The Complete Poems of Michelangelo

by Michelangelo Buonarroti, Joseph Tusiani (editor and translator)

Michelangelo studied and wrote poetry throughout his life, frequently turning to it in times of emotional crisis or stress. His finest literary efforts are often allied with the masterworks of his visual art. As he labored in the Sistine Chapel with visions of the Last Judgment, he composed a series of passionate love sonnets. And while struggling, near the end of his life, to complete his final Pieta, he worked at religious poems anguished in their fervor. Indeed, the power of his verse seemed to grow with age, as if compensating for his diminishing physical strength. Nims, an eminent poet in his own right, has translated the entire body of Michelangelo's poetry, from the artist's ardent twenties to his anguished and turbulent eighties.

Genres: Poetry, Classics, Italy, Renaissance, Art, Italian Literature, Fiction

217 pages, Library Binding

First published January 1, 1564

About the author

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni was an Italian sculptor, painter, architect, poet, and engineer of the High Renaissance period who exerted an unparalleled influence on the development of Western art. Considered as the greatest living artist in his lifetime, he has since been held as one of the greatest artists of all time. Despite making few forays beyond the arts, his versatility in the disciplines he took up was of such a high order that he is often considered a contender for the title of the archetypal Renaissance man, along with his fellow Italian Leonardo da Vinci.

Reviews

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Seeing I'm yours, I rouse me from afar
to come near the heaven I owe my being to.
With your allure the bait, I'm drawn to you,
tugged, as with hook and line poor fishes are.
And, as a heart torn two ways fails to show
much sign of life, to you both halves are given,
which leaves me poor, that's saying: much the same.
Souls, offered a choice, pick out the worthiest, so
not loving you's not life; that's how I'm driven.
I'm wood. You're wood, but gloriously aflame."

"From eyes of my beloved one, come burning
flashes of fire so brilliant that through mine,
even closed tight, they stream, piercing the heart.
Off balance, poor love's hurt:
bringing from your rays sheer and crystalline,
under my gloom he's burdened when returning."

"Your beauty, Love, stuns mortal reckonings.
There's not a face among us can compare
with its image in the heart. You've kindled there
far different fire, fanned it with different wings."

"You make my heart, but how?, a raging pyre,
gliding through eyes, alas, forever wet.
They'd damp your glow, even sure-enough real fire.
And my defence? A paper parapet.
Fire ignite water? Then all things conspire
to keep me from the doom I'd die for yet.
So it's fight fire with fire. Strange how explain
fire's the one analgesic for its pain."

"With all my heart I love you; if not so,
may I turn ashes, like dry wood in fire;
may I lose my soul, if elsewhere set aglow.
And if enchantment kindles warm desire
for alien beauty in some other eyes,
then take your own away and I'll expire.
It's you alone I cherish, idolize;
if not, may hope die, spirits quail and dwindle,
though once in your love so steadfast, buoyant, wise."

[Jacqueline · Rating 4 out of 5]

Обожавам Микеланджело. Като скулптор, като художник, като архитект- никога няма да се наситя на изумителното му творчество, а и не искам. Към изброеното вече спокойно мога да включа и изявите на Микеланджело като поет. Не подозирах, че умее да борави с думите толкова умело и красиво, и ще бъда истински щастлива, ако някой ден успея да ги прочета и в оригинал.

Страст, мрак, отчаяние, надежда, любов, нечовешка амбиция, страхопочитание пред божественото, страдание, превъзходство... са само капчица от гениалния ум на този човек. Иначе казано: „Само ако душата съществува самостоятелно, неуязвима за всемирното умиране на нещата, само тогава животът би имал някакъв смисъл… защото, ако и тя е смъртна, човек би бил най-нещастното същество на света."



***
"Към тебе кой насила ме понася
свободен уж, а с крачки оковани?
Щом без въже във примка ме опаса,
щом ме достигаш без ръце и длани,
от образа ти кой ли ще ме брани?"
(Chi è quel che per forza a te mi mena)

***
La m’arde e lega e tiemmi e parm’un zucchero. ("Гори, обвързва здраво, но е сладка.")

***
"Ако попадне някога дървото,
изтръгнато от земната си влага,
под пек изгарящ или слаб, веднага
изсъхва и запалва се, горкото.

