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)