Creation of the Sun and Moon Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)

MICHELANGELO
(A Poem)

In the workshop, the smell of paint is strong,
A wooden table, sheets of paper.
The masters cloak is richly red –
And the master himself is almost a magician.

Messer Lodovico opposes
His son studying here.
But the son is so determined,
That he breaks through the powerful
Resistance of his father,
Although he is only thirteen years old.
Work is better than inspiration,
As darkness is more appropriate than light...

How many structures did I see around me
When I went out?
A flock of clouds is shining white,
Covering the heavenly meadow.
There are poplars standing in a mass,
And there is a vast array of marbles,
Processed and presented as a marvel,
A testament to his work and vision.

Here is Michelangelo in the cozy
Gardens of Lorenzo, frenzied,
He throws himself into – and he too is fierce –
Into the massive stone – he gives
The radiance of future images.
The marble is transparent, it lives,
And you can feel its breath,
Promising flight.
Flight of fantasy, for example -
That will lead to another sphere,
Different from life here -
In his beloved city rich
In entertainment, joy, and vanity.
Oh, to make Florence a sculptural garden...
I look
At the clouds – heavenly marble –
And find in their creations
A sudden resemblance.
The stone is glorious.
From childhood,
Buonarroti loved to carve it and touch it.
It is gentle and yet strict,
Giving multicolored light.
There is a rosy color, gold,
And white – like foam and waves.

This heavenly mass seems to have been
Sent down with its creations here,
Where the environment is diverse,
Where life sometimes crushes
The best aspirations of people.
There are many people at the Medicis.
Savonarola, raging,
Wants to erase everything –
He preaches sternly,
Asceticism is his chosen path.

The sculptors wanderings. Heights,
That he must still conquer.
Life has turned in circles,
They need to be deciphered.
Life is the same decryption,
Those who succeed are successful,
And those who dont... its awkward to say.
Now the master is mature for service.

He has carved David from the mountain –
At night, torches burn,
To compare Buonarroti is like
A cyclops – a lamp is pressed
To his head – and he works at night,
Buonarroti forgets
About the givenness where we walk with you,
Sometimes despising that givenness.

Two people are chatting on a bench
About televisions – Which one
Do I buy? I dont know...
You must be able to,
Choose a good one. I want a big one.
It has to do with Michelangelo
To them? Their life is busy.
And there is no boundary or limit to it,
And the heights are so conventional.

Here lies the master on scaffolding,
And his back is hunched over,
And paint is on his face, and brushes
What inscriptions will arise
From those images on that chapel?
The newly created reality
Will explain so much in fact
To the viewer.
Well, transfer
The aspiration for acquisition in your heart
To a creative impulse.
The chapel tells us about the means
Of discovering new perspectives.

Pietà flows and shimmers,
Sorrow flows with great intensity.
He who is able to see absorbs
That sacred honey of sorrow too.

Two people are chatting – Again, discs
Bought, and the evening is not empty.
Life is good, theres no need to risk,
The route is clear.
Boring? Let it...

May heights and
Vast distances be within reach!
Hear those heavenly notes,
That will sound the essence of the path.

But Michelangelo never reconciled with height.
It doesnt matter – for a disciple of firmness
We dont simply think of an earthly path.

Mountain masses above us
He translated into marble light.
And consciousness – like a flame
Licks the mind – we lived in vain!
And how, living under clouds,
Can we change our own destiny with a word?

БОГ
В нём всё… Как странно, что нашли
Короткое такое слово.
Что мы узнать о нём смогли?
И жизни неясна основа…
Бессчётные о нём слова
Нисколь не приближают к сути,
Перед которой ум пасует,
И снова – жизнь ясна едва.
Он – лучше б говорили мы.
Богатство церкви, пышность церкви.
Ну а ядро? Что скрыто в центре –
За суммами цветной потьмы?
Бог всюду. Как же ощутить,
Когда во мне вскипает ярость?
И страх – немного мне осталось,
И дикое желанье жить…
В пластах души сокрытый Бог,
И Бог, пространство пронизавший.
К нему ль в бою уходит павший?
И от него ль – поэта слог?
Бог-всё. Бог сила, что мудра.
Он – лучше. Бог – мол, что-то знаем.
Бессчётные окрестно знаки,
И боль неведенья остра.

Балтин – молодец, а уж об Микельанджело умолчу, не описать его, как и Бога