Poems Page 3
I.8b
She’ll stay! She’s promised! Screw my enemies!
I’ve won: she gave in to my insistent pleading.
Malicious lechers, drop your gleeful fantasies:
Cynthia’s not going anywhere right now.
She’s crazy about me, and besotted with Rome
for my sake; for me, she’d turn down a king’s ransom.
She prefers to cuddle up in my single bed,
she just wants to be mine – any old how –
even if offered all the riches horse-breeding
Elis won or the dowry of Hippodamia.
He gave her much and promised her the world;
greed did not make her, though, run from my arms.
It wasn’t gold or Indian pearls
that swayed her, just the eloquence of sweet poems.
Apollo speeds to the lover’s aid. Muses exist.
To keep precious Cynthia mine, I relied on them.
Mine, mine, mine, day or night!
I can touch the highest stars with outstretched palms.
No rival can filch a love as strong as this:
that will be my boast until my hair goes white.
I.9
Didn’t I tell you, Ponticus,
love would come for you, mocker,
ending your freedom of speech?
Look how, tongue-tied and obedient,
you bend to a girl’s orders,
she who had been in your pocket
can now make you do any bidding.
Dodona’s prophetic pigeons
can’t rival me in love forecasts,
which girl will subdue which boy;
tears of pain have made me
the expert; how I would rather
be shot of this love, and a novice!
So much for your weighty epic
lamenting Thebes’ lyre-built ramparts.
In affairs of the heart it’s Mimnermus
whose verses count more than Homer’s:
Love’s a softie and likes gentle poems.
File those tragic books in your top drawer,
write something a girl would enjoy!
No material at hand? Are you crazy?
You’re divining for water in mid-stream.
You’ve still got the pallor, the real fire
to come, all you’ve felt is the first spark.
Soon you’ll opt for India’s tigers
for company, your relaxation
being strapped to a wheel in hell,
rather than feel The Lad’s darts
coursing through your bone marrow,
‘yes, darling’ to her every tantrum.
Love gives you wings with one hand,
just to pin you to earth with the other…
Don’t be fooled that she seems compliant:
once you possess her, it’s claws out,
she’s filling your field of vision,
no other door to knock at.
Love steals on you unawares
until his hand’s on your windpipe:
whoever you are, beware
of his fast talk. The decent thing
is first to acknowledge your error:
putting a name to your malady
is often, in love, some comfort.
I.10
That magic night when you and she
made out, Gallus (I was there
to witness your erotic tears)!
Magic remembering that night
still summoned in my fantasy:
I saw her enfold you, saw you die,
your words becoming slow, strung out.
Sleep weighed my eyes down, the blushing
moon’s chariot halfway through the sky,
but I was transfixed by your sport,
such was the fire in your love-talk.
You took me in your confidence,
accept this gift for that pleasure:
not just a poem of your affair,
friendship can give something more.
I can splice parted lovers again,
open a woman’s slammed-shut door,
I can heal fresh amorous wounds
with the strong medicine in my pen.
Cynthia taught me what to shun
or follow: fruits my own love bore.
No fights with her when she’s down,
no harsh words or long silences,
denying her wish with a frown,
ignoring something kind she said.
A put-down rouses her resentment,
a hurt perpetuates her anger;
the more you’re loving and patient,
the more you will be rewarded.
To stay content with one lover,
wear the chains, fill your heart with her.
I.11
While you holiday in summery Baia, Cynthia,
where Hercules’ causeway stretches along the shore,
and admire how the sea in the Bay of Naples
has lately been channelled into Lake Averno –
do thoughts of me enter your head sometimes at night?
Does love flicker in some corner of your heart?
Or has a rival, pretending to adore you,
stolen you, Cynthia, from your place in my poems?
When the cat’s away … a girl tends to forget
those solemn pledges she made …
I’d rather you were idling in a dinghy
with tiny oars on Lake Lucrino,
or confined to that narrow pool at Cuma,
one arm after the other gliding through the water,
than draped languidly on a quiet beach, listening
in no hurry to some man’s plausible whispers.
Of course, I trust you, your reputation is ironclad …
but love always trembles in this situation.
Forgive me, then, if these lines bring you
any note of gloom: you can blame my fears.
I could not care more for my adored mother,
or take any thought for my life if you were not here.
