Carico d’anni e di peccati pieno

Carico d’anni e di peccati pieno
e col trist’uso radicato e forte,
vicin mi veggio a l’una e l’altra morte,
e parte ‘l cor nutrisco di veleno.
    Né propie forze ho, c’al bisogno sièno
per cangiar vita, amor, costume o sorte,
senza le tuo divine e chiare scorte,
d’ogni fallace corso guida e freno.
    Signor mie car, non basta che m’invogli
c’aspiri al ciel sol perché l’alma sia,
non come prima, di nulla, creata.
    Anzi che del mortal la privi e spogli,
prego m’ammezzi l’alta e erta via,
e fie più chiara e certa la tornata.

Il vostro Michelangelo Buonarroti

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Burdened with years and full of sinfulness

Burdened with years and full of sinfulness,
With evil custom grown inveterate,
Both deaths I dread that close before me wait,
Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.
No strength I find in mine own feebleness
To change or life or love or use or fate,
Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, though late,
Which only helps and stays our nothingness.
‘Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn
For that celestial home, where yet my soul
May be new made, and not, as erst, of nought:
Nay, ere Thou strip her mortal vestment, turn
My steps toward the steep ascent, that whole
And pure before Thy face she may be brought.

Yours Michelangelo Buonarroti

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Com’or purgata in foco, a Dio si torna

Ognor che l’idol mio si rappresenta
agli occhi del mie cor debile e forte,
fra l’uno e l’altro obbietto entra la morte,
e più ‘l discaccia, se più mi spaventa.
    L’alma di tale oltraggio esser contenta
più spera che gioir d’ogni altra sorte;
l’invitto Amor, con suo più chiare scorte,
a suo difesa s’arma e s’argomenta:
    Morir, dice, si può sol una volta,
né più si nasce; e chi col mie ‘mor muore,
che fie po’, s’anzi morte in quel soggiorna?
    L’acceso amor, donde vien l’alma sciolta,
s’è calamita al suo simile ardore,
com’or purgata in foco, a Dio si torna.

Il vostro Michelangelo Buonarroti

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foto di Christian Maidana

Like gold refined in flame to God on high

Whene’er the idol of these eyes appears
Unto my musing heart so weak and strong,
Death comes between her and my soul ere long
Chasing her thence with troops of gathering fears.
Nathless this violence my spirit cheers
With better hope than if she had no wrong;
While Love invincible arrays the throng
Of dauntless thoughts, and thus harangues his peers:
But once, he argues, can a mortal die;
But once be born: and he who dies afire,
What shall he gain if erst he dwelt with me?
That burning love whereby the soul flies free,
Doth lure each fervent spirit to aspire
Like gold refined in flame to God on high.

Yours Michelangelo Buonarroti

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O notte, o dolce tempo benché nero

 O notte, o dolce tempo, benché nero,
con pace ogn’ opra sempr’ al fin assalta;
ben vede e ben intende chi t’esalta,
e chi t’onor’ ha l’intelletto intero.
    Tu mozzi e tronchi ogni stanco pensiero;
ché l’umid’ ombra ogni quiet’ appalta,
e dall’infima parte alla più alta
in sogno spesso porti, ov’ire spero.
    O ombra del morir, per cui si ferma
ogni miseria a l’alma, al cor nemica,
ultimo delli afflitti e buon rimedio;
    tu rendi sana nostra carn’ inferma,
rasciughi i pianti e posi ogni fatica,
e furi a chi ben vive ogn’ira e tedio.

Christian Maidana

Christian Maidana photo

O night, O sweet though sombre span of time!

O night, O sweet though sombre span of time!-
All things find rest upon their journey’s end-
Whoso hath praised thee, well doth apprehend;
And whoso honours thee, hath wisdom’s prime.
Our cares thou canst to quietude sublime;
For dews and darkness are of peace the friend:
Often by thee in dreams upborne, I wend
From earth to heaven, where yet I hope to climb.
Thou shade of Death, through whom the soul at length
Shuns pain and sadness hostile to the heart,
Whom mourners find their last and sure relief!
Thou dost restore our suffering flesh to strength,
Driest our tears, assuagest every smart,
Purging the spirits of the pure from grief.

