I never pretty much regard Michelangelo Buonarroti as a poet before. To me, he was always a sculptor and a painter (who can forget his David statue and his paintings on the ceiling of Sistine Chapel ?). But I changed my mind when I found his poem collections 5 years ago. I want to share some of them with you. This one actually a part of his letter to his friend, Giovanni da Pistoia, describing his agony he went through when he painted Sistine Chapel's massive ceiling from year 1508 to 1512. There are two versions; in English and original version in Italian.
English version.
In this difficult position I’ve given myself a goitre, as does the peasant of Lombardy, or anyway of some country or another, for it shoves my stomach up to hang beneath my chin.
My beard points to heaven, and I feel the nape of my neck on my hump; I bend my breast like the harpy’s, and, with its non-stop dripping from above, my brush make my face a richly decorated floor.
My loins have gone up into my belly, and I make my backside into a croup as a counterweight; and I cannot see where to put my feet.
In front my hide is stretched, and behind the curve makes it wrinkled, as I bend myself like a Syrian bow.
So the thought that arise in my mind are false and strange, for one shoots badly through a crooked barrel.
Defend my dead painting from now on, Giovanni, and my honour, for I am not well-placed, nor indeed a painter.
Italian version
I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento, come fa l’acqua a’ gatti in Lombardia o ver d’ altro paese che si sia, c’ a forza ‘l ventre appicca sotto ‘l mento
La barba al cielo, e la memoria sento in sullo scrigno, e ‘l petto fo d’ arpia, e ‘l pennel sopra ‘l viso tuttavia mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento.
E’ lombi entrati mi son nella peccia, e fo del cul per contrapeso groppa, e’ passi senza gli occhi muovo invano.
Dinanzi mi s’ allunga la corteccia, e per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa, e tendomi com’ arco sorïanno.
Però fallace estrano surge il iudizio che la mente porta, chè mal si tra’ per cerbottana torta.
La mia pittura morta difendi orma’, Giovanni, e ‘l mio onore, non sendo in loco bon, nè io pittore.
English version.
In this difficult position I’ve given myself a goitre, as does the peasant of Lombardy, or anyway of some country or another, for it shoves my stomach up to hang beneath my chin.
My beard points to heaven, and I feel the nape of my neck on my hump; I bend my breast like the harpy’s, and, with its non-stop dripping from above, my brush make my face a richly decorated floor.
My loins have gone up into my belly, and I make my backside into a croup as a counterweight; and I cannot see where to put my feet.
In front my hide is stretched, and behind the curve makes it wrinkled, as I bend myself like a Syrian bow.
So the thought that arise in my mind are false and strange, for one shoots badly through a crooked barrel.
Defend my dead painting from now on, Giovanni, and my honour, for I am not well-placed, nor indeed a painter.
Italian version
I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento, come fa l’acqua a’ gatti in Lombardia o ver d’ altro paese che si sia, c’ a forza ‘l ventre appicca sotto ‘l mento
La barba al cielo, e la memoria sento in sullo scrigno, e ‘l petto fo d’ arpia, e ‘l pennel sopra ‘l viso tuttavia mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento.
E’ lombi entrati mi son nella peccia, e fo del cul per contrapeso groppa, e’ passi senza gli occhi muovo invano.
Dinanzi mi s’ allunga la corteccia, e per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa, e tendomi com’ arco sorïanno.
Però fallace estrano surge il iudizio che la mente porta, chè mal si tra’ per cerbottana torta.
La mia pittura morta difendi orma’, Giovanni, e ‘l mio onore, non sendo in loco bon, nè io pittore.
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