his shivering lamentations mingling with the howling Arctic winds. He has been seen at the borders of all parts of that place we call the Plateau of the Sun, and so it is that we call it his place. For a terrible price is paid by all who dare to walk in the endless day, or remain there through the endless night. For in that place the days last for many months, and the nights also.

It is known that any who stay too long in these endless places, are taken from themselves and pulled asunder by the frozen winds, their minds returning only after they have submitted to the will of the Sun Devil, and let all sanity be taken from them, all semblance of self replaced with an untranslatable poetry of sounds both animal and human, a useless corruption of all useful intelligence, subverted to utter madness.

There is a wanderer in the frozen north, in the furthest peaks, upon the plateau of the sun, in the wasteland of ice and stone, he is The Sun Devil. He was once a man. He was one of us, one of our people.

And this is his story.

*

Born during a terrible drought, he was named Soguda, because of the sun, and all through his youth, people called him Ende-nuono, the weather maker, for it seemed that wherever he went, the weather would change as he arrived at his destination. If the land was hot and dry, when Soguda arrived it would rain. If the snow piled thick upon the domes of tents buried in a long winter, when Soguda arrived the sun would come out and spring would follow in the hoof-prints of his horse.

As such, he was welcomed everywhere he travelled, and he lived a life of plenty, and of ease, as his life was of continuous benefit to everyone he saw. He was not however, an aimless wanderer, he made a careful study of maps, and of all that our people knew about the seasons and how the climate differs from one part of the land to the next, so as to plan his pilgrimage to bring the greatest benefit where it would be needed at each time of the year.

If some emergency pulled him from his intended path, we would let himself be diverted to address the greater need, but he always returned to his seasonal roads, living a life governed in every way, by the forces of nature, and the needs of his fellow men.

But a man cannot only be a servant to others, he must also be a servant to himself.

This is a truth our people have always known.

So it is that Soguda grew weary of happy faces and welcoming feasts. He grew weary of the greatness of his spirit, he grew tired of the gratitude he received, and he grew hungry for change.

For this is the irreconcilable spirit of man. We are creatures of creation, and destruction.

There is a saying among our people, first you must destroy yourself, before you might seek to destroy others, and so Soguda took his horse to the borders of our land, and kept riding.

For ten years Soguda's name was not spoken in the land of the Scythians, for we are a mistrustful people, and do not take kindly to those of our kind who take on the customs of foreigners. He was considered an exile, until the day that he returned and brought with him a summer of such abundance and fertility that his absence was forgotten and everyone hailed the return of the weather maker, Ende-nuono.

His mother Tisafrene did not welcome her son's return. She saw the way the people showered him with gifts, how young women threw themselves at him, how men clamoured to serve him, to guard him. She saw that he had come back changed, she was mistrustful and suspected that he had made sacrilegious pacts with foreign gods.

That night as Soguda slept, his head dizzy with wine, his belly heavy with meat and his bed crowded with maidens, Tisafrene snuck into her son's tent and slit his throat. Her crime was undetected, the knife was cleaned, her hands were washed, and she returned to her tent to sleep until morning.

In the morning when she woke, there was no sound of wailing and weeping. There were no shouts, no warriors at her door to tell her of her son's murder. It were as if any ordinary summer day were rising unobserved on the steppe. Tisafrene stepped from her tent and saw her son sitting at a campfire, a blanket wrapped round his shoulders and a smouldering pipe in his hand. She could not disguise her shock, and actually fell to the ground as she approached him. Soguda stood to help his mother up, and as they stood close he whispered in her ear.

Be careful what you dream, mother, the weather can change very quickly on the steppe.

Tisafrene looked her son in the eye and she saw, glimmering within his shining green irises, a pale sunrise cresting a white mountain.

The next night Tisafrene disappeared, and was never seen again.

Soguda however, grew in power and prestige, living as a nomad king might, forever received by grateful families and tribes. The boon of his magical nature paved for him a destiny wrought with gold and burdened by the lavish gifts of his people who grew more worshipful of him with each passing season.

Until the year of the Earthquakes.

How many villages were swallowed up by the sudden and savage gaping jaws of the earth, will never be known. People were drowned in rivers suddenly flooding like seas across the swampy lowlands, or were boiled to death as the fury of hell turned all the water to steam. Mountain men were thrown from their well trod paths, cattle herders were crushed in stampedes, and grass fires swept across the fawn hills, smudging the summer sky black with the smoke of pasture turning to ash.

