Collaboration

—Photos of St. Peter’s Basilica Dome Courtesy of Public Domain

—Poetry by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

 

THE ALTERING OF THE DOME: ST. PETER’S
 
As pundits quack of Shakespeare that his youthful
Hand, marring and misjudging in his plays,
Is really the hand of “others”—that untruthful
Slighting vocalise that saws and brays—
 
What slanders him is for this Dome quite true:
A string of architects “collaborate”;
Bramante in the blueprint’s pure clear view,
Form thinned but not erased, the concentrate
 
Greek-simple, later crossed with Roman grand.
Raphael’s tenure mixed in the cement
Corruptible materials, crumbling sand,
But central piers attest his firm intent
 
In stout support for groaning tons of dome,
That dome the labored pile aspires to rear.
In Michelangelo’s mind it caps all Rome;
Not elongated, but more hemisphere:
 
A world strains to rise from mortal mud
Mimicked in writhing walls with pilasters
Not structural; appliquéd, less bone, more blood,
As veins are visible on human skin.
 
But that same Dome, the Buonarroti shape,
Attenuates on ribs the eye thinks thin,
Till this elongated curvature must ape,
Stamped as are all proud buildings with First Sin,
 
Not Michelangelo’s beseeching round
Of planet praying, steeped to the equator
As architectural dough traps it earthbound,
But Della Porta’s gift to the Creator,
 
A feminine breast—an Amazon’s or Madonna’s?
And is the lantern-top the nipple there 
Each lazy century still thrusts upon us,
Giving suck of the milk whose taste is air?
 
We clearly don’t fathom Michelangelo
And his collaborators, corruptors, completers;
Or is this curvaceous shell his own tableau,
His last dome-version vision for St. Peter’s?
 
His rondel of nurture, shimmering through capture
By mists of dawn or haze from car exhaust,
Grandeur erected on coins that were its cost,
Indulged though all Catholicism lost?

 

 

 

 

 

ALAS, POOR MESSENGER
(Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, Scene V)
 
The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.
 
Woe to the lowly messenger whose word
Provokes the most high stomach of a queen.
Let him but breathe the news—as when a bird
Lights fluttering—with a shaking tongue: her spleen
Will overspill, that Antony is wed
To bland Octavia. The queen’s enraged,
Strikes at the servant’s face till it’s almost bled
From cuffs; he splutters allegiance; she’s engaged
Mean time in threats outlandish, like a cook
With wire whisk who beats till cream submits,
Who flays meek meat still tender from the hook.
She’s earth; her terms, wind gusts, all flits and fits.
This, Cleopatra? Or Elizabeth?
Who, hearing her Earl of Leicester’s married,
            bellows forth, “God’s death!”

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER THE MURDER OF GEORGE FLOYD
 
Ex-Officer Chauvin guilty on all counts.
Except behind the blue line, long exhale:
Unanimous triple verdict. This amounts
To justice done, swift and of much avail.
We take unhearty pleasure in relief:
This miscreant policeman caught on camera,
That viewing instrument which is a chamber,
Apt for recording simple truth: in camera
Can signify the judge is in the chamber,
But all too often, secret as a thief.
Some chambers aid the clarifying views,
Some are more jury-rigged to hide the clues:
How much more’s left to do when there’s no lens?
Black lives lost? White-on-white systemic deference?

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
ON CHAUVIN
—Tom Goff
 
Assault guns, Glocks, are good in a killing spree.
One death at a time requires mere use of knee.

________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Tom Goff for this morning’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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