The Art of Love (9 page)

[L
ATIN
:
Quis Cereris ritus…
]

    Who’d dare to incur the disgrace

Of publishing the mysteries of Samothrace

Or the rites of Ceres to the common crowd?

One needn’t feel all that proud

Of keeping silence, but to profane

The sacred, the arcane,

Is a grave crime. Tantalus, for breaching

The gods’ secrets, is still reaching

For ungraspable apples on the tree,

Standing thirst-parched in water, and deservedly.

Venus is a stickler in this matter:

I warn you, any man prone to chatter

About her holy mysteries is forbidden

To mix with them. They may not involve things hidden

In caskets, they may forgo

The wild clashing of cymbals, but even so

They’re so much part of our daily life and feeling

That they demand concealing.

Venus herself, when she poses nude,

Stoops, left hand hiding her sex in an attitude

Of modesty. Animals couple all over the place,

In public—indeed, a girl has to avert her face—

But the secret acts of human lovers

Call for bedrooms, locked doors, blankets, covers

For our private parts, and, if not the darkness of night,

We want something less bright

Than the sun’s glare, preferably half-light.

Long ago, when mankind was still not proof

Against sun and rain, before they invented the roof,

Shelter and food were supplied by the oak,

And the sense of shame was so strong in primitive folk

That they made love

Not in the open air, but in a cave or grove.

But with
our
night sports it’s all “making” and “score”;

We pay too high a price for nothing more

Than the power to boast. Do you really want to comb

The whole female population of Rome

Just to be able to tell friends you meet,

“I’ve had her too,” so that no street

Lacks examples to point at? And will you repeat

Some leering story about each? I complain

About trifles: there are some men so vain

That if their lies were all true they’d have to back down—

They claim they’ve slept with every girl in town!

If they can’t touch a body, they finger a name;

Though flesh escapes, reputation’s smeared with shame.

Get busy, then, doorman, whom we love to hate,

Lock her chamber door, put a hundred bolts on the gate,

For where is security when her name is heard

Bandied by lechers who give their word

To make us believe that what never took place occurred?

For myself, even with facts I’m confessionally mean:

A thick veil protects my private scene.

    Don’t blame a woman for her weak points; most men find

It pays here to pretend to be blind.

Wing-footed Perseus found no objection

To Andromeda’s Ethiopian complexion,

And though Andromache was too big in the eyes

Of the world, to Hector she was medium-size.

Habit makes all things bearable: new love’s

Sharp-eyed, and disapproves

Of many faults which a love that’s grown

Mature will readily condone.

While a new graft is growing in the tree’s

Green cortex, any breeze

Can shake it down, but, time-toughened, that shoot

Withstands the wind, bears its adopted fruit.

Time cures all physical blemishes—the blot

That used to bother you dwindles to a spot

You scarcely see. Young nostrils can’t abide

A bull’s hide

In a tannery when it’s being cured,

But the stink fades, the apprentice gets inured.

Euphemisms are great soothers in this matter:

Is she tar-black? Then “dusky” will flatter.

Has she a cast in one eye? Then observe a

Likeness to Venus. If she’s grey-haired, she’s Minerva.

If she’s half-starved, all bones, tell her she’s “slim.”

If she’s undersized, the word is “trim,”

And “generously built” translates “too fat.”

Bad points are good near-misses—play on that.

[L
ATIN
:
Nec quotus annus…
]

    Don’t ask her age, under which consul her birth

Was registered: leave the stern Censor to unearth

Statistical truth,

Especially if she’s past the prime of youth

And lost her bloom, and begun

To pluck the white hairs one by one.

Young lovers, women at this middle stage

Of life, or even of maturer age,

Are well worth cultivating, there’s a rich yield:

It’s up to you to sow the field.

    So, while your years and powers permit,

Endure love’s labour, put up with it;

Soon bent old age, sly-footed, will arrive.

Churn the sea with oars, drive

Ploughshares into the earth, pour

Your manhood and ferocity into war—

Or expend heart, guts, balls, the lot,

On serving women. It’s not

Unlike military service—it takes all you’ve got!

Besides, they’ve been around, they’ve learnt to please—

Only experience brings expertise—

And they work hard to disguise

Age with art, so that anno domini’s

Made up for by finesse. You’ll be embraced

In a thousand ways, according to your taste:

No erotic picture could show

The number of variations that they know.

Their pleasure doesn’t depend on stimulus—

Women should share the pleasure equally with us.

I hate it when both partners don’t enjoy

A climax—that’s why a boy

Doesn’t appeal to me much. But my abomination

Is a girl who does it from a sense of obligation,

Who lies there dry, her thoughts flitting

Back to her wool and her knitting.

For me, that’s service, not pleasure: I’ll have no truck

With a
dutiful
fuck.

I like to hear her rapturous gasps imploring

Me to take my time, keep boring,

To watch her come with surrendering eyes, then, flaked out,

Insist on a long pause before the next bout.

Nature doesn’t grant youth these joys; they arrive

Quite suddenly, after the age of thirty-five.

Impatient lovers can gulp
“nouveau”;

An ancient consul’s vintage, laid down years ago,

Suits me. Only an older plane can shield

Heads from the sun, bare feet are pricked by a new-sown field.

Could you seriously prefer

Helen’s daughter, Hermione, to her?

Or Medusa to
her
mother? If you seek an

Older woman’s love, press on, don’t weaken,

And then, my friend,

You’ll reap a handsome dividend.

    Look! Two lovers on a bed which has the air

Of a witness. The door’s shut. Muse, stay outside. The pair

Won’t need your prompting, passion will blurt

The right words, hands won’t lie inert,

Fingers will learn what to do in the secret parts

In which, mysteriously, Love dips his darts.

So Hector made love with Andromache long ago

(War wasn’t his only talent), and so

Did great Achilles with his slave when, battle-spent,

He lay on her soft bed in the tent,

While you, Briseis, let hands still warm

With Trojan blood fondle your naked form—

Or was it rather that your body thrilled

At the touch of a conqueror who’d killed?

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 on 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.

If dallying means danger, of course

It’s best to raise the stroke of your oars,

Or in other words to spur the galloping horse.

[L
ATIN
:
Finis adest operi…
]

    Here this part of my task ends.

You grateful young friends,

Give me the palm, perfume my hair, bring a myrtle crown.

Among the Greeks Podalirius won renown

For medical skill, Nestor for knowing men’s hearts,

Achilles for strength, Ajax for martial arts,

Calchas as priest and seer,

Automedon as charioteer;

So I, too, have no peer

In
my
field: love. Praise me, you youngsters, proclaim

Me poet and prophet, broadcast my name

World-wide.

I’ve equipped you for war, just as Vulcan supplied

Achilles with the arms he made.

Go and conquer as he did, and if with the aid

Of my weapons you lay an Amazon low,

Let this inscription on the trophy go:

“Ovid, our master, taught us all we know.”

[L
ATIN
:
Ecce, rogant tenerae…
]

    But now the girls are begging for lessons. Your turn,

Ladies. You’re my next concern.

^*
A reference to Virgil’s
Eclogues
, ii, 52.

[L
ATIN
:
Arma dedi Danais…
]

Having armed Greeks against Amazons, I must now prescribe

Weapons, Penthesilea, for you and
your
tribe.

You must fight on equal terms. Victory’s won

Through the favour of kind Venus and her son

Who ranges the world on wings. It wouldn’t be fair

If women had to oppose armed troops with bare

Breasts, for victory, then,

Could only shame us men.

“But why give venom to snakes? Why betray

Our sheepfold to wild she-wolves?” you may say.

Don’t smear the whole sex with the disgrace

Of the few who are bad, judge each as a separate case.

It’s true, Helen and Clytemnestra had to face

Charges from both their husbands, and Eriphyle’s crime

Sent Amphiaraus before his time,

Together with his horses, hurled

Still living to the underworld;

But think of Penelope, chaste for ten years of war,

And then for ten years more

While her lord wandered; of Laodamia, who took her life

To be with her husband; of Alcestis, a wife

Who saved Admetus from the dead

By offering to join them in his stead;

Of Evadne’s cry, “Take me, we’ll embrace in the fire,

Capaneus!” as she leapt on to the pyre.