You are my home, Cynthia, you are both
my parents, my delight all of the time.
If I’m happy or sad when I call on friends,
whatever I am, I say: ‘It’s Cynthia.’
Just leave rotten Baia as soon as you can:
those beaches will separate many couples,
beaches inimical to faithful girls.
To hell with the waters of Baia, an insult to love!
I.12
Ah Rome, stop charging me with idleness –
I’m just killing time while Cynthia’s not here.
She’s about as many miles from my bed
as the Volga from the Po;
without her embrace
my customary fires remain unfuelled,
none of her sweet nothings tinkling in my ear.
I was favoured before: no one was ever
so confident in a love affair.
Men envied me: am I now in some god’s sights?
Some oriental herb separating us?
Travel changes women:
I’m not what I once was
to her. How much love has vanished in a trice!
Now I have to spin out the long nights
on my own, bore myself with my own voice.
Weeping’s a joy when she’s there to hold:
love relishes being sprinkled with tears;
or else to switch your passion if she goes cold –
taking your slavery elsewhere has its pleasures.
But I can’t love another or leave her:
Cynthia was first; last will be Cynthia.
I.13
Typically of you, Gallus,
you’ll exult at my misfortune
now my love has been snatched away and I’m single.
I won’t reciprocate
your disloyal talk:
I hope your girl never cheats on you, Gallus.
For w
hile your reputation
grows for deceiving girls
and sure-footedly wasting no time in any affair,
you’ve lost your head to someone;
at last you look pale – just
one slip and you’re off the track already.
This one is punishment for
the pain you ignored in the others:
she’ll exact payment in misery on their behalf.
She’ll put a stop to those
quick-fire affairs of yours;
your free ride in quest of novelty’s about to end.
I’m not going on malicious rumours
or horoscopes: I’ve seen you.
Can you deny my eyewitness testimony?
I saw you melt with her arms
clasped round your neck, I saw
your tears, Gallus, your hands’ lengthy explorations,
your longing to lay down your soul
on her voluptuous lips …
and what followed, my friend, I am too polite to mention …
I could not have prised
you apart, such was the
demented fury between the pair of you.
You outstripped Neptune when,
in the guise of a river of Thessaly,
he overwhelmed the unresisting Tyro;
you surpassed the first joys
of Hercules when his funeral
pyre turned to flames of love for Hebe in heaven.
One day has left all past
amours in the dust: the torch
she has set beneath you is white-hot;
she put an end to your old
vanity – it’s over:
you’re a prisoner of your own passion.
No wonder, when she’s a prize
for Jupiter, rival to Leda
and Leda’s two daughters, lovelier than all three.
Perhaps more alluring than all
the heroines of ancient Greece,
her conversation able to make Jove love her.
But since you’re about – for once –
to die of love, make the most of it:
this was the portal reserved for you.
May this unwonted mistake
turn out well for you,
and all the women you want enjoy in her.
I.14
I think of you, Tullus, lounging beside the Tiber,
imbibing fine wines from a silver cup,
watching the racing yachts go scudding past
or the barges lumber along, towed by rope;
the trees in the grove you planted tower up
high as the forests of the Caucasus.
These things cannot compete, though, with Amor:
my love and boundless riches – it’s no contest.
Whether she spins out a night I’d hungered for
or spends a day of easy love with me,
Asian rivers wash bullion to my house,
I pluck the pearls from under the Red Sea;
kings surrender to me in the wars of joy –
may it last until fate tells me it’s time to die!
When Amor’s against you can money be a pleasure?
I want no rewards if I face the scowl of Venus.
That goddess can shatter the strength of mighty heroes,
inflict pain on even the toughest mind;
fearlessly cross a Carrara marble doorway,
slip into a bed of cloth of gold, Tullus,
make a young man twist all night in agony:
bright silken fabrics can bring no solace.
I shall fear no kingdoms, as long as she is kind,
and even despise the gifts of Alcinous.
I.15
I have long expected the worst from your fecklessness,
but never, Cynthia, this perfidy.
Look at the danger fortune lands me in!
Yet you are slow to arrive in my distress.
You must fix your hair (which was styled yesterday)
and put your make-up on (which takes forever).
There are Eastern jewels you need for your bust-line …
Dolling yourself up, perhaps, for a new lover?