Сърцето тъй, отнето, от когото
обсебва всичко, пие скръб недрага
и в огън стене, ала вън от прага
на своя дом ще понесе ли злото?"
(Quand’avvien c’alcun legno non difenda)

***
"Живея в грях, погивайки, живея,
животът ми от грях е обсебен.
От Бога е доброто, злото — в мен,
в разюзданата воля, но без нея.

Слуга е свободата ми; аз тлея
със смъртния си бог. Мой горък ден!
За тази нищета ли бях роден?
(Vivo al peccato, a me morendo vivo)

***
"От погледа на мойта радост зрака
с такава ярка светлина полита
че и да зажумя, гръдта ми реже.
И куца Любовта, понеже
под тежест тъй неравна е превита:
излъчва светлина, а вижда мрака."
(Dagli occhi del mie ben si parte e vola)

***
"Горейки, сам-самин оставам в мрака,
когато слънцето от светлина
света разголи; и в злочестина,
аз хълцам в плач, прострян на камънака."
(Sol io ardendo all’ombra mi rimango)

***
"И под меда любезността безкрайна
обида смъртна за честта ни крие
и тегне тъй, че може да изтрие
от грижите Ви всяка диря трайна.

Надеждата събудил, примка тайна
поискахте честта ми да обвие;
жарта на любовта гасите Вие,
а тя да пламне иска — всеотдайна.

Поддържайте, Луиджи мой, лъчиста
оназ признателност, че пак живея,
пазете я от бури ядовити.

Враждата всяка благодарност чиста
руши; пред дружбата благоговея,
но сто усмивки не сушат сълзите."
(Nel dolce d’una immensa cortesia)

***
"— Кажи, любов, познават ли очите
онази красота от мене звана,
или я нося в себе си изляна
и сам я врязвам в хора и гранити?"
(Dimmi, di grazia, Amor, se gli occhi mei)

***
"Живея, ако огън ме изгаря:
щом повече дърва жарта запали,
убиецът ми повече ме жали
и служи ми, на мъките в разгара."
(S’i’ vivo più di chi più m’arde e cuoce)

[Illiterate · Rating 3 out of 5]

Michelangelo is full of doubt and dissatisfaction. His main themes are love/passion, fire/death, guilt/God.

[areebah · Rating 4 out of 5]

We often hear of Michelangelo in reference to his amazing sculptures & paintings. He was the genius behind the magnificent Creation of Adam which adorns part of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling (which is one of my favourite paintings!) Rarely do you hear of him in relation to his poetry, which I believe is just as profound & beautiful.

Fire is a common theme in his love poetry:

“Flee from this Love, you lovers; flee the flame! The burning's bitter, and the trauma kills.”

“I thought I'd have my way with Love at will;
you see me chained to the stake, and burning, burning ...” (These are both from poem 27).

Many of his love sonnets were written for Cavalieri, a Roman aristocrat. His bittersweet tone is apparent in them; he emphasises the innocence & purity of his passions yet fears of risk of ‘serious sin’, even going as far to state; “fire’s my fate.”

It was also interesting how the language changed when he wrote poetry for his wife Vittoria, who was a religious woman. The shift is so apparent; he clearly sees himself as inferior to her & his language is modest and respectful, as opposed to themes of ardent passion we saw earlier. I loved seeing him reference his own art as well; ”I carved the statue, but she’s heaven’s own art...” (240) & “For you, just you, she was born; there's no restoring, chisel on stone, her beauty, pen on paper.
Far more divine than art of mine could shape her” (178)

From my review so far you may think that all his poems are about love, but many also include major themes of religion, divinity, life in Florence, family, & death etc. Not all the poems are amazing, but he clearly had a talent for written expression. The collection also includes context of the times in which Michelangelo wrote certain sonnets & outlines what was going on in his life at the time, as well as perceptive commentary & analyses by the author.

