Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  Weke, weke, that’s crept to keep him company!

  Aha, you know your betters! Then, you’ll take

  Your hand away that’s fiddling on my throat,

  And please to know me likewise. Who am I?

  Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend

  Three streets off — he’s a certain . . . how d’ye call?

  Master — a . . .Cosimo of the Medici,

  I’ the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!

  Remember and tell me, the day you’re hanged,

  How you affected such a gullet’s-gripe!

  But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves

  Pick up a manner nor discredit you:

  Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets

  And count fair price what comes into their net?

  He’s Judas to a tittle, that man is!

  Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.

  Lord, I’m not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go

  Drink out this quarter-florin to the health

  Of the munificent House that harbours me

  (And many more beside, lads! more beside!)

  And all’s come square again. I’d like his face —

  His, elbowing on his comrade in the door

  With the pike and lantern, — for the slave that holds

  John Baptist’s head a-dangle by the hair

  With one hand (“Look you, now,” as who should say)

  And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!

  It’s not your chance to have a bit of chalk,

  A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!

  Yes, I’m the painter, since you style me so.

  What, brother Lippo’s doings, up and down,

  You know them and they take you? like enough!

  I saw the proper twinkle in your eye —

  ‘Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.

  Let’s sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.

  Here’s spring come, and the nights one makes up bands

  To roam the town and sing out carnival,

  And I’ve been three weeks shut within my mew,

  A-painting for the great man, saints and saints

  And saints again. I could not paint all night —

  Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.

  There came a hurry of feet and little feet,

  A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song, —

  Flower o’ the broom,

  Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!

  Flower o’ the quince,

  I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?

  Flower o’ the thyme — and so on. Round they went.

  Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter

  Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, — three slim shapes,

  And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood,

  That’s all I’m made of! Into shreds it went,

  Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,

  All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots,

  There was a ladder! Down I let myself,

  Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,

  And after them. I came up with the fun

  Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met, —

  Flower o’ the rose,

  If I’ve been merry, what matter who knows?

  And so as I was stealing back again

  To get to bed and have a bit of sleep

  Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work

  On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast

  With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,

  You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!

  Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head —

  Mine’s shaved — a monk, you say — the sting ‘s in that!

  If Master Cosimo announced himself,

  Mum’s the word naturally; but a monk!

  Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now!

  I was a baby when my mother died

  And father died and left me in the street.

  I starved there, God knows how, a year or two

  On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks,

  Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,

  My stomach being empty as your hat,

  The wind doubled me up and down I went.

  Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,

  (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)

  And so along the wall, over the bridge,

  By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,

  While I stood munching my first bread that month:

  “So, boy, you’re minded,” quoth the good fat father

  Wiping his own mouth, ’twas refection-time, —

  “To quit this very miserable world?

  Will you renounce” . . . “the mouthful of bread?” thought I;

  By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;

  I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,

  Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house,

  Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici

  Have given their hearts to — all at eight years old.

  Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,

  ’Twas not for nothing — the good bellyful,

  The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,

  And day-long blessed idleness beside!

  “Let’s see what the urchin’s fit for” — that came next.

  Not overmuch their way, I must confess.

  Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:

  Lord, they’d have taught me Latin in pure waste!

  Flower o’ the clove.

  All the Latin I construe is, “amo” I love!

  But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets

  Eight years together, as my fortune was,

  Watching folk’s faces to know who will fling

  The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,

  And who will curse or kick him for his pains, —

  Which gentleman processional and fine,

  Holding a candle to the Sacrament,

  Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch

  The droppings of the wax to sell again,

  Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, —

  How say I? — nay, which dog bites, which lets drop

  His bone from the heap of offal in the street, —

  Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,

  He learns the look of things, and none the less

  For admonition from the hunger-pinch.

  I had a store of such remarks, be sure,

  Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.

  I drew men’s faces on my copy-books,

  Scrawled them within the antiphonary’s marge,

  Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,

  Found eyes and nose and chin for A’s and B’s,

  And made a string of pictures of the world

  Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,

  On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black.

  “Nay,” quoth the Prior, “turn him out, d’ye say?

  In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.

  What if at last we get our man of parts,

  We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese

  And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine

  And put the front on it that ought to be!”

  And hereupon he bade me daub away.

  Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,

  Never was such prompt disemburdening.

  First, every sort of monk, the black and white,

  I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church,

  From good old gossips waiting to confess

  Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends, —

  To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,

  Fresh from his murder, safe
and sitting there

  With the little children round him in a row

  Of admiration, half for his beard and half

  For that white anger of his victim’s son

  Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,

  Signing himself with the other because of Christ

  (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this

  After the passion of a thousand years)

  Till some poor girl, her apron o’er her head,

  (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve

  On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf,

  Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers

  (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.

  I painted all, then cried “’Tis ask and have;

  Choose, for more’s ready!” — laid the ladder flat,

  And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.

  The monks closed in a circle and praised loud

  Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,

  Being simple bodies,— “That’s the very man!

  Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!

  That woman’s like the Prior’s niece who comes

  To care about his asthma: it’s the life!”

  But there my triumph’s straw-fire flared and funked;

  Their betters took their turn to see and say:

  The Prior and the learned pulled a face

  And stopped all that in no time. “How? what’s here?

  Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!

  Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true

  As much as pea and pea! it’s devil’s-game!

  Your business is not to catch men with show,

  With homage to the perishable clay,

  But lift them over it, ignore it all,

  Make them forget there’s such a thing as flesh.

  Your business is to paint the souls of men —

  Man’s soul, and it’s a fire, smoke . . . no, it’s not . . .