Soguda now received the begging, wailing and sorrowful cries of his people and for a long time he travelled from valley to mountain and across the lowlands and plains, bringing rain to put out the fires, and calling sun to dry out the flooded marshes, but no matter what changes he brought to the weather, he could not heal the wounded, nor bring back the dead.

So once more, Soguda rode his horse to the borders of our land, and kept riding.

(...to be continued...)

Book 3, Letter 5, part 2 of 2, to Ovid, on Love

To Ovid, on the art of love

*

Ovid, I am living now in a very sexually free society, though my culture still struggles to unchain itself from the clutches of historical prudish repression. Reading the following passage, it becomes clear why you are still a popular poet, though I must admit surprise that your writing survived the centuries, being copied by monks who are as famous for their censorship, as much as for their literary preservation of ancient writing.

*

I tell you, you should approach the peak of pleasure

teasingly, lingeringly, at leisure.

Once you've discovered the right

places to touch, the ones which delight

women most, don't hold back through shame,

carry on with the game,

and you'll see her eyes light up, flash and quiver

like sunlight on the surface of a river.

Soon she'll be murmuring, moaning, gasping, saying

words in tune with the instrument you're playing.

But take care not to crowd in sail and race

ahead of her, don't fall behind her either; matching pace

arrive together at the winning-post

in a dead heat. Of all pleasures this is the most

exquisite, when a man and a woman, satisfied,

lie in mutual surrender, side by side.

That's the rhythm to aim at – no hurry

no furtiveness, no worry.

Ovid, the ancient past does not feel distant from me, your face hovers ghost-like over my shoulder as I read, and I can hear your voice reciting along with me. As I said earlier, your poetry is proof of the unchanging nature of human society, thought and feeling. I often refer to my era as 'the modern age', but that hardly seems true in light of your words. I too, am living in the ancient past, and with the luck of destiny, future readers may find my works and marvel at the unchanging nature of human society, thought and feeling.

Let others venerate the past, I say

thank goodness I'm alive today;

This age suits me – not because we mine

stubborn gold from the earth, or gather fine

shells from exotic shores, or dig

marble from shrinking mountains, or thrust big

villas into the bay's blue water, but because

we have culture, and the coarse way of life that was

natural to our grandfathers didn't last

to our day, is a thing of the past

So Ovid, I won't go on and on, quoting and commenting, praising and marvelling. I hope that you get enough of that from your many, many fans around the world. I will end my letter to you with this final segment, in praise of poets. Thank you Ovid, I will order the rest of your books soon.

A poet never double-deals:

his art, his calling, shape the way he feels.

We're innocent of ambition, don't care what we're paid,

despise the forum, turn our backs on trade;

we prefer the couch, we cultivate the shade.

But we're easily drawn, we're stickers, and we burn

with a staunch love – too staunch (we never learn!).

Indeed a poet's temperament and heart

reflect the gentle nature of his art.

So be kind, you girls, to poets – the darlings of the nine

Muses, there's a divine

spark in them all. We all conceal

a god within us, we all deal

with heaven direct, from whose high places we derive,

the inspiration by which we live.

*

With gratitude and respect

Morgan.

PS. I read recently that your exile has been repealed by the Government of Rome. Better late than never, I suppose.

News report on Ovid's repealed exile

PPS...I just found out that James Michie (the translator of your book), died in 2007, aged 80. He published his translation of The Art of Love in 1993. He seems to have been a fascinating individual. In the mid 1950s, he helped publish Sylvia Plath's first collection, The Colossus (1960) and, three years later, The Bell Jar. He also assisted with the first English editions of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. You keep good company, Ovid, even two thousand years after your death.

James Mitchie's obituary (the translator of Ovid)

Book 3, Letter 5: To Ovid, on Love

Book 3, letter 5, part 1 of 2

To Ovid, on love.

Dear Ovid, (Publius Ovidus Naso)

I finally decided to take a look

at your poem, though it really is a book,

of love advice for both women and men.

I sat down in a shady glen

to read and take note

as around me the beautiful song-birds float,

now words and rhymes through my mind run

your poem really is a lot of fun.

Ok...enough of that, You are the poet, Ovid, and while imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, I could only fall short of my intended goal in writing to you, which is, of course, to praise. Although, I suppose that I am also writing to your modern translator, James Michie. I will have to send this letter to him as well.

Ovid, more than anyone else I have read from ancient Rome (other than Cicero perhaps), you show that the nature of the human heart has not changed. Some social attitudes have developed, and for that I am grateful, but your poem, 'The Art of Love' reveals something essential about the tragic comedy that is the pursuit of romantic affairs. I suppose these days we just call it, 'the game'.

