Amores

by Ovid, Tom Bishop

Overview

Ovid (c. 43 BC - AD 17), a daring, original and passionate poet, has been an enduring influence on later poets. Amores is the work that first made Ovid famous, and infamous. A scandal in its day, and probably in part responsible for Ovid's banishment from Rome, Amores lays bare the intrigues and appetites of high society in the imperial capital at the time of Caesar Augustus. Clandestine sex, orgies and entertainments, fashion and violence, are among the subjects Ovid explores: the surface dazzle and hidden depths, secret liaisons and their public postures. This new translation by Tom Bishop closely follows the movement and metre of Ovid's verse, rendering his world of love, licentiousness and conspiracy so as to catch Ovid's raciness. His introduction sets the work in historical context.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781847776105
Publisher:	Carcanet Press, Limited
Publication date:	10/01/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	128
File size:	380 KB

About the Author

Ovid (43 BC-17/18 AD) was a Roman poet. Born in Sulmo the year after Julius Caesar’s assassination, Ovid would join the ranks of Virgil and Horace to become one of the foremost poets of Augustus’ reign as first Roman emperor. After rejecting a life in law and politics, he embarked on a career as a poet, publishing his first work, the Heroides, in 19 BC. This was quickly followed by his Amores (16 BC), a collection of erotic elegies written to his lover Corinna. By 8 AD, Ovid finished his Metamorphoses, an epic narrative poem tracing the history of Rome and the world from the creation of the cosmos to the death and apotheosis of Julius Caesar. Ambitious and eminently inspired, Metamorphoses remains a timeless work of Roman literature and an essential resource for the study of classical languages and mythology. Exiled that same year by Augustus himself, Ovid spent the rest of his life in Tomis on the Black Sea, where he continued to write poems of loss, repentance and longing.

Read an Excerpt

Ovid Amores

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By Tom Bishop

Carcanet Press Ltd

Copyright © 2003 Tom Bishop
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84777-610-5

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CHAPTER 1

    1


    'Arms and Atrocities' – I was preparing my opening salvo
    in stern Heroic Verse, to match the matter.

    I'd honed a second line to fit the first – when giggling
    Cupid snatched a foot from under me.

    'You noxious little scamp, who made you king of poems?
    Authentic bards don't slum with crowds like yours.

    The decorum's all awry. As if Venus shouldered arms.
    Or Minerva took up torch-song cabaret.

    Try to imagine divine Diana pitching hay;
    picture Ceres on a mountain hike;

    Blonde Apollo bayonetting boot-camp dummies;
    Mars wrestling a Stradivarius.

    Boy, you're already ruling way too grand an empire.
    What's this eager lust to grab new turf?

    Are you convinced you own the world, and all its Muses?
    Even Phoebus can't call his harp his own!

    Just when I've found a perfect line to start my page,
    the second suffers a sudden fit of nerves.

    My subject simply isn't right for lighter verse –
    there's no young lead, no girl with fancy hair ...'

    I grumbled on. At once he opened his case of arrows,
    and chose a barbed dart with my number on it,

    'So poet,' he bent the bow to a crescent over his knee,
    'So poet,' he said, 'here's something to sing about.'

    Oh God! The sharpshot boy nailed me dead on target.
    My heart's in flame. Love rules my open breast.

    My couplets swell in sixes, then deflate to five:
    farewell to iron wars and epic verse.

    Modulate your music in elevens, Muse;
    wind your yellow hair with seablown myrtle.


    2


    What's wrong with me then? Why is the wretched mattress
    full of lumps? who keeps stealing the blankets?

    I waste long nights tossing sleepless about in bed,
    my bones ache from the endless back and forth.

    I think I'd know if Love was staging an attack –
    or has he stalked and struck me from a blind?

    That must be it. Phantom shafts stick from my chest,
    and savage Love rotisseries my heart.

    Time to give in? Or stoke the fire by bellowing?
    Time to give in. Baggage weighs less if you smile.

