Dante mentions other names in the poems, close friends. Who is Lapo? Vanna? Bice? I feel drawn to this poem which seems a wistful dream. Dante wants to escape from reality for awhile in a magical ship that flies away to a place where time is suspended and there is no evil. "So that no change, nor any evil chance Should mar our joyous voyage" (36). What is Dante trying to escape from? He wants to bring his friends with him on this journey. I would do the same thing, gather the people closest to my heart and depart. He wants to share the moment with them and engage in meaningful talk. He wants to build community, which is similar to those in our poetry class. "Companions of our wandering, and would grace with passionate talk, wherever we might rove, Our time, and each were as content and free" (36). Dante is hitting on a desire many people have to fly away to a place where there are no worries, only good companionship and thought. I can almost see the flying ship.

In addition, I want to comment on Velmir Khlebnikov's poem, "We chant and enchant," found on page 56 of Pinter's 99 Poems in Translation. This poem has a rolling rhythm and beat to it. I like the alliteration and slight spelling shifts of the words. I am unsure of who the speaker is because "We" is mentioned two times and then the narrator refers to "He" and "She." The narrator/speaker is at first one of the chanters and then the speaker is observing a situation, warning another person.

At first, the narrator seems drawn into the spell of the enchantress. "This ranting enchantress has cast her enchantment--We see what her chant meant!" (Khlebnikov, "We chant and enchant," in 99 Poems in Translation, 56). But then the narrator's wits are recovered and he (?) seeks to rescue another male enchanter. "Cast our her enchantment, Uncast it, uncant it." Once the words are put forth, they cannot be taken back. It is too late, the two enchanters are caught together. They both cannot free themselves from each other. The narrator wonders why: "Why can't she recant? Why can't he uncant?" Perhaps it is love that draws them together, or they are two souls, too alike to want to leave each other. This poem does mystify me, so if anyone has any other comments ..... :-)

It seems that anyone can be stricken by wanderlust.

When I saw that we were to be reading a sonnet by Dante, I immediately conjured images in my head of demon's with hooked claws and sinners immersed in a lake of ice. Needless to say, the sonnet to Cavalcanti was a bit of a shock for me. When I read the poem, my mind's eye conjured up an image of Dante seated at a desk looking out a window, witnessing a beautiful spring morning, wanting nothing more than to leave the monotony of his daily life and embark on some random adventure with his comrades. I don't know how many times I have sat in first period and wondered why the hell didn't I just call in sick. Dante is using his profoundly beautiful and symbolistic language to tell a buddy that he wishes they were out kicking the soccer ball around in some field. He wants to grab a few sandwiches, a few pals, their lady friends (the Vanna and Bice referred to later?), and hop in the car and drive to wherever the spirit leads them. Or, more accurately in his case, a ship. The lines, "...Might ascend // a magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly // with winds at will where'er our thoughts might wend, // so that no change, nor any evil chance // should mar our joyous voyage..." (Dante, Sonnet to Guido Cavalcanti, 99 Poems, 36) speak to me and stimulate my great sense of adventure and stir within me a desire to drop all my books and drive off into the setting sun. Dante seems to want a freedom that reminds me very much of Kerouac and his many travels. Everytime I reread this short poem I feel a need to be on the open road with the wind in my hair and the radio blaring. I'm quite sure that is not what Dante had in mind when he wrote it, but it was something along those lines.

Michelangelo Buonarroti's poem, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel" is quite interesting (99 Poems, p. 76). Often, when looking at a beautiful work of art, I discard all of the hard labor and emotion pain that produces such a masterpiece. Well, Michelangelo does not want his friend (?) Giovanni to forget what the painting has cost him, both physically and psychologically:

my beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,

bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin. (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems, p. 76)

Michelangelo uses such vivid imagery. A breast-bone growing like a harp is an awfully painful image, yet apt. A harp is an instrument of great sound. Michelangelo's instrument is his body and the many things he can produce with it. There is a connection here. Also, when he speaks of his beard turning up toward heaven, I can't help but picture him looking up at his unfinished work and thinking "Oh boy, what did I get myself into now"? I've never seen the Sistine Chapel, though I would like to very much. From what I've heard, it is simply amazing. Have you seen it Fr. Mark?

