Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) (8 page)

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

[200] 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 naught.

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

[210] 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 threefold?

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 naught else,

You get about the best thing God invents:

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

[220] 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

[230] 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!

[240] 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!
)

[250] 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

[260]
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.

     [270] 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,

[280] 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 line,

The mountain round it and the sky above,

Much more the figures of man, woman, child,

[290] 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 anyone, 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.’

[300] 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!

[310] 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

[320] 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,

[330] 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, Got wot,

Tasting the air this spicy night which turns

The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!

[340] Oh, the church knows! don’t misreport me, now!

It’s natural a poor monk out of bounds

Should have his apt word to excuse himself:

And hearken how I plot to make amends.

I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece

… There’s for you! Give me six months, then go, see

Something in Sant’ Ambrogio’s! Bless the nuns!

They want a cast o’ my office. I shall paint

God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,

Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood,

[350] Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet

As puff on puff of grated orris-root

When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer.

And then i’ the front, of course a saint or two –

Saint John, because he saves the Florentines,

Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white

The convent’s friends and gives them a long day,

And Job, I must have him there past mistake,

The man of Uz (and Us without the z,

Painters who need his patience). Well, all these

[360] Secured at their devotion, up shall come

Out of a corner when you least expect,

As one by a dark stair into a great light,

Music and talking, who but Lippo! I! –

Mazed, motionless and moonstruck – I’m the man!

Back I shrink – what is this I see and hear?

I, caught up with my monk’s-things by mistake,

My old serge gown and rope that goes all round,

I, in this presence, this pure company!

Where’s a hole, where’s a corner for escape?

[370] Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing

Forward, puts out a soft palm – ‘Not so fast!’

– Addresses the celestial presence, ‘nay –

He made you and devised you, after all,

Though he’s none of you! Could Saint John there draw –

His camel-hair make up a painting-brush?

We come to brother Lippo for all that,

Iste perfecit opus!’
So, all smile –

I shuffle sideways with my blushing face

Under the cover of a hundred wings

[380] Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you’re gay

And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops

The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off

To some safe bench behind, not letting go

The palm of her, the little lily thing

That spoke the good word for me in the nick,

Like the Prior’s niece … Saint Lucy, I would say.

And so all’s saved for me, and for the church

A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!

[390] Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights!

The street’s hushed, and I know my own way back,

Don’t fear me! There’s the grey beginning. Zooks!

A Toccata of Galuppi’s

I

Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!

I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;

But although I take your meaning, ’tis with such a heavy mind!

II

Here you come with your old music, and here’s all the good it brings.

What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,

Where Saint Mark’s is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

III

Ay, because the sea’s the street there; and ’tis arched by … what you call

… Shylock’s bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:

I was never out of England – it’s as if I saw it all.

IV

[10] Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?

Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to midday,

When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

V

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, –

On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,

O’er the breast’s superb abundance where a man might base his head?

VI

Well, and it was graceful of them – they’d break talk off and afford

– She, to bite her mask’s black velvet – he, to finger on his sword,

While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

VII

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,

[20] Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions – ‘Must we die?’

These commiserating sevenths – ‘Life might last! we can but try!’

VIII

‘Were you happy?’ – ‘Yes.’ – ‘And are you still as happy?’ – ‘Yes. And you?’

– ‘Then, more kisses?’ – ‘Did
I
stop them, when a million seemed so few?’

Hark, the dominant’s persistence till it must be answered to!

IX

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!

‘Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!

I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!’

X

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,

Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,

[30] Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.

XI

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,

While I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve,

In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve.

XII

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:

‘Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.

The soul, doubtless, is immortal – where a soul can be discerned.

XIII

‘Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,

Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;

Butterflies may dread extinction, – you’ll not die, it cannot be!

XIV

[40] ‘As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,

Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

XV

‘Dust and ashes!’ So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.

Dear dead women, with such hair, too – what’s become of all the gold