    If you wave a torch around, it only burns more bright;
    leave it alone, it snuffs. I've seen it happen.

    Blows will spare the ox who loves to yank his plough,
    the one who loathes the yoke will taste the goad.

    Hard horses cut their mouths to pieces on the bit;
    the reins hurt less if you set your mind to them.

    Toe the line, you're fine; play up or whinge, you'll get
    the rough end of Love's pineapple, for sure.

    So I surrender – I'm your latest hostage, Cupid.
    Here are my victim's wrists for your iron laws.

    No need for war with me; I'm grovelling for mercy,
    and where's the prize for killing such a coward?

    Put on the formal costume. Borrow your mother's driver.
    Stepfather Mars will lend his triumph car.

    There, in your borrowed gear, the crowd shouting your glory,
    take the reins, strike a pose and hold it.

    Bring on the prisoners next, the captive boys and girls,
    the awful swag before your juggernaut.

    Your newest booty, I'll be there, my heart-blood oozing,
    waving mind-forged chains above my head.

    They drag Prudence by, her hands tied tight behind,
    and Shame – and all who dodge the draft of Love,

    all petrified of you. Presenting arms and hands,
    the mob cries out aloud: 'Hosanna Cupid'.

    Seduction, Fantasy, Passion, all your adjutants,
    jostle in the throng of loyal henchmen,

    the troops who helped you conquer gods and humans both:
    strip their aid away and you'd be bare.

    There's your delighted mum, looking down from Olympus,
    waving, clapping, scattering clouds of roses

    for you with your sequinned hair and your wings all spangles –
    the golden Mardi Gras boy in his golden car.

    If I know you, we may see one or two conversions.
    If I know you, they'll fall for you in droves.

    And even if you wanted, you couldn't stop the carnage:
    their hearts erupt in flame as you swan by.

    Bacchus paraded like this on his conquering trip to Benares;
    he terrified with tigers, you use doves.

    So chain me up to the wagon, make me part of the triumph.
    Never waste your victor's strength on me.

    Think of your cousin Augustus, the gentle devastator:
    he lends a hand to those his fist has felled.


    3


    Lord, hear my prayer. This girl, this predator –
    make her love me, or worth my love forever.

    No, that's too much to ask. Let her permit my love,
    and that will be all I beg of sea-blown Venus.

    Take me: I'll be your absolute slave for years to come.
    Take me: I know how to love with a hard, pure flame.

    So what if there aren't impressive names in my family tree,
    if my father isn't a senator, just some squire.

    So I don't have hundreds of acres of ploughland, mobs of sheep,
    and my parents have to watch expenditures,

    still: the Sun God, all nine Muses, and the inventor of wine
    are on my side, and Love who makes me yours,

    plus unremitting faith, a spotless character,
    naked candour, modesty's pink blush.

    I'm no Casanova, I don't fool around:
    I'll be – I swear – your everlasting rock.

    My perfect dream of bliss would be to live with you
    till all my years are spun and you wail me dying.

    Give me the chance to measure you for compositions –
    custom-tailored poems cut to fit.

    Some girls find fame in poems: there's that horn-shy Io;
    the one whose boyfriend was a water bird;

    the one who cruised the wine-dark sea on a bogus bull,
    gripping his crooked horn with her virgin hand.

    We'll be a pop-song pin-up, a world-wide canzonet,
    co-supremes and stars of love forever.


    
4

    Your husband's going to the same dinner as us, is he?
    I pray God it's the last that man will eat.

    So a fellow guest may only feast his eyes on the dish,
    while someone else will batten and grow fat.

    Obedient, you'll snuggle, warm my rival's lap?
    He'll paddle at your neck whenever he wants?

    No wonder that gorgeous bride provoked those boozy Centaurs
    to get their weapons out when they'd been drinking.

    I don't live in the woods, waist-downwards I'm no horse,
    but I have a hard time keeping my hands off you.

    Now pay attention; these are your instructions. Don't
    let my words blow off on some soft breeze.

