Sonnets of Michelangelo

Michelangelo, Elizabeth Jennings

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2017
• Topic: Literature
• eBook ISBN:
  9781351548229
• Subtopic: Artist Monographs
• Index: Literature

Michelangelo's poems are like the letters of other artists: they range from formal words of thanks to passionate argument; they flatter patrons, address lovers - and God. As in his sculpture, Elizabeth Jennings remarks, so in the poems, the dominating feature is vehement energy, an energy which is mastered by a longing for order.

The Sonnets

I
On Dante Alighieri

From heaven he came, in mortal clothing, when

All that was worst and best had been observed.

Living, he came to view the God he served

To give us the entire, true light again.

For that bright star which with its vivid rays

Picked out the humble place where I was born -

For this, the world would be a prize to scorn;

None but its Maker can return its praise.

I speak of Dante, he whose work was spurned

By the ungrateful crowd, those who can give

Praise only to the worthless. I would live

Happy were I but he, by such men scorned,

If, with his torments, I could also share

His greatness, both his joy and exile bear.

II
ON DANTE ALIGHIERI

It is not possible to say how much

We owe to him, because his splendour blinds

Our eyes. Simpler it is to blame those minds

Too small to honour him, to sense his touch.

He did not fear to plumb to places where

Failure alone survives. But this was done

For our example. Always he was near

To God. Only his country dared to shun

His greatness. Her ingratitude at last

Turned on herself. As proof of this, observe

How always to the perfect sorrows fall

Most painfully. To those who are the best

Most ill occurs. Dante did not deserve

Exile; his equal never lived at all.

III
TO POPE JULIUS II

My Lord, of all the ancient proverbs, this

Is surely true - ‘Who can doth never will’.

You have believed in saws and promises

And blest those men whom falsehoods, not truths, fill.

Always I have been faithful and would give

Honour to you as rays do to the sun.

Yet all my pain has never made you grieve,

The less I please, the more work I have done.

Once I had hoped to climb by means of your

Great height, but now I find we rather need

Justice and power, not echoes faint indeed.

Heaven, it appears, itself is made impure

When worldliness has power. I live to take

Fruit from a tree too dry to bear or break.

IV
ON ROME IN THE PONTIFICATE OF JULIUS II

Here they make helms and swords from chalices:

The blood of Christ is sold now by the quart.

Lances and shields are shaped from thorns and crosses,

Yet still Christ pours out pity from his heart.

But let him come no more into these streets

Since it would make his blood spurt to the stars:

In Rome they sell his flesh, and virtue waits

Helpless, while evil every entrance bars.

If ever I desired reward, oh now

All chance is gone. My work has come to naught.

Medusa hides beneath that mantle there.

Heaven rewards poverty, but here below

What chance have we to find the good we sought

When men are false to the great signs they bear?

V
TO GIOVANNI DA PISTOJA ON THE PAINTING OF THE SISTINE CHAPEL

Like cats from Lombardy and other places

Stagnant and stale, I‘ve grown a goitre here;

Under my chin my belly will appear,

Each the other’s rightful stance displaces.

My beard turns heavenward, my mind seems shut

Into a casket. With my breast I make

A shield. My brush moves quickly, colours break

Everywhere, like a street mosaic-cut.

My loins are thrust into my belly and

I use my bottom now to bear the weight

Of back and side. My feet move dumb and blind.

In front my skin is loose and yet behind

It stretches taut and smooth, is tight and straight.

I am a Syrian bow strained for the pull -

A hard position whence my art may grow.

Little, it seems, that’s strong and beautiful

Can come from all the pains I undergo.

Giovanni, let my dying art defend

Your honour, in this place where I am left

Helpless, unhappy, even of art bereft.

VI
INVECTIVE AGAINST THE PEOPLE OF PISTOJA

I have received your word now twenty times,

Read it as many. May it do you good.

As little, I hope, as teeth can d...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• Introduction
• Translator’s Note
• The Sonnets
• Index of First Lines