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Haec tibi mittuntur, quem sum modo carmine questus
non aptum numeris nomen habere meis
Tuticanus
– what a name!
I can’t think what to say to you except
get me out of here
anything would be better
Mt Purgatory
Guantanamo Bay
Iraq
the locals have got tired
of hearing me complain
yes once again
my work’s got me in trouble
& once again
I’m innocent
I like them
I just hate the place we’re in
admittedly I moan about the cold
the sieges
gunfights
gangmembers
but never a word against
my gentle hosts
they won’t let me pay taxes
call me their poet
far kinder
than you people
if only they lived further
from the pole
Ecquos tu silices, ecquod, carissime, ferrum
duritiae confers, Albinouane, meae?
This is my sixth
summer
Albovinanus
who’d have guessed
I’d last here
for so long?
water
carves out stone
fingers
wear gold rings
to ribbons
given time
but I’m untouched
a leafless land
that only grows
barbed wire
where rafts turn into
footpaths
on the sea
Johann Heinrich Schönfeld: Scythians at the Tomb of Ovid (1640)
Vincitur Aegisos testataque tempus in omne
sunt tua, Vestalis, carmine facta meo.
Vestalis
you’ve been posted here yourself
to the land of the midnight sun
to police the Hyperboreans
below the pole
you know that I’m not lying
you can see the ice
the frozen bottles
bikies
racing their hogs
along the floes
you’ve seen the poisoned nunchucks
had to fight yourself
when the stockade was attacked
(your deeds will live forever
in my verse)
Qui, mortis saeuo geminent ut uulnere causas,
omnia uipereo spicula felle linunt.
Maximus
why am I writing you?
you’ll throw away the letter
when you see my name
up here
the locals smear their blades
with poison
to up the chances
of a fatal wound
circling the walls like wolves
the rooftops gleam
with last year’s crop of shrapnel
as my fourth winter
stretches into spring
no rest for me
even in dreams
I’m riddled
like a target
sweating on the chaingang
or worst of all
I dream I’m
safe at home
Arethusa & Alpheus
[Metamorphoses V: 572-641]
Sic utinam, quae nil metuentem tale magistrum
perdidit, in cineres Ars mea uersa foret
You tell me I should work
not kick
against the pricks
it’s harder
than you think
since song for me means
joy
laughing
at the funeral
dancing
at the wake
is what you ask
of me
& if I could forget it all
my life my country
you
I don’t have time
or peace of mind
to think up stories
I’m not the man I was
I keep on writing
but
when I reread it
ashes in the grate
is all
it’s worth
I should have started
doing that before
Romania
Stare putes, adeo procedunt tempora tarde,
et peragit lentis passibus annus iter
Three years I’ve been here now
three times the sea has
frozen thawed again
time passes in reverse
up here (it seems)
the shortest day
lasts longer than
the longest night
at home
nowhere is safe
the gangs descend
in migratory flocks
to test our walls
we gather cartridge cases
in the streets
like grain
farmers wear helmets
sheep fear war
not predators
I have to talk in signs
even to neighbours
here I’m the simpleton
nodding
as they mock me
to my face
En pudet et fateor, iam desuetudine longa
uix subeunt ipsi uerba Latina mihi
D’you want to know
about the people here?
their clothes their manners?
they carry weapons
all of them
the locals
barely civilised
colonials
gone native
longhaired bearded
jackknives
at the ready
I’m scarred enough
not to be scared
of them
can follow
their argot
(hardly call to mind
my own words now)
Constanta
Si tamen est aliquid nobis hac luce petendum,
in loca ne redeas amplius ista, precor
It’s my birthday
today
why was I born
at all?
killing time
far from my country
I hope this day
will never
come again
not here
at least
Transylvania
Iam uiolam puerique legunt hilaresque puellae,
rustica quae nullo nata serente uenit
Come gather
flowers
laughing children
from the
unploughed
earth
spring comes
even to
Otherworld
buds
break out
where they can
few trees
no vines
no carts
crossing
the river
ships
come
with news
from home
have I been
pardoned
yet?
Town Hall, Constanta, Romania
suppositum stellis numquam tangentibus aequor
me sciat in media uiuere barbaria
If anyone still remembers me
back in the city
think of a wheel of stars
that never sinks
below the ocean
think of the far bank of a river
our only shield
against rampaging gangs
Black PowerHeadhunters
no faxes no email
for days
the lines are down
the snow once fallen
lies a second year
here wine bursts bottles
they don’t drink beer
but ice-cubes
I’ve seen the whole sea
frozen hard
walked on it dry-shod
the deep ringing beneath me
Eugène Delacroix: Ovid among the Scythians (1859)
ut tetigi Pontum, uexant insomnia, uixque
ossa tegit macies nec iuuat ora cibus
Since I arrived
in Otherworld
I can’t sleep
anymore
I’ve starved myself
until my skin’s
like parchment
flaking off
like autumn leaves
my mind’s the same
it all comes down
to one defect
the wrong address
Nec caelum patior, nec aquis adsueuimus istis,
terraque nescioquo non placet ipsa modo
Why is this not my writing?
I’m dictating
to my landlady today
too sick to hold a pen
no hospitals up here
no friends to visit
grapes & gossip
I think of you
keep talking to you
even in delirium
(or so they tell me)
if you were here
then I’d get up
to greet you
unless you’re happier
without me?
No -- I know
that’s just not you
I can still make you sad
Nec mihi, quod lusi uero sine crimine, prodest,
quodque magis uita Musa iocata mea est
I fucked around in poetry
not life
bookworm
pale as putty
the voyage nearly killed me
storms
& seasickness & crap
to eat
but I survived it
all
why? I
cry
like snow in spring