I found an interesting link on the web that tells the story behind the work:

I also think Michelangelo does well in relating his fears about future artistic endeavors:

crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:

for ill can aim the gun that bends awry. (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems, p. 76)

He seems to fear the consequences of giving so much of himself for one piece of art. If he loses his vision or control over his hands, what future can he possibly have? In a sense, Michelangelo fears becoming a prisoner of his own body. In the end, though, does he feel satisfied with his work? I don't fully understand why he tells Giovanni to "succour my dead pictures and my fame / since foul I fare and painting is my shame" (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems, p. 76). Surely he was happy with his work, wasn't he? Perhaps this poem was written soon after he finished, wherein he still feels the effects of the work but hasn't had the time to reap its benefits. No doubt, such an undertaking destroys mind and body for a period of time, but you would think (or at least hope) that Michelangelo could see the beauty in his own art. There is too much sadness in this poem for me to feel completely comfortable with it. If I ran into Michelangelo on the street, I would give him some milk and cookies and then say, "Hey, let me show you what you've just accomplished. You've personally changed the concept of Western painting for centuries to come." But, barring a miracle or some strange drug-induced frenzy, no such thing will happen.

I was also struck by Velimir Khlebnikov's work, "We chant and enchant" (99 Poems, p. 56). I would be really interested to find out what this poem sounds like in its original text. Although it's a bit of a tongue-twister, I really like how the words flow together:

You charming enchanter,

Descant: Decant! Recant! (Khlebnikov, "We chant and enchant," in 99 Poems, p. 56)

The first time I read this poem, I had no idea what was going on, mind you, but I think I'm getting a somewhat clearer picture now. I can't tell you exactly who's enchanting or ranting or encanting, but I can tell you why he can't uncant and she can't uncant. (It's pretty obvious to me now.) He can't uncant and she can't uncant because ranting chanting, no recanting, discant, descant. Duh. Any questions?

Take care all,

Scott Williams

In a response to one of my posts, Anne agreed with me that we should all try to change from the inside-out. But she also questioned if we could not also change from the outside-in. I have thought about this for a long time, and I think Anne is right. I think the answer is (which seems to be my answer for everything in this class) is that we need to find a balance between both of them. We need to change from both the inside-out and the outside-in.

After reading Michelangelo Buonarroti’s "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel" I see how one could change from the outside-in. Looking outside at a piece of art can affect one on the inside very deeply. I especially enjoyed the following stanza:

my beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,

(Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems in Translation, p. 76).

Why did this stanza hit me so sharply? I think it is because of this image: "…my breast-bone visibly grows like a harp." In church there is a part in the mass where the priest says, "Lift up your hearts to the Lord." In return, the audience says, "We lift up our hearts to the Lord." Ever since I was a little child, I have taken this statement very seriously. I have felt an inner something growing inside of me when I respond with those words. So much so that I am compelled to raise my chest ever so slightly as if I am literally raising my heart up to God. From a stimulation in the outside world, I have changed from the inside-out. Maybe I haven’t changed so drastically as the image of my breast-bone growing like a harp, but there is some small change taking place there, as small as it might be.

I would also like to cite Stephane Mallarme’s poem "A lace curtain self-destructs" with the passage:

The concerted all-white internecine

flutters more than it lays to rest.

This poem gave me the most problems, or should I say enjoyment?! Part of the process of reading a poem is not in understanding it right away. As William Stafford would say, I think Mallarme is throwing me, the batter, one of his fast curve balls. At first I thought this "all-white internecine" object was the lace curtain as the title suggests. But then I got to thinking that this could not be ALL this poem is about. I began to do a little investigating on Mallarme and found out that he is NOT talking about a lace curtain. Rather the lace curtain must be a metaphor for something. I still don’t know what that metaphor is, but I think it definitely has something to do with a baby in a mother’s womb. Whether or not this baby is being born, or it is being aborted, or it is a blue baby, I have yet to decide.

To name an object is to suppress three-quarters of the enjoyment of the poem, which derives from the pleasure of step-by-step discovery; to suggest, that is the dream. It is the perfect use of this mystery that constitutes the symbol: to evoke an object little by little, so as to bring to light a state of the soul or, inversely, to choose an object and bring out of it a state of the soul through a series of unravelings.

Mesmerizing Chant of Poetic Passion

(Sorry folks, this is one posting late but take it for what it's worth)

In Michelangelo Buonarroti's poem, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," he creates a sensual, uncontrollable passion. I found it intriguing how he creatively depicted painting the ceiling as looking upward but also that he was arching upward toward the heavens. He captures the feel so well when he says,

my beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,

grows like a harp. (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," from 99 Poems, 76)

Wow! You can almost see how his chest is arching up, poising as a harp ready to strung by the angels. You can almost hear the heavenly music bursting through his heart out onto the giant canvas of the skies, onto his humble ceiling.

Yet he does not let his ego climb to the ceiling with him. He lives his passion, day in and day out, and I think we all can relate in a tiny way to the feeling of being taken over by some creative obsession and how it drives us. Most of us afterwards want to go and show the world the product in which we have produced after creativity has pushed us to hidden depths. However, he invites "Giovanni" to "try / to succour my dead pictures and my fame; since foul I fare and painting is my shame" (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," 99 Poems, 76). I'm not sure quite yet what his exact feelings are but he seems to be saying that although he is painting a part of heaven on the ceiling, he is still summarizing and feels belittled and shamed to do so.