    Get there before your husband – although I've no idea
    what we can make of that – just get there first.

    When he lies down to eat, and meek-faced wifey goes
    to lie beside him, stroke my foot with yours.

    Keep one eye fixed on me for nods and telling looks.
    Pick up my secret signs and send them back.

    I'll send you silent explicit messages with my eyebrows,
    notes in finger gestures, scrawled in wine.

    When images of recent sex with me revive,
    trail one sweet thumb along your rosy cheek.

    Or if you want to lodge a mute complaint at me,
    then gently tug your earlobe by the tip,

    or if I say or do some thing that turns you on,
    twiddle your ring around your little finger.

    Make steeples of your hands on the table as if to pray
    whenever you wish your spouse would burn in hell.

    Insist he drink himself the drinks he mixes you,
    then smoothly tell the waiter what you want,

    and when you send it back, I'll stop the passing tray
    to sip the lipstick mark you've left behind.

    If he feeds you something he's already gnawed,
    refuse to touch his nibbled leftovers.

    Don't let him lazily drape an arm around your neck,
    don't rest your head against that stolid shoulder.

    Keep his paws out of your dress, and off those perky nipples.
    Above all never, never give him kisses.

    Do and I'll blow the whistle, announce that I'm your lover,
    and clap hands on you, shouting 'Those are mine.'

    That stuff I can watch for. What really makes me sweat
    is by-play going on behind the scenes.

    Calves and shins caressing, nestling thigh on thigh,
    hard and tender feet rubbing together,

    all the daring things I've done now make me wretched:
    my own example tortures me with fear:

    often lightning sex beneath her well-draped skirt
    has sweetened lust for both my love and me.

    That's not on the menu, but don't encourage winks:
    leave your shawl behind to stop suspicion.

    Feed him lots of drink, but not with drunken smooching –
    spike his glass with spirits on the sly.

    If you sedate him right, he'll go down blind and sozzled
    and time and place will make our plans for us.

    When we all rise together to follow you for home,
    remember to make for the middle of the crowd.

    Either you'll find me there, or I'll meet you in the huddle:
    then touch whatever part of me you can.

    Wretched fool! I scheme to scrape an hour or two,
    but midnight's edict cuts me from my love.

    At night he locks you up. Dissolved in gloomy tears,
    I haunt the cruel gate as close as I dare.

    Now he's exacting kisses, now taking more than kisses –
    the things I have to steal, he gets by law.

    At least make sure you give unwilling, under protest;
    do it in silence, make it lousy sex.

    If all my prayers come true, I hope he'll get no joy.
    At any rate, make certain that you don't.

    No matter what his luck may be tonight – tomorrow
    keep a straight face, tell me you gave him squat.


    5


    Summertime. The day had crept as far as noon.
    I spread my flagging limbs across the bed.

    One shutter closed up tight, the other just ajar:
    the light the sort you often see in woods

    when dusk still glimmers on under a fleeting moon,
    or when night's candle's out, but day's not yet.

    Just the light you need to offer modest girls
    so shame can hope to keep a hiding-place.

    Voilà: Corinna's here: dressed in a belted wrap,
    her long hair parted, veiling her radiant neck,

    like the fabulous Eastern queen processing into her boudoir,
    like Laïs, tireless lover of man after man.

    I snatched her wrap aside – not that it covered much,
    but just the same she fought to keep it on.

    It was one of those fights she didn't really want to win;
    losing's a breeze when you throw the game yourself.

    I got her garment off and she stood enjoying my gaze:
    not a blemish on any part of her:

    What shoulders she had! Arms ripe for caresses!
    Nipples the perfect shape for a little tweak.

    And God – that flat stomach beneath the compact breasts!
    That taut, muscled flank! Those girlish thighs!

    Why itemise? It was all spectacular.
    I threw my naked body onto hers.

    You can picture the rest. We both dozed off exhausted.
    God send me many afternoons like that.


