[This translation is of a poem by Ovid, but nevertheless forms part of my series of Propertius translations on the subject of conjugal discord in a time of war. Although the bulk of my Propertius translations were written around the time of the 2003 Iraq war, this one was written much later and reflects a different age.]

I’m telling you, my friend, love is a battleground

and we the soldiers on it.

If you’re too past it to be drafted,

you’re too past it to get your leg over too.

Nothing’s sadder than a dirty old man on parade.

And the sort of stuff that sergeant majors are looking for in a new recruit

is the same sort of stamina chicks go for in a bloke.

Both stay up half the night, sleep rough;

one guards his girl’s front door, one his commander’s tent.

Squaddies yomp stoically across a harsh terrain,

but a lover-boy with a sweetheart off the leash

will chase her till he drops.

He’ll scale the scree of craggy peaks; wade through flash floods;

walk knee-deep through a slushy swamp in dead of frosty night;

set sail in haste on storm-blown seas—

no life-jacket, no GPS. Who gives a fuck!

Agents are sent to spy on shifty enemies in foreign lands;

lovers at home forever on the lookout for potential rivals.

Armies pound rebel-held cities with heavy artillery fire;

brutes sickened by love batter at bedroom doors with their bare fists.

Sometimes it’s best to catch the enemy a-napping

and whack ‘em with a weapon while they’ve none to hand;

as when the mob orders a bloody hit

to corner markets or tie up loose ends.

Thus lovers too will move in for the kill,

as hubby sleeps off beer.

Sappers and sorry lovers both have the job

of getting round the guards or prying neighbors’ eyes.

All’s up in the air in war and love alike:

a vanquished foe can of a sudden surge again,

while those believed invincible are felled.

So, if you’ve been inclined to call love work for idle hands,

now is the time to hold your tongue.

Love is the fruit of genius and endurance.

When cuckold mopes and sulks and drowns himself in drink,

the time is ripe to snatch his purse.

Sweethearts placed flowers in the metal helmets

of Tommies taken off to trenches by a train;

fodder for guns.

And rich & powerful old men are prone to fall

for any bit of skirt,

however much of a nutcase or a bitch she is;

as paparazzi snap their lucrative pics

of VIPs canoodling with spouses not their own.

*

I once was a lazy bastard, apt

to lie abed and watch late-night TV;

lust for a pretty girl the boot

that got me off my ass.

Now I am kitted up on covert ops each night.

Take my advice, my friend.

You wanna get a grip on life;

go out, get yourself laid.