All in all, I highly recommend if you like Michelangelo & want to see another side of his creative expression!

I thought i’d finish my review with one of my favourites:

“No rest here for the wicked, as folk say;
no grace or pardon for my grievous wrong. Hardly, as I believed, my lucky day,
losing me, choosing you-the lure so strong. Hope for rebirth in sun? The phoenix may;
no such return for me; life's not that long.
In loss, though, my delight; easy to see
the less I'm mine, more yours, the more I'm me.” (108)

[Jesse · Rating 4 out of 5]

Probably ideally read in the throes of great romantic passion (or even anguish), for what Michelangelo lacks in literary skill he makes up for with his great fervor in attempting to translate into the written word his capacity for the great extremes of emotional rapture. In a lot of ways a proto-John Donne as he embodies a lot of the baffling contradictions that great English poet has become so famous for: lusty sexual outpourings (for both boys and girls, and written up to his last days at nearly 90 years old), musings on how love inspires the soul to seek Heavenly perfection, more considered meditations on religion-inspired agony and ecstasy. I very much appreciated Nim's translations as they purposely errs on the side of forcefulness rather than the poetic delicacy of other translations I considered; also included are some of the most enlightening observations on the process of literary translation I've ever come across.

"Let the clock-hands end their circling; in accord
sun cease his ancient roundabout endeavor,
so I might have, certain-sure--though not procured
by my own worth--my long desired sweet lord,
in my unworthy but eager arms, forever."

-from poem 72

[Andrea Arbit · Rating 3 out of 5]

Given what I knew of Michelangelo's life and oeuvre, I was not surprised to find the same subjects crop up again and again in his poetry - love, death/suicide, God/salvation, his art - nor was I surprised that it was the poems dealing with the latter three of those categories that I found myself most drawn to. The words that revealed something of his artistic perfectionism, his fluctuating religious dissonance, and hints of manic-depression, or unipolar depression, or perhaps just everyday human experience (no label necessary), were both interesting and relatable; his myriad love poems, on the other hand, were repetitive, numerous, hyperbolic, and rather unoriginal.

Of course, he didn't intend for all of these poems to be published for anyone to see; the love poems, especially, I would think, he might have considered private, unfit for critics to devour. Given that he was not above burning paintings and destroying sculptures that he deemed "not good enough," we can assume that he was probably just as unsatisfied with some of these poems as I was, if not more so - and that there are innumerable other "lesser" writings that we will never find. Thinking of it this way, it even seems like a treat to read his tired cliches - indeed, they offer proof that the Great Michelangelo was also human, and succumbed to the same lovely and heartrending emotions as the rest of us. :)

Favorite poems (and poem fragments) under the spoiler tag.


3
How many a hidden net, how many a snare
the dapper songbird, by some twist of fate,
is spared from, with a sadder death in store.

25
When with a clanking chain a master locks
in jail a slave with no amnesty, no hope,
the victim slumps and submits to it, will cope
with oppression rather than fussing to go free.
So tiger and snake suffer captivity,
and the lion, rampageous, in rank jungles born.
So too the young artist, harried, worry-worn,
learns to endure from bearing with hard knocks.

52
Were one allowed to kill himself right here
in this world, thinking to return to heaven,
surely it’s right that privilege be given
to a poor downtrodden dumb devoted creature.
But since, unlike the phoenix, human nature
can’t count on fiery solar resurrection,
hand lax and leaden leg, I take no action…

57
If I’m more alive because love burns and chars me,
as a fire, given wood or wind, feels new elation,
it’s that he who lays me low is my salvation,
and invigorates the more, the more he scars me.

87
I wish I’d want what I don’t want, Lord, at all.
Between this heart and Your fire an icy screen,
invisible, damps it down, so these routine
words falsify what I do; the pages lie.
Tongue says it loves You, but the heart’s reply
is chilling: there’s no love there. Nor can I know
which way to let grace enter, immerse it so
hard-hearted pride is hell-bent for a fall.
You be the one, Lord! Rend it! ramming through
closure that saw Your beauty dim and dwindle,
once light of the world’s one sun, now cold as stone.
Send now the promised light that’s one day due
to Your comely bride on earth! Oh then I’ll kindle
the fire within, doubt-free, feeling You alone.