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‘L foco ‘l ferro squaglia

Se ‘l foco il sasso rompe e ‘l ferro squaglia,
figlio del lor medesmo e duro interno,
che farà ‘l più ardente dell’inferno
d’un nimico covon secco di paglia?

Il vostro Michelangelo Buonarroti

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If fire shatter flint

If fire can melt down steel and shatter flint

-those two, so tough within, its own begetter –

will a fire far worse than hell’s treat any better

its contrary; dried out straw, mere wispy lint?

Yours Michelangelo Buonarroti

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L’alma ha lunga vita

Se l’immortal desio, c’alza e corregge
gli altrui pensier, traessi e’ mie di fore,
forse c’ancor nella casa d’Amore
farie pietoso chi spietato regge.
    Ma perché l’alma per divina legge
ha lunga vita, e ‘l corpo in breve muore,
non può ‘l senso suo lode o suo valore
appien descriver quel c’appien non legge.
    Dunche, oilmè! come sarà udita
la casta voglia che ‘l cor dentro incende
da chi sempre se stesso in altrui vede?
    La mie cara giornata m’è impedita
col mie signor c’alle menzogne attende,
c’a dire il ver, bugiardo è chi nol crede.

Il vostro Michelangelo Buonarroti

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If longings for the immortal, which exalt

and chasten the thoughts of others, could disclose

my own, then it could be, in the house Love knows,

they’d arouse a pity in the pitiless king.

But since the soul, by heaven’s provisioning, 

has long to live, while the brief body dies,

sense coannot fully praise, can’t fitly prize, can’t fitly prize

soul seen as a blue at best – our eye at fault.

The worse for me and for innocent desire

aflame in my heart! For now how make it celar

to those who project themselves in others? My grief

is for precious hour spent queasily with my sire,

too attentive, he, to the false tongues at his ear.

Not a lie of shorts, to reject a sound belief ?

Yours Michelangelo Buonarroti

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Il mio buongiorno in versi

I’ fe’ degli occhi porta al mie veneno,
quand’ el passo dier libero a’ fier dardi;
nido e ricetto fe’ de’ dolci sguardi
della memoria che ma’ verrà meno.
    Ancudine fe’ ‘l cor, mantaco ‘l seno
da fabricar sospir, con che tu m’ardi.

Il sempre vostro Michenangelo Buonarroti

Goodmorning

I made my eyes an entryway for poison

when they let through your haughty hail of harroes;

for your sweet glance I hollowed nests and burrows

there in my memory’s mine, secure forever.

My breast I mad a belows to deliver

the sighs your flame had fueled, my heart the anvil.

Your Michelangelo Buonarroti

giphy

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Tu sei legno e fuoco

Di te me veggo e di lontan mi chiamo
per appressarm’al ciel dond’io derivo,
e per le spezie all’esca a te arrivo,
come pesce per fil tirato all’amo.
    E perc’un cor fra dua fa picciol segno
di vita, a te s’è dato ambo le parti;
ond’io resto, tu ‘l sai, quant’io son, poco.
    E perc’un’alma infra duo va ‘l più degno,
m’è forza, s’i’ voglio esser, sempre amarti;
ch’i’ son sol legno, e tu se’ legno e foco.

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You’re wood, but gloriously aflame

Seeing I’m yours, I rouse me from afar

to come near the heaven I owe my being to.

With your alure 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 chioce, pick out the worthiest, so

not loving you’s not life; that’s how I’m riven.

I’m wood. You’re wood, but gloriously aflame.

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Crudele, acerbo e dispietato core

 Crudele, acerbo e dispietato core,
vestito di dolcezza e d’amar pieno,
tuo fede al tempo nasce, e dura meno
c’al dolce verno non fa ciascun fiore.
    Muovesi ‘l tempo, e compartisce l’ore
al viver nostr’un pessimo veneno;
lu’ come falce e no’ siàn come fieno,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
    La fede è corta e la beltà non dura,
ma di par seco par che si consumi,
come ‘l peccato tuo vuol de’ mie danni.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
sempre fra noi fare’ con tutti gli anni.

