Book 3, Letter 9 To Ovid, on love, writing, and love.

Dear Ovid,

I've just read your book The Amores, for the second time in my life. I first read it in my early twenties and I never forgot it. Unfortunately, in my late twenties I went through a phase of getting rid of most of my possessions, and your book was one of the things that went out the door. However, I have purchased a new copy, and having read it, I felt inspired to write to you.

I will paraphrase from a favourite poem:

Bk 1, Poem 9 of The Amores

(Translated by Peter Green, 1982)

“Every lover's on active service, my friend, active service,

believe me,

and Cupid has his headquarters in the field.

Fighting and love-making belong to the same age-group -

In bed as in war, old men are out of place.

A commander in the field looks to his troops for gallant conduct,

A mistress expects no less.

Soldier and lover both keep night long vigil,

Lying rough outside their captain's (or lady's) door,

The Military life brings long route-marches – but just let his

mistress

Be somewhere ahead, and the lover too

Will trudge on for ever, scale mountain, for swollen rivers,

Thrust his way through deep snow.”

“Then take

My own case. I was idle, born to leisure en deshabille,

Mind softened by lazy scribbling in the shade.

But love for a pretty girl soon drove the sluggard

To action, made him join up.

And just look at me now – fighting fit, dead keen on night

exercises:

If you want a cure for slackness, fall in love.”

In writing to a friend about you, I said that the more I think about Love, the more it seems the only worthy topic for my pen. It is true that love is the inspiration for a great deal of my writing, even when it is not the romantic love that is the topic of much of your poetry. I am as often as not, driven to create by the agony of distance, and though I tend to speak of eclipses and of the Sun gone cold, I think that everyone knows what I am talking about. Whether it is a quarrel with my beloved, or a quarrel with myself, it is the force of love, and the power of its absence, that drives me to create like I do. Whether it is drawing, painting, writing or music, my urge to express the feelings of love within me drive me to keep late hours, and to avoid the company of kith and kin, so urgent are my needs to express such passions.

It is a tight-rope balancing act, to be inspired by my love for people, but to require long periods of solitary contemplation to properly describe and express that love. This must be a common experience of many artists, and I do not bemoan my experience, rather I speak of it in praise of the process we poets use to attain mastery of our expressions. We must spend long hours staring inwards, in order to reflect the light that shines upon our hearts. The bubbling joy I feel when my beloved smiles at me is enough to light candles without matches, to bake bread without an oven, to make my coffee sweet without sugar. It is enough to inspire love poetry.

The following words of love are my own:

Love in the morning

The rains fall overnight

and in the bright

morning

I breathe in your

love

and I breathe out

your love

and the world hums

a song in tune

with the falling leaves

Tangled as we are like seaweed upon the shore of our bed, our legs and arms and fingers woven together, we make a basket of our bodies, and nestled safely within, we whisper love to each other, over and over. We bask in the pleasure of the press of our hips and thighs and that special way that your shoulder fits beneath my arm. The spray of your long black hair caught in the bristle of my own, caught in the thistle of my beard. My lips upon your neck, we coil and uncoil over the dawn's slow hours, waking as the world is waking. Taking our time as kings and queens might in a realm of peace and contentment.

We rise, but remain in bed reclined against gigantic pillows, tasting the salt of lips in kissing, the salt of butter on toast, the sweetness of sugar in our coffee. The cats roam the halls searching for mysteries to solve while sunlight pours in through the thick jungle of potted plants outside our window. You read to me about a recent discovery of monumental significance regarding the converging of lines from the Nazca carvings, to the temples of Angkor Wat, while I, right with the world, write of the world, and of my place in your heart, in our bed, in the morning, in an age of Love and War and Significance.

My fingers

tangled in your long black hair

The sunlight

painting your beautiful pale face

the falling leaves

reflected in my eyes.

*

So, Professor of Amorous Affections, Doctor of Heartsick Poets, I will inscribe upon the tablet of history, the words, Ovid was my guide, and my beloved will be grateful to you as well for inspiring me to write such beautiful and affectionate words in praise of her virtue and loveliness.

Thank you Ovid.

With Gratitude and Respect

Morgan.

PS. I cannot end this letter without making reference to one more poem of yours, which has been stuck in my memory ever since I read it in my twenties, for the scenario you describe happens even now, and has happened to friends of mine. The complications of love and pregnancy are unchanged, though two centuries separate us.

Book 2, poem 13

“Corinna got pregnant – and rashly tried an abortion.

Now she's lying in danger of her life.

She said not a word. That risk, and she never told me!

I ought to be furious, but I'm only scared.

It was by me whom she conceived – or at least I assume so:

I often jump to conclusions.”