Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LODOVICO MARTELLI, by TRUMBULL STICKNEY Poet's Biography First Line: O gaddi, ope the casement, open wide Last Line: Water, good soul, water! Hold thou the cup. | ||||||||
O gaddi, ope the casement, open wide And prop my pillow. But the window square Of light, of sky! tho' skies of Sicily Are not Firenze's. Ah, Firenze mine! Darkly I feel how's wasting all my life And dulls my brain; Death's guessing at my name. But utter strange it is to die. The word "Life" to my ear rings mournful-rich and stings The sleepy nerve of longing. This is pain -- To stifle far from home, the heart suppressed By a handful of such years as other men Make nought of. Mercy of God, what mother e'er Fashioned a heart so brittle, a head and brain Whereof the tissues crack with fever? Why Live? to have tasted life? -- and die of 't! aye, 'Twas little more. The silly, silly tears. But Gaddi, look, my head, my arm! Indeed Think you that I revive? Meseemeth now The Spring should soften Fiesole to flower And Colli meadows show to every wind New petals of anemony. How often By the divine immemorable days, By sober afterlight when marvel is And all Firenze turns a smouldering gold -- How oft upon the hillside have we heard The melancholy ritornello! Ah What Springs were they! Tell me if ever, since, The night was moonful, or a woman's eye Tearfully asked a softer question? How waved the paling heaven's embroidery, What wonder woke the odoured bloom of earth, What music had the tongue of Tuscany, What rhymes! How large a burial is the Past! And thence away to Rome, to sovran Rome. What were the sickly earth without its Rome, Its gorgeous city where the revels are, Dice and cards and the old ecstatic wine That glints dark ruby, and superbly eyed The rich and unimpassioned courtesans, And Leo, Pope -- Yes, listen. One great once I saw the heavenly Householder, but far From 's home. Come nearer, Gaddi, hist! Ye know The Morosina who has Italia's hair, Whose eye is somewhat strangely more than blue, Who laughs like beech-leaves ringing in the light; Her kisses indolent as a warm rain... I dream. The Pope said I? 'Twas winter night. The wind fell edged and pointed down the lane Between the casement many have looked to, where Stood I, whistling a feverish tune. And straight 'Twas open. I entered. All about mine ear I heard "My Lodovico," -- such a sound Became the long and melancholy name! I drew my mask, and darkly there I saw -- Nothing, but felt and breathed veriest Heaven. About our kiss did move her tender hair. Her breast to mine, her living arms, her brown -- The memory aches me that it is so dead. She led me with a touch like melody That being fore'er more forward in the air Still guides. The cold and arched corridor We traversed, I a dreamer sunsetwards And she the moving beauty of the day. We climbed the stair, a sick moon-gazer I Beneath her white and spirit-winged moon: Till in her chamber with our eyes we lit The owlish gloom about her tapestry. Upon his horse the hunter moved asleep And every falcon turned owl. Alone The cresset flickered on the fragrant oil, Shedding an old small light. And she and I We sung the night with kisses low adream. She said the wonder things in olden words; She made a music languorous as Time And rich as summer, whilst her endless hair Seemed Aphrodite's o'er the shallow wave Thin-spread at midday. Odour never rose Sweet as her breasts', and musically she Did often turn her golden head away That gazing I might weave and weave my soul Into a necklace stringed of sleepy pearl Without a clasp. -- But then befell the thing. Methought I heard, I heard indeed a door Noising -- and near. I threw 'r aside. "By Christ, A snare! now bless me -- where's my sword? my mask?" "I love thy soul," she sang. "Is't bembo?" "No." "The whorish trade!" Her shaking hand she put In mine. The step grew living near. I drew. Then most superbly on the threshold poised An all-black cavalier, save in the mask Two fires. "By Venus," quoth, "a lady's here That loves too widely to love well. Good sir, Suppose --" "A sword's enough for courtesy." He drew a wonder of Toledo blade, That rang like music. Masterly we fenced And plied our gallant art Italian, Till on a sudden her most delirious form Rushed with a cry betwixt us. But she fell Half-sensed. We moved. Then with an elfish pass I pierced his hand. The weapon fell to ground, -- And He was flying, -- but next about his waist Her tender arms imploring pardon clumb. He struggled, stumbled, fell; the mask removed; By Jesu God in Heaven, verily I Then saw great Leo's face, the Pope's of Rome. I shuddered as a reed, my brain rocked, all Withered together crumbling in my soul: I fled, yet with a backward look to see The mistress of the gods make of her hair, Her golden hair, a Pontiff's chasuble. -- Dost thou believe I'm dying of darkish things, Of poison -- ? Ah, my heart's a crust of ash. And glowing chains are piled about my head. Raving? Not I. Give me no drugs. The world I charioted have left in dust behind. For I was poet. -- They said, they said "A soft Poet, who stole Petrarca's melodies And spoiled his robbery." Soft in verse I was, A master had I like, forsooth, the rest. But nothing timeless said! Full well I know't, The shaft is on my heart's bow, poised, unloosed! While Raphael delves a ceiling into skies Peopling his coloured thought, and Agnolo Makes the fresh-quarried adamant to sweat Ferocious agony, or in peace reclined To look long looks abroad the shifting world. I? why, I'd sing for them, I Lodovico Martelli. I would send my songs full-sailed Over the waves and waters of the years. Let them be painter, sculptor: poet, I. For your unquiet thoughts, the horrid strong, I have them, -- writ? not yet! but here's my heart, Feel it! so tramped the innumerable host When Rome was burned. And very vast a tale Were half its history. Often have I stood On hills high up, by sorry coasts, alone Passing my vision angrily. I thought To have plucked the yellow comets by their hair, To have braided meteors, and from 'hind the moon Robbed her society of chanting tides. I'd stand, my back to the seaward cliffs, at bay And fight the wave. Completed earth's a leaf Turning in space along with the other dust That blinds the eye of God. Away, away! Canst see the waters from the window? Help, Help, sir. I've clomb Vesuvius of old Tasting its breath -- 'twas half so steep. Behold. Yon rolls in wide and worldly rhythm the sea, Greatest and eldest poet. Yonder chants The epic wave in rich monotony. Mine eye seems big as heaven. And far abroad From Even's distaff floats the purple wool. Wet-eyed she sits; the light for love of her Becomes a moon but to behold her die -- The moon -- Firenze! Is Firenze near? Methinks 'twere half a journey. Ah, but were we there! How fresh her lip is graven on my heart. I see yer, palely. But -- tell me, who knows -- Is she waxen, like me, somewhat old? For something long has happened. All's ago. I was ages ago, and in the world We were together young. Say, am I dead That I'm so far? Perhaps shall I return. Bid Laura wait for April; I return, I that so endless loved her, love her. Say: "Within the colour-cupped anemonies Lieth his heart, and all the leaves are he. The gentle ecstasy of earth, the wind That lifts so happily thy hair is he, And he the Spring that holds thee all about." O Gaddi, I shall not return. My mood Is his who sits upon a farther shore, Waiting and sick. It's night and strangely cold. To bed! 'tis bitter cold. My very breast Quivers. Hold me, good Gaddi, -- or I shake To death. My body's dry. Christ, what a world! Water, good soul, water! Hold thou the cup. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ATHENIAN GARDEN by TRUMBULL STICKNEY LIVE BLINDLY; SONNET by TRUMBULL STICKNEY MNEMOSYNE by TRUMBULL STICKNEY SIX O'CLOCK by TRUMBULL STICKNEY IN SUMMER by TRUMBULL STICKNEY |
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