It's true that these poems are repetitive, locked in a theme of "get me out of here." At the same time, they capture the obsessive nature of exile, how it blinds one to present surroundings and makes vivid a nostalgia for a different time and a different place. Ovid writes of Rome and mentions Tomis only in passing, exaggerating its faults. Everything here is repellent, all would be well if I could only return.

It is amazing that a poet writing 2000 years ago can so clearly capture these feelings, and how universal these feelings are. We all want to be at the center of where we feel our life should be lead, and it can twist the mind to be forced to live away from home.

Very self-affirming and funny, but also at points moving--

"You ask, why send my scribbles:
Because I want to be with you somehow."

just finished yet ANOTHER book for class baby! call me an enlightened scholar

I actually feel bad for Ovid icl. Huge contrast from the love poems (understandably, because now he is exiled and depressed and older and has matured to hopefully be less of a fuck boy - I mean he was like he wasn't really a fuck boy and just hyperbolised things for the sake of it being more poetic and witty and entertaining). But nevertheless, as per usual, writing is incredible. The way he talks about his wife and consoles her is so romantic Ovid do you need a 4th wife i volunteer as tribute

Why was Ovid banished to Tomis? Many theories are out there, but no one knows for sure. Augustus’ daughter Julia was banished at about this same time for her over-the-top promiscuous lifestyle, and we know that Ovid’s writings definitely promoted that sort of thing. Of course, she took it to the extreme. He was even asked by the emperor to “clean it up.” Of course, he refused. So did Augustus blame him for his daughter’s behavior? Was he directly involved as one of her paramours? Who knows.

What we do know is that Ovid hated Tomis. He looked down his nose on the rubes he was now living amongst. But they saw him as a celebrity. They practically worshipped him, and wanted nothing more than to cater to his every whim. Yet he barely tolerated them and ran them down every chance he could in his letters. The funny thing is that someone there happened to accidentally read one of his letters where he derides them. Up until then they thought he actually liked them. Word gets around about how he really feels about them, and they want nothing to do with him after that. He then finds out what it really means to be banished.

The stereotypical Roman was supposed to be stoical, practical, tough, etc.. These writings are anything but. They are about as un-Roman as you can get. Instead of accepting his fate, and trying to make the best of it, Ovid pleads and grovels to no end. He begs his wife, who remained in Rome to better champion his cause, to beseech Augustus for his return. Did she? I doubt it. She was probably glad to be rid of him. A pity so much poetic talent came from such a pathetic little man.

“Writing a poem you can read to no one is like dancing in the dark.” EP IV.2 33-4.

In 8 AD, Augustus sentenced the poet Ovid to exile. The cause was twofold. First, because Ovid’s earlier love poetry, particularly the Art of Love with its anything-goes approach to sex, conflicted with Augustus’ conservative social reforms. Second, a mysterious mistake or indiscretion, possibly political in nature, apparently rubbed the princeps the wrong way. It marked the end of a literary era. The last 50 years had been a golden age for Latin literature, thanks to talents like Virgil, Horace, and Ovid. The Aeneid and the Metamorphoses were both composed during this span. But by 8 AD, Virgil, Horace, Propertius and the rest were all dead. Ovid was the last of the old guard: the last major Roman writer to remember the republic firsthand. By the time of Ovid’s exile the empire was in full swing, and Latin literature suffered for it. It would be decades until another major writer (Seneca) arrived on the scene, and over 50 years passed before the next major poems (Pharsalia: The Civil War and The Satyricon) were written.

Ovid’s exile was not destined to be a cushy one. Augustus banished the poet to Tomis, a dreary little outpost on the shores of the Black Sea. At the very edge of Roman territory, Tomis was wild, uncultured, dangerous, and subject to bitter winters. If Augustus had been motivated by cruelty, he could hardly have picked a better spot. Ovid spent the rest of his life there, until his death in AD 17/18.



Ovid created three original poetic works during his years in exile: Tristia and the Black Sea Letters (included in this book), and the Ibis (a bizarre poem where Ovid lays into some unknown enemy with serious vigor…sort of the 1st century version of Hit ‘Em Up). Ibis excepted, Ovid wrote the exile poems with a singular purpose: to obtain a pardon, or failing that at least be allowed a less horrific place of exile. He never succeeded on either front.

The exile poems can be repetitious: you can only read so many letters in a row where Ovid begs for release before you’ve kind of seen them all. It can also be bleak reading. Ovid was clearly miserable in Tomis, and only gets more desperate and unhappy as the years pass. It’s depressing to watch Ovid, who was notably less obsequious than most of his contemporaries, kowtow to a despot’s vanity by singing Augustus’ praises over and over, particularly since it was all for naught. Ovid was very prolific (he wrote more than Lucretius, Catullus, Virgil, and Horace combined), and I’d say that for readers interested in his work these poems are probably fourth in importance (behind the Metamorphoses, Heroides, and love poetry). I wouldn’t say these are a must-read by any stretch for readers looking to hit the Latin highlights.