    6


    Porter, sorry sod, chained to your nightly post,
    turn the key and open this damn door.

    Just a tiny favour: a crack is all I need,
    I wriggle sideways through the slimmest cranny.

    That's what loving long will do to a good physique:
    if I turned left you'd swear I wasn't here.

    Love teaches you to slip past every watching guard,
    with cat-like tread, Houdini at the gate.

    I used to be scared of darkness, empty shadows spooked me.
    I envied bolder men who strolled the night.

    But Cupid and his modern mother grinned at me
    and whispered, 'Yes, you too can brave the streets.'

    In a twinkling, Love descended. Now no scudding phantoms
    frighten me at night, nor mugger's fists.

    Your sloth is all I fear these days. It's only you
    I grovel to. Don't shoot that bolt against me.

    Look at this ruthless door – you'll have to open it –
    look how I've drenched the unyielding thing with tears.

    Wasn't it me, that day they stripped you for the lash,
    me went to the mistress for your reprieve?

    Since I scratched your back then, now isn't it only fair
    I get a little favour quid pro quo,

    turn and turn about? Do as you would be done by?
    The night is slipping away. Throw back the bolt.

    Remember your ambition to chuck your chains for good,
    and never guzzle servile swill again?

    Iron-hearted porter, I know you hear me begging:
    this hard oak door just goes on getting harder.

    Cities under siege blockade their gates like this:
    but this is peacetime – what are you afraid of?

    You treat your friends this way? God help your enemies!
    The night is slipping away. Throw back the bolt.

    I haven't brought a pack of armed desperadoes.
    I'm all alone – except for this thug, Love,

    and even if I tried, there's no evading him;
    I'd be torn to pieces long before I did.

    Love's my sidekick, there's some wine sloshing about
    in my sodden head, my garland won't stay on,

    and you're afraid of my weapons? Most folks would love to face them.
    The night is slipping away. Throw back the bolt.

    Hey! woodenhead! Perhaps you're dozing – let them catch you! –
    letting my lovesick pleas blow by unheard.

    I recall those days I tried to slip around you,
    you stayed out here watching the midnight stars.

    Maybe you've got some tart inside in bed with you.
    Better your luck in there than mine out here:

    load me up with chains, but give me perks like that.
    The night is slipping away. Throw back the bolt.

    I'm crazy. Those are creaking hinges I can hear!
    Someone's pushing back the door inside!

    I'm crazy. A gust of wind rattled against the gate,
    and blew my sky-high hopes right to the moon.

    North Wind, if that Greek girl you snatched was to your taste,
    get over here, blow down this doltish door.

    The whole city soundless, and steeped in glassy dew
    the night is slipping away. Throw back the bolt.

    I warn you, I'm prepared to resort to fire and sword;
    I've got a light, I'll torch this stuck-up house.

    Night and Love and Wine don't do things by half-measures.
    Night is shameless, Wine and Love are brave.

    That's it. I've tried the lot. Begging, threats, nothing
    works on you. You're harder than your doors.

    Guarding gates for gorgeous girls is not your forte.
    You're more the sort to make a prison screw.

    And now the morning star wheels his frosty course,
    and cocks are calling workers to their slog,

    but you, unhappy garland off my sorry head,
    lie the whole night long on this hard doorstep.

    Let her spot you flung there later on this morning,
    and witness how I waste my time on her.

    Goodbye, you zero porter, here's my parting tribute:
    your nose is clean, no lover gets by you.

    Goodbye to you as well, cold lintel, cruel posts,
    and slavish wooden doors, a hard good night.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Ovid Amores by Tom Bishop. Copyright © 2003 Tom Bishop. Excerpted by permission of Carcanet Press Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page,
Dedication,
Introduction,
Amores,
Book One,
Book Two,
Book Three,
About the Author,
Copyright,

Editorial Reviews

"Tom Bishop's sprightly translation captures Ovid's rhythms, as well as his salacious and gossipy tone."  —The London Review of Books

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