Creation of the Sun and Moon

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?

GOD

In Him is everything... How strange that they found such a short word.
What have we been able to learn about Him?
And the foundation of life remains unclear...
Countless words are said about Him,
But none come close to the essence,
Before which our minds falter,
And again – life is barely clear.
It would be better if we spoke of Him.
The richness of the church, the splendor of the church.
But what about the core? What is hidden in the center –
Behind the sumptuosity and colorful darkness?
God is everywhere. How can one feel it,
When rage boils within me?
And fear – I have so little left to be afraid of,
And a wild desire to live...
The God hidden in the depths of the soul,
And the God who permeates all space.
Does the fallen go to Him in battle?
And does the poets word come from Him?
God is everything. God is the force that is wise.
He is better. God – well, we know something.
Countless signs surround us,
And the pain of ignorance is sharp.

Baltin is a good guy, and as for Michelangelo, I wont even begin to describe him; hes like God himself, impossible to put into words.