Not exactly Calypso, rocked by Ulysses’ leaving,
when she wept long ago to the deserted ocean:
her hair was not done at all as she sat grieving
for days on end, reproaching the unjust sea,
and though she sorrowed she would never be
with him again, was glad for their past devotion.
Nor exactly Hypsipyle, distraught in her empty
bedroom when the winds took Jason away;
after him she never felt again the fire
that had melted her for the guest from Thessaly.
Or Evadne, who died on her husband’s funeral pyre,
a byword throughout Greece for her constancy.
None of these examples managed to reform
your character and make you a glorious legend.
Stop those words, Cynthia, repeating old perjuries.
The gods have let them pass, don’t make things worse.
The gall of it! Were it you at risk of harm,
I’d be the one to suffer if something happened!
Rivers will sooner flow back from their estuaries
and the year parade the seasons in reverse
than the love in my heart will turn to ill intent:
be what you want, I can’t be indifferent.
Don’t put such a low price on those eyes
that made me believe your falsehoods time and again!
You swore if you had told me any lies
they would fall out into your cupped fingers:
can you now lift them up to the great sun,
not trembling, conscious of the wrong you’ve done?
Who forced you to blench a dozen pallid colours
or wet your cheeks with those reluctant tears?
So I die now, my last message to lovers:
have no trust in the blandishments of women!
I.16
I was once a door thrown wide for victorious warriors,
dedicated to the goddess of chastity;
gilded chariots lined up at my threshold,
prisoners-of-war drenched me with tears of entreaty …
Look at me now:
dented by the nocturnal brawls of drunks,
groaning under the pounding of low-class hands;
withering flowers hang off me,
spent torches mark where a shut-out lover waited.
And how can I defend the resident lady
from scandalous gossip? All
I’m famous for is rude graffiti these days.
Grinding complaints would have me burst into tears,
or – worse – the long vigil of one particular suppliant,
who won’t let my posts rest in peace
with his serenades of penetrating eloquence:
‘Door, you’re crueller even than your owner,
standing there, your hard panels closed and dumb.
You never slide back your bolts to admit my suit
or are moved to pass on my sotto voce pleading.
No end, then, to my ordeal,
sleeping rough on the step’s residual warmth?
Midnight pities my recumbent form,
the stars setting, the wind chilled by dawn frost.
‘You never had much time for human misery,
never answered back from your silent hinges.
If only my voice could percolate through
some chink into my darling’s pretty ears.
She may be tougher than granite, iron or steel,
but she’d not stay dry-eyed,
involuntary teardrops would well up.
Now she rests on another well-satisfied arm,
and my words fall by the wayside in the night-wind.
‘Unique and supreme cause of my misfortune,
door unimpressed by my presents,
impervious to the petulance of my tongue
(given to wounding jokes when I’ve been drinking).
You let me rant on till I lose my voice,
waiting out anxious hours at the street corner;
yet I write poems for you in the latest style,
even bend to press kisses on your steps.
How many times have I knelt before you, traitor,
giving you offerings with furtive hands.’
Etcetera. The repertoire of woebegone lovers,
in competition with the dawn chorus.
Between the owner’s vice and her lover’s voice,
it’s hard to say which brings me more ill repute.
I.17
And justly, since I sailed away from you,
my interlocutors are passing seagulls;
Cassiope’s setting has not launched my ship,
my prayers fall on an unhearing shore.
You command the winds from far off, Cynthia,
the vicious threats muttered by the gale are yours.
What chance of this storm dying down?
Who would have thought it – a tomb on this patch of sand?
Sweeten your harsh complaints: the darkness,
the shoals can sate your thirst to punish me.
Could you contemplate my mortality dry-eyed,
not clutching my remains against your bosom?
Damn him who first constructed boats and rigging
and journeyed on the unwelcoming sea!
Better far to have sat out her tempers
(one girl in a million in that too)
than view this beach, hemmed by uncharted woods,
the Gemini eluding my blank stare.
At home, if death had buried my pain,
a last stone marking love’s resting place,
she would have offered her hair for my casket,
I should have lain on roses strewn by her;
She would have called my name over my ashes,
so earth would not weigh on me.
But, you daughters
of the princess of the ocean, now unfurl
our white sails with your dance;
if love ever glided down to touch your waves,