150
News good or bad, if poignant enough, can kill
on the spot, contrary as the two may be;
one bursts, one cramps the heart - same fate ensuing.

152
As by subtracting, my lady, one creates
from rugged mountain stone
an image of flesh and bone
developing even as the stone grows less,
so my soul’s better traits
quiver beneath the excess
of the burdensome cadaver’s gloomy weight,
like a rough shaggy husk around it grown -
hidden traits that you alone
could deliver - in my state
now I’ve neither grit nor gumption of my own.

153
A mould’s not alone in this:
empty of work within, it waits to hold
silver or molten gold
it can form - but must be shattered to let go

184
My name meant “Arms.” But little help to me
my arms when death came raging at me, “Die!”
Better to boast another name, more spry,
like “Foot.” Named Foot, I might have footed free.

239
My lady, how comes it about - what all can see
from long experience - that rough mountain stone
carved into a living form, survives its own
creator, who’ll end as ashes in an urn?
Cause lesser than its effect. From which we learn
how nature is less than art, as well I know
whose many a lively statue proves it so,
which time and the tomb exempt, grant amnesty.
Mine then, the power to give us, you and me,
a long survival in - choose it - stone or color,
faces just like our own, exact and true.
Though we’re dead a thousand years, still men can see
how beautiful you were; I, how much duller,
and yet how far from a fool in loving you.

278
If leaves aren’t what you’re wanting,
don’t come around in Maytime.

283
The soul means more, the more the world means less;
art and impending death don’t go together,
so what are You still expecting, Lord, from me?

[Myhte]

lovers each the other's image keep

Life is won,
If I remain alive in him who loved me so.

My eyes, which love to gaze on beauteous things,
Act on my soul, which pants for heavenly light,
Until I almost seem endued with wings,
'Neath Beauty's smile, for a supernal flight.

Too late, O world, I learn thy emptiness

Despite thy promises, Lord, 't would seem Too much to hope that even love like thine
Can overlook my countless wanderings

Thy holy sunshine, in the world gone out. Oh, send the light, so long foretold for all, To thy fair bride, that so my soul may glow,
And feel thee inwardly, and never doubt

[Dawson Escott · Rating 4 out of 5]

I really was so surprised at how compelling and passionate Michelangelo's poetry is. Very little poetry before the 19th century really touches me in any real way, but the poetry here is not empty cliche. It is full of real anguish, religious anxiety, pent up horniness, fear of aging, and painful self-loathing. The language used is everyday and doesn't hide behind florid half measures.

My only real critique is that the themes become so repetitive it dulls the poetry. Considering this was all of his poetry stretched out throughout his whole life, it makes sense that reading it all over the span of a month or so becomes "samey," so I'm not faulting Michelangelo for sticking to the ideas that haunted him. Even so, it's hard to map any personal or stylistic growth through the poems, which would have really elevated them as a collection. Even so, I feel like these poems belong in the same conversation as his visual art, his writing has a shocking and lingering strength to it.

"Your lovely eyes, now bent
on mine, so near me too.
I see me in them--you
must see yourself in mine. Yours then present
an old man's grief, torment;
just as I am, I see me all too well.
In mine, you're the brightest star night skies can discover.
Angry heaven must resent
that in sweet eyes my ugliness can dwell,
while in my bleary gaze your splendors hover..."

[Yalena]

I was walking around after a job interview and in a second-hand bookshop. By chance, I encountered an emotional sensibility that made me feel like I was not a defective creature, that there is still much human in me. This will perhaps live with me for a long time.

[Cecilie Birkshøj · Rating 1 out of 5]

Stick to your paintings and sculptures

[Camille🪼]

Super gay

[Gwen W · Rating 3 out of 5]

I’m ready to be done with Italy