Il vostro Michelangelo Buonarroti

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Rancorous heart, cruel, pitiless, though showing

Rancorous heart, cruel, pitiless, though showing

what looks like sweetness – but the bitter core!

Your faith! as changeable as time, no more

likely to last than any springtime flower.

Time moves and doles itself out, hour by hour;

no deadlier poison in our lives! Or say

it’s like the sickle and we’re like the hay

………………………….

Taith is soon over. And no beauty lasts,

but, rapidly as faith does, wears away,

just as your sin would have my trubles fly

……………………..

……………………….

do with us always as the years go by.

Yours Michelangelo Buonarroti

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Versi per il Vasari

All’amico mio caro Giorgio Vasari e per la sua più grande opera de Le Vite.

Se con lo stile o coi colori avete
alla natura pareggiato l’arte,
anzi a quella scemato il pregio in parte,
che ‘l bel di lei più bello a noi rendete,
poi che con dotta man posto vi sete
a più degno lavoro, a vergar carte,
quel che vi manca, a lei di pregio in parte,
nel dar vita ad altrui, tutta togliete.
Che se secolo alcuno omai contese
in far bell’opre, almen cedale, poi
che convien c’al prescritto fine arrive.
Or le memorie altrui, già spente, accese
tornando, fate or che fien quelle e voi
malgrado d’esse, etternalmente vive.

Michelangelo Buonarroti

To friend Giorgio Vasari, on the Lives of the painters.

With pencil and with palette hitherto

you made your art high Nature’s paragon;

nay more, from Nature her own prize you won,

making what she made fair more fair to view.

Now that your learned hand with labour new

of pen and ink a worthier work hath done,

what erst yoi lacked, what still remained her own,

the power of giving life, is gained for you.

If men in any age with Nature vied

in beauteous workmanship, they had to yield

when to the fated end years brought their name.

You, reilluming memories that died,

in spite of Time and Nature have revealed

for them and for yourself eternal fame.

Michelangelo Buonarroti

giorno

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O notte, o dolce tempo benché nero

Quella che vi propongo oggi è una delle mie poesie più note dedicata alla notte o meglio, alla sua personificazione. La notte è in fin dei conti il dolce preludio della morte e consente di metter fine almeno per qualche ora alle preoccupazioni e alle angosce.  Dalla vita agiata è poca l’arte che può venir fuori e io di vita agiata poca ne ho avuto assai poca.

O notte, o dolce tempo, benché nero,
con pace ogn’ opra sempr’ al fin assalta;
ben vede e ben intende chi t’esalta,
e chi t’onor’ ha l’intelletto intero.
    Tu mozzi e tronchi ogni stanco pensiero;
ché l’umid’ ombra ogni quiet’ appalta,
e dall’infima parte alla più alta
in sogno spesso porti, ov’ire spero.
    O ombra del morir, per cui si ferma
ogni miseria a l’alma, al cor nemica,
ultimo delli afflitti e buon rimedio;
    tu rendi sana nostra carn’ inferma,
rasciughi i pianti e posi ogni fatica,
e furi a chi ben vive ogn’ira e tedio.

Il sempre vostro Michelangelo Buonarroti e i suoi madrigali

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Today I’ll be giving you one of my most famous poems that I dedicated to Night or better yet, how Night is typically represented. Night after all is the sweet prelude of death and allows us, for a few hours, to forget  all our daily concerns and anxieties. Not too much art can come out of an anxious lifestyle but you should know that I haven’t lived a low key life which led me to have lots of anxiety.

O night, o sweet though sombre span of time!

All thing find rest upon their journey’s end

Whoso hath praised thee, well doth apparehend;

And whoso honours thee, hath wisdom’s prime.

Our cares thou canst to quietude sublime;

For dews and darkness are of peace the friend:

Often by thee in dreams upborne, I wend

From earth to heaven, where yet I hope to climb.

Thou shade of Death, through whom the soul at length

Shuns pain and sadness hostile to heart,

Whom murners find their last and sure relief!

Thou dost restore our suffering flesh to strength,

Driest our tears, assuages every smart,

Purging the spirits of the pure from grief.

Always yours, Michelangelo Buonarroti and my madrigals

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