But for those who enjoyed Ovid’s other work, there’s a lot to appreciate here. Ovid makes the absolute most of his recurring theme by stretching his talents to their limit in order to keep his pleas from turning stale. Despite his protests to the contrary, Ovid has lost none of the formidable skills that created the Metamorphoses and the Heroides. And while the constant praising of Caesar is not much fun to read (even though it’s understandable), there is a constant undercurrent of dissent that I really enjoyed. It’s as if Ovid just couldn’t help himself: even when bowing before the emperor and begging for mercy, he can’t resist launching a loogie or two at the royal feet.

“What if some savage’s sword should cut short my existence? When I’m gone, my fame will endure, and while from her seven hills Mars’ Rome in triumph still surveys a conquered world, I shall be read.” EP III.7 49-52.

Ovid sold himself short in one respect. While Augustus’ empire is long gone, Ovid’s fame continues to endure. 3 stars, recommended for fans of Ovid’s other poetry.

I read the Peter Green translation. Green did his usual stellar job, providing an excellent introduction and extensive notes. For non-Latin readers interested in these poems, I highly recommend it.

4

Deux textes poétiques (sous forme de poèmes pour Les Tristes et sous la forme d'épîtres pour Les Pontiques) dans lesquels Ovide partage sa "Triste" vie après avoir été exilé à Tomes, près de la Mer Noire. A travers ces vers émouvants, on y voit la mélancolie d'un homme banni de Rome pour avoir écrit son Art d'aimer (qu'Auguste, dit-on, n'a même pas lu mais lui a fait prendre la décision de l'exiler). Il devient victime de l'éloignement à tel point même qu'écrire des vers lui est difficile parce que la langue "barbare" vient interférer avec la sienne dans son esprit et qu'il n'a plus guère l'opportunité de profiter de tout son art loin des siens...

"Je suis jeté sous une lumière d'hiver, dans un abîme indomptable,
Et l'eau sombre frappe même mon papier
L'hiver mauvais me fait la guerre et s'indigne que j'ose
Ecrire tandis qu'il lance ses menaçantes rigueurs.
L'hiver a raison de l'homme ; mais au moment où je déciderai
De terminer mon chant, de grâce, qu'il termine le sien" (Les Tristes, I, XI)

It's a shock reading these after the Metamorphosis and the Erotic poems.

whatever value they have in Latin, In English I think Ovid was right:

Now I'm out of words, I've asked the same thing so often
now I feel shame for my endless, hopeless prayers.
You must all be bored stiff by these monotonous poems.

Ce sont deux écrits de l'exil, formés de lettres en vers, adressées à des amis et connaissance d'Ovide, toujours dans l'espoir d'obtenir un allègement à sa peine.
J'avoue avoir préféré les Tristes, composées pendant les deux premières années loin de Rome, dont le ton, certes élégiaque, marque encore l'espoir du poète. Dans les Pontiques, en revanche, cet espoir n'est guère plus qu'une chimère, et Ovide ressasse beaucoup sa faute (dont nous ignorons encore aujourd'hui la nature exacte) et exalte autant que possible Auguste comme divinité.

Every word you’ve read in this whole book was written
during the anxious days
of my journey: scribbling lines in mid-Adriatic
while December froze the blood,
or after we’d passed the twin gulfs of the Isthmus
and transferred to another ship,
still verse-making amid the Aegean’s savage clamour
(a sight, I fancy, that shook the Cyclades).
In fact, I’m surprised myself that in all that upheaval
of spirit and sea inspiration never flagged.
How to label such an obsession? Shocked stupor? Madness?
No matter: by this one care all cares are relieved.
Time and again I was tossed by wintry tempests
and darkly menacing seas;
time and again the day grew black with storm-clouds,
torrents of wind-lashed rain;
time and again we shipped water; yet my shaky
hands still kept writing verses – of a sort.
Now winds whistle once more through the taut rigging,
and massy-high rears up each hollow wave:
the very steersman, hands raised high to heaven,
his art forgotten, turns to prayer for aid.
Wherever I look, there’s nothing but death’s image –
death, that my split mind fears
and, fearing, prays for. Should I come safe to harbour
terror lurks there too: more hazards on dry land
than from the cruel sea. Both men and deep entrap me,
sword and wave twin my fear:
sword, I’m afraid, hopes to let my blood for booty,
wave wants the title of my death. Away
on our left lies a barbarous coast, inured to rapine,
stalked every by bloodshed, murder, war –
the agitation of these wintry waves is nothing
to the turbulence in my breast.
All the more cause for indulgence, generous reader,
if these lines fall short – as they do –
of your hopes: they were not written, as formerly, in my garden,
while I lounged on a favourite day-bed, but at sea,
in wintry light, rough-tossed by filthy weather, spindrift
spattering the paper as I write.
Rough winter battles me, indignant at my presumption
in ignoring its fierce threats, still scribbling away.
Let the storm have its will of the man – but let storm and poem
reach their end, I pray, each at the same time!

Sly sly Ovid, the master of playing with identity, portraying himself as a person that had as many 'misfortunes as the stars that lie between the hidden and visible pole'. Could I travel back in time, I would visit Rome and his exile Tomis, to find out what really happened and then return, keeping my mouth shut as to not destroy the myths surrounding this book.

Deja de llorar pesao cómo te vas a tirar a su nieta hijo de puta