I've made notes all through my copy of your book, thinking as I read it of which sections I would like to quote in my letter to you. I read some sections to my partner in bed this morning, and I thought that you would be like to know that she was delighted to hear them. Poetry it seems, still serves us in love, as it did two thousand years ago.

*

"What about sending a love poem? Would that be nice?

Verses, I fear, don't cut much ice.

Poems are praised, but gifts are valued more;

provided he's rich, even a slob can score

with presents. This is the new Age of Gold

when love is bought, high office sold."

*

So while you bemoan the fact that love is too often bought with gold, rather that with sincere affection, you do not entirely denounce the value of poetry in the wooing of a lady.

"Write poems in praise of them, and then recite them,

rubbish or not, con amore. You'll delight them.

Lines dedicated to her, by a lover,

that he's sweated all night over,

blue-stocking or peasant

she'll treat them as a little token “present.”

It is easy, I think, for us in the modern world to consider the ancients as being true believers in the Gods, but it is a mistake to look back upon the religious expressions of the past and assume that there was no scepticism, no atheism, no intellectual questioning of the de-facto truth of the Priests' assertions. I have read of court cases in ancient Greece and Rome, over issues of religious doctrine, and people were sent into exile, or even executed for atheism.

"I won't pretend that I'm inspired by you, Apollo:

The hoot of an owl, the flight of a swallow,

have taught me nothing; awake or asleep,

I have never had a vision of the muses tending sheep

in pastoral valleys. This poem springs

from experience. Listen, your poet sings

of what he knows, he tells no lies.

Venus, mother of Love, assist my enterprise!"

*

Yet, further on in the book, you deliver this tongue-in-cheek tale of a visitation from the very God whom you professed to have never inspired you. I love feeling the sense of this whole poem being performed live, recited before an audience who laughed at your jokes or who sagely nodded at the allegories you include to illustrate a point, whether tragic or romantic.

"While I was writing this, I saw Apollo coming

towards me with his golden lyre, thumb strumming

the strings, bays in hand, bays on his head,

prophet and poet made manifest. “You,” he said,

“Professor of Love's Affairs,

lead your pupils to my temple – there's

a world famous inscription on it which goes,

Know yourself. Only the man who knows

himself can be intelligent in love

and use his gifts to best effect to further every move.

If you're good-looking, then dazzle all beholders;

if your skin's fine then lounge back with bare shoulders.

Let the man with a good voice sing, the clever talker break

awkward silences, the connoisseur take

pleasure in wine. But one caveat's vital:

no 'inspired' poet should give a recital,

no “brilliant” speaker deliver an oration

in the middle of dinner-table conversation.”

That was Apollo's advice. I'd heed it if I were you:

What comes from a god's mouth must be true."

Were you too bold, Ovid, with your book? You were exiled by Emperor Augustus, and as harsh a punishment as that was, it testifies to the power of poetry, and to your popularity and influence as a writer and public figure. Hakim Bey (a modern anarchist writer) said something along the lines of, 'In some countries, poets are imprisoned or exiled for their works, but here in America, poets are punished much more harshly, by being ignored.' On my shelf, Ovid, your book will sit beside Homer and Sophocles, although perhaps you would be better placed with the other modern poets, Mary Oliver, Charles Bukowski, Ivan Rehorek and Peach Klimkiewicz.

Book 3, Letter 4. To Plato: The Symposium of Gabriel Roccisano

Book 3, letter 4

To Plato: The Symposium of Gabriel

*

Dear Plato,

I wake early to a grey clouded dawn, my head throbs with the after-effects of the beer I drank the night before, and I linger in the soft luxury of my bed for two hours, waiting for the world outside to glow with the bright colours of daylight before I rise and make coffee. A drop of boiling water falls on my naked foot as I pour from the kettle and I swear softly, but the pain passes quickly and I carry my cup back to the bedroom where I open my copy of your collected works, Plato, and I begin to read your Symposium. Love in all its forms is the topic of this dialogue, and Socrates, whom I am fast becoming drawn to for his absolute desire to speak the truth above all other considerations, seems to dominate the conversation with his perfect blend of storytelling and critical thinking.