As far as the other poems, I have to admit I was left stumped. I didn't have the advantage of discussion to help me work through these, so I'm letting them resonate within me for awhile. I was struck by Velimir Khlebnikov's poem, "We Chant and Enchant," because of the way it sounds outloud. I wondered if he was a poet like Poe who wasn't really concerned about the meaning of a poem but the way it sounds. This poem definitely captures sound!

Uncast it, uncant it,

He can't. She can't. (Khlebnikov, "We Chant and Enchant," 99 Poems, 56)

Michelangelo at last of these four poets gives us some images we can sink our eyes into. "A goider/... cats from stagnant streams/...my breast bone visibly/ grows like a harp/...my skin grows loose and long" I can see the old Italian man dripping from the ceiling. His body dissolves with each brush stroke, but his art is resolute, robust, indestructible. He seems maladapted (physically) to create art. Why does he paint this image of a human whose body must go if the art wants to come? Is it mearly the tough conditions of painting in a humid, looming anti-gravity chamber? I almost see Michelangelo morphing into an alien existence, solving the suffering of humanity and rocketing off into space through the chapel roof in a silver art-machine. His art no longer opposing his body, no longer the struggle within, becoming lucid expression itself. A MEANING standing alone, without the previously necessary body to discover, translate, and express that meaning. Pure art. "Are you awake?", the Buddhist asks. But Michelangelo is beyond questions. He is before them. He is. And by that I mean, he is a stark naked screaming space llama... or something in that ball park at least.

I use Mallarme here as if evidence from the fossil record (disregard the time scale, we are working in poet-time here). If we postulate (and we do) that Michelangelo brought the theme of artistic maladaption to fruition, we can see the trace beginnigs of that in Mallarme's poems. Rather like seeing the jaw bones of reptiles swim into the inner ear of mammals - we notice here a transition. Mallarme notes that wind is often used poorly, its potential goes mostly untapped. "A lace curtain/ dashed against a wan pane." It is a sad image of a curtain attempting to do something with the wind, like a child mouthing the word "gargantuan" and only spitting out a meak "goo-ga".

The Sun Finally Shines

(Mallarme, "A lace curtain self-destructs", 99 Poems in Translation, p. 70).

Descant on Enchantment

This poem struck me as especially clever. It seems to use only five words, but tells a complete story. The beginning is mysterious and exciting, but also easy.

(Khlebnikov, "We chant and enchant", 99 Poems in Translation, p.56).

"try/to succour my dead pictures and my fame;/since foul I fare and painting is my shame." (Michelangelo, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel" In 99 Poems p. 76). Michelangelo gives us a vivid account of the physical sacrifices made during the painting of the Sistine Chapel. The poet is actually ashamed of his work and the state of affairs it has left his decrepit body in. Vivid imagery of an elderly man, skin hanging off his bones and splattered with paint, are effective in making the audience feel and understand what he has given for his art. Although this imagery moves me, I have trouble associating with what the author is feeling. I am not an artist (drawing stick men is a struggle for me), and I think that is why I am drawn to this poem. To me, the idea of giving one's entire life to paint the inside of a chapel is beyond me. What could possibly move someone to sacrifice so much for their art? Why isn't this desire to create burning in my soul? Although horrified by what has become of the poet in this poem, I am left jealous for I do not possess the only thing he is left with: his art and talent to create. I actually feel as though the man with his broken body and face smeared with paint is luckier than I. I wish I had his passion. Michelangelo's sacrifice for his art is sharply contrasted with the poem by Khlebnikov entitled "We chant and enchant." One line that particularly struck me goes "Here rant! There cant!/ You charming enchanter" (99 Poems, p 56). Khlebnikov's creation differs from Michelangelo in that he seems to be having fun. This is obvious thought the light interplay of words and toying with sounds and meanings. Prefixes are subtly changed to add a "tongue-twisting" effect on the reader which seems to draw them further into the poem. Although "We Chant and Enchant" is more fun, I am still drawn to the sacrifices of Michelangelo. I wonder if a poem can be profound and deep in meaning if the poet is unable to delve deep into him/herself and draw out that which is one with the soul.

Hence the debate. Does a poem require sacrifice like some ancient god to be full of meaning and depth? Or can a poem be fun and lively, and not be deep or grand in scale? I believe the answer is both. Again, I stress that I have not the creator spirit in me, and it is difficult for me to understand the emotional connection between the artist and their art. That is why I respect these two poems for different reasons. I like Michelangelo's for it describes a feeling I envy and wish I could partake in, but I also enjoy the witty, light mastery of language presented in "We Chant and Enchant."

Dante Alighieri

Sonnett: Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti

99 Poems in Translation; selected by Harold Pinter, etc. p 36