Virtue’s dressed as a woman, she’s feminine in gender—

No wonder her sex’s view of her is tender—

But faced with such paragons, my poetry fails:

Mine’s a light pleasure craft, with small sails.

What you’ll learn through me is only naughtiness;

I’m going to teach you nothing less

Than how you should be loved. Flaming arrows and bows

Aren’t usually used by women, I don’t suppose

I’ve seen many men hurt by those.

Men frequently, girls rarely, cheat:

Ask around—very few are accused of deceit.

Although Medea was by then a mother,

Treacherous Jason dumped his bride and took another.

As for you, Theseus, Ariadne in her solitude

Could have ended up as gulls’ food

For all the shame

You
felt. Ask how Nine Ways got its name,

And listen to the falling leaves

Which the wood there sheds when it grieves

For Phyllis who hanged herself beside the sea.

Aeneas was noted for his piety,

And yet, Dido, your guest supplied

Both sword and motive for your suicide.

What ruined you all? I’ll tell you. You all lacked

Know-how, tact,

The art of love that keeps the spark

Of passion alive. And you’d still be in the dark

If Venus hadn’t come to me in a dream

And told me to give you a lecture on this theme.

“What have women done to deserve it?” she said. “Poor,

Defenceless mob, should they be pitted in war

Against armed males? Now that two parts

Of your poem have taught men the erotic arts,

It’s time the opposition

Enjoyed the benefit of your tuition.

The poet who was Helen’s denigrator

Retuned his lyre and sang her praises later

In a happier key. Never say

Bad words about us women! If I know you, you’ll stay

Eager to win their favour till your dying day.”

Then from her myrtle wreath she gave me a few

Berries and a leaf. As I took them, I knew

Her divine power: the air brightened

And my heart lifted, strangely lightened.

While her inspiration’s with me still, now

(If modesty, your morals and the laws allow

You to do so) take some tips, girls, from my page.

Never forget that old age

Will arrive, never let time

Slip from you, wasted. While you’re in your prime,

While you still can, have fun, play,

For the years like water run away,

The river glides, the hour moves on,

And are irrevocably gone.

Youth should be used, it vanishes so fast,

And pleasures to come will be less than pleasures past.

Those grey ghosts I remember as a violet-bed,

Those thorns were once a gift, a rose-wreath for my head.

You who now lock your lovers out—grow old,

And you’ll lie alone at night, feeling the cold,

Your door no longer battered

By midnight drunks, your threshold never scattered

With dawn roses. Oh yes, it’s sad

That flab and wrinkles come so soon, too bad

When the radiant complexion you once had

Fades, and the streaks you swear

You always had as a girl are suddenly everywhere—

A whole head of grey hair!

Snakes slough off age with their winter rags,

And shed horns put no extra years on stags,

But our looks go without upkeep. Pluck the flower; unpicked,

It withers, ugly, derelict.

Moreover, having children shortens the stage

Of youth: overcropped fields soon age.

Moon, when over Mount Latmos you had a crush

On Endymion, you felt no need to blush,

Nor was there, Aurora, in your eyes

Any shame in making Cephalus your prize.

Though Venus still mourns Adonis, all the same

She bore two children with a different name.

Follow the role models in the sky,

Earthbound women, and don’t deny

Your pleasures to hungry men. They may abuse

Your trust. So what? What have you got to lose?

Your balance is still safe, there’s been no cost.

Let them take and take and take, nothing is lost.

Though flint and iron get worn down by attrition,

That
part remains unscratched, in mint condition.

What’s wrong with taking a light from fire? Who’d be

A miser with the vast, undrainable sea?

If a woman says no, all she’s done is refused

Available water that she might have used.

I’m not saying, Go and get laid

By all comers, but, Don’t be afraid

Of shadows on the wall.

When you give yourselves, you lose nothing at all.

Ahead there are stronger winds, trickier seas;

But I’m still in harbour—give me a light breeze!