I think back to last night. The Philosopher, the Alchemist, the Artist, the Poet and the Bard are for the first time in many months, gathered at a symposium of our own at a busy and crowded tavern in the city. The Artist is preparing to leave town, to live in a city on the east coast for half a year or more, seeking work, seeking love. He is heartbroken and world weary and desperate to find better work than can be found in the little city where we currently live, so, he has packed his belongings and is embarking upon his journey to the east.

I find myself surrounded by friends, acquaintances and strangers, all of us talking about art, music, storytelling and philosophy. In a shifting circle we talk about archetypes; the trickster, the mystic, the diplomat, the storyteller and the warrior. These five ideas fit easily in one hand, but quickly we find that they do not hold all that the world has to offer. Someone asks: What about the architect, or the maker? Every pantheon has a god working the forge. Someone else suggests that the archetype of the villain is someone who has no doubt, whose confidence in their own ideals makes them despotic. I name drop Caesar and we talk about the shifting weight of public opinion in deciding whether he was a hero or a villain. So is the hero defined by his quest to overcome doubt? I ask, and we jaw about the characters we know from fiction and their relative traits.

The Alchemist (who is a trickster) describes his personal project to create more tricksters in the world, and of his successes in forming a circle of pranksters who learn the ticks of his merry trade playing games on one another. Another trickster describes her place as the force of stability and reason within her own social circles, as she is the one who can laugh at all their troubles and smooth over the burrs of hurt egos with her clever wit and kindly mirth.

This raises the peculiar suggestion of chaos actually being a force of stability, since all of reality is in fact in flux. All those who create order, do so in opposition to the fluid nature of the world, and their orderly efforts create the friction which must inevitably be managed and subtly manipulated by the clever weaving hands of chaos. I point to the the tall, castle-like walls of the tavern in whose courtyard we sit and we smilingly appreciate the stability of those who built such an edifice, now wreathed in ivy and moss and bursting with the lively energy of a hundred or more people all talking at once in the coloured lamplight of a perfect summer evening.

Circles break and form and break and form as people come and go according to their taste and tall beauty sweeps through the garden where we gather. I speak with a magician who learned his art tending bars. I speak with a lonesome young father whose toddler daughter is his best friend. I speak with storyteller after storyteller and in the throng I see the Artist, dressed in black and surrounded by the thick press of his many friends. He is smiling sadly and I remember a poem I wrote for him on the fifth day of February, in the year Two Thousand and Eighteen.

Oh how heartbreak seem the constant

companion of love

That we who love are cursed and

blessed by the pain of such

delicacies

as to abandon our mind at the first sight of

love and sink willingly into the heartbreak

that is being Known by the other

How we break, are broken, and are remade

all by the same force that seems to cause

the heavens to turn and the rains to fall

we are the earth that force falls upon

we are the space through which the heavens soar

oh heartbreak, oh love's most bounteous gift

Take heed! For this heartbreak is unlike

any other you will know,

or have known.

Stand ready as the night inside you is

pulled apart by the fingers of the sun who

will not be denied their pleasure in you.

At the Symposium of Gabriel the Artist, the clock strikes the half hour as midnight approaches on this, the first day of February in the year Two Thousand and Nineteen.

You, Plato, and Socrates and Alcibiades and all my friends both dead and alive speak of love, speak of love, speak of love, while the Artist is preparing to leave town, heartbroken, world weary, hopeful. We are young, we are old, we are timeless, swimming in the eddies of an ocean deep and dark, seeking always the same things.

We speak of love, we speak of love, we speak of love.

Thank you Plato, your Symposium dialogue is absolutely beautiful. I especially like the part where Alcibiades, drunk as a skunk, crashes the party and delivers the most heartfelt speech of all, intoxicated as he is on both wine, and on the charms of Socrates. I think now that I too, am in love with Socrates. Socrates the war hero, Socrates the deep thinker, the enduring symbol of truth and courage. You make him look super-human, or at least, the best kind of human, possessed of wisdom, fortitude and beauty. Socrates, lover of men and women, friend to all who are seekers after truth.

Now that I have read your 'Symposium' twice through, I will read it a third time, if only so that I might be in the company of such illustrious and honourable friends. You have so much to say, and I have so much to learn.

Thank you Plato.

With gratitude, and love

Morgan.

PS. How strange now, realising that while I reveled in that summer night, the Artist's brother, (Rafael Antonio Roccisano) lay dying in a hospital bed, another philosopher who poisoned himself. Unable to reconcile his heart to the tragedy of life, drowning in booze and cigarettes, his blood so filled with toxins that his liver was no longer able to process them.

We speak of love. We speak of love.

Rafael Antonio Roccisano