  It’s vapour done up like a new-born babe —

  (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)

  It’s . . . well, what matters talking, it’s the soul!

  Give us no more of body than shows soul!

  Here’s Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,

  That sets us praising — why not stop with him?

  Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head

  With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?

  Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!

  Rub all out, try at it a second time.

  Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,

  She’s just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say, —

  Who went and danced and got men’s heads cut off!

  Have it all out!” Now, is this sense, I ask?

  A fine way to paint soul, by painting body

  So ill, the eye can’t stop there, must go further

  And can’t fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white

  When what you put for yellow’s simply black,

  And any sort of meaning looks intense

  When all beside itself means and looks nought.

  Why can’t a painter lift each foot in turn,

  Left foot and right foot, go a double step,

  Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,

  Both in their order? Take the prettiest face,

  The Prior’s niece . . . patron-saint — is it so pretty

  You can’t discover if it means hope, fear,

  Sorrow or joy? won’t beauty go with these?

  Suppose I’ve made her eyes all right and blue,

  Can’t I take breath and try to add life’s flash,

  And then add soul and heighten them three-fold?

  Or say there’s beauty with no soul at all —

  (I never saw it — put the case the same — )

  If you get simple beauty and nought else,

  You get about the best thing God invents:

  That’s somewhat: and you’ll find the soul you have missed,

  Within yourself, when you return him thanks.

  “Rub all out!” Well, well, there’s my life, in short,

  And so the thing has gone on ever since.

  I’m grown a man no doubt, I’ve broken bounds:

  You should not take a fellow eight years old

  And make him swear to never kiss the girls.

  I’m my own master, paint now as I please —

  Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!

  Lord, it’s fast holding by the rings in front —

  Those great rings serve more purposes than just

  To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!

  And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes

  Are peeping o’er my shoulder as I work,

  The heads shake still— “It’s art’s decline, my son!

  You’re not of the true painters, great and old;

  Brother Angelico’s the man, you’ll find;

  Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer:

  Fag on at flesh, you’ll never make the third!”

  Flower o’ the pine,

  You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I’ll stick to mine!

  I’m not the third, then: bless us, they must know!

  Don’t you think they’re the likeliest to know,

  They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage,

  Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint

  To please them — sometimes do and sometimes don’t;

  For, doing most, there’s pretty sure to come

  A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints —

  A laugh, a cry, the business of the world —

  (Flower o’ the peach

  Death for us all, and his own life for each!)

  And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over,

  The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream,

  And I do these wild things in sheer despite,

  And play the fooleries you catch me at,

  In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass

  After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,

  Although the miller does not preach to him

  The only good of grass is to make chaff.

  What would men have? Do they like grass or no —

  May they or mayn’t they? all I want’s the thing

  Settled for ever one way. As it is,

  You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:

  You don’t like what you only like too much,

  You do like what, if given you at your word,

  You find abundantly detestable.

  For me, I think I speak as I was taught;

  I always see the garden and God there

  A-making man’s wife: and, my lesson learned,

  The value and significance of flesh,

  I can’t unlearn ten minutes afterwards.

  You understand me: I’m a beast, I know.

  But see, now — why, I see as certainly

  As that the morning-star’s about to shine,

  What will hap some day. We’ve a youngster here

  Comes to our convent, studies what I do,

  Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:

  His name is Guidi — he’ll not mind the monks —

  They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk —

  He picks my practice up — he’ll paint apace.

  I hope so — though I never live so long,

  I know what’s sure to follow. You be judge!

  You speak no Latin more than I, belike;

  However, you’re my man, you’ve seen the world

  — The beauty and the wonder and the power,

  The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,

  Changes, surprises, — and God made it all!

  — For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,

  For this fair town’s face, yonder river’s li
ne,

  The mountain round it and the sky above,

  Much more the figures of man, woman, child,

  These are the frame to? What’s it all about?

  To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,

  Wondered at? oh, this last of course! — you say.

  But why not do as well as say, — paint these

  Just as they are, careless what comes of it?

  God’s works — paint any one, and count it crime

  To let a truth slip. Don’t object, “His works

  Are here already; nature is complete:

  Suppose you reproduce her — (which you can’t)

  There’s no advantage! you must beat her, then.”

  For, don’t you mark? we’re made so that we love

  First when we see them painted, things we have passed

  Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;

  And so they are better, painted — better to us,

  Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;

  God uses us to help each other so,

  Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,

  Your cullion’s hanging face? A bit of chalk,

  And trust me but you should, though! How much more,

  If I drew higher things with the same truth!

  That were to take the Prior’s pulpit-place,

  Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,

  It makes me mad to see what men shall do

  And we in our graves! This world’s no blot for us,

  Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:

  To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

  “Ay, but you don’t so instigate to prayer!”

  Strikes in the Prior: “when your meaning’s plain

  It does not say to folk — remember matins,

  Or, mind you fast next Friday!” Why, for this

  What need of art at all? A skull and bones,

  Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what’s best,

  A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.

  I painted a Saint Laurence six months since

  At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style:

  “How looks my painting, now the scaffold’s down?”

  I ask a brother: “Hugely,” he returns —

  “Already not one phiz of your three slaves

  Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,

  But’s scratched and prodded to our heart’s content,

  The pious people have so eased their own

  With coming to say prayers there in a rage:

  We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.

  Expect another job this time next year,

  For pity and religion grow i’ the crowd —

  Your painting serves its purpose!” Hang the fools!

  — That is — you’ll not mistake an idle word

  Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot,