The flowers of May are in full bloom <br />But they do not attend my fresco. <br />And only yesterday, touching up Noah, <br />I felt the wind change directions <br />And start blowing northwest; this blasted city <br />Not even seven hills blocking the salt sea air, <br />Making me nostalgic for the pure air of the Arezzo hills. <br />David sealed my fate, says Urbino: <br />It’s been my twenty-eighth day up at the scaffolding <br />With men, women and children jeering at this madman <br />In clothes matted with plaster and colour running down beard. <br />I cannot bear too much light, nor saw the walking stick <br />Land on my shoulders, “Son of Ludovico! When will you finish? ” <br />As Julius II, livid with anger hissed, “Inauguration on All Saints’ Day! ” <br />At 69 ft for four years my vertigo is cured now. <br />Painting is a lonely journey. <br />“When I shall finish, ” I had answered the vacillating Pope, <br />Neither Genesis, unraveled for Man; nor promises <br />Of eternal glory make me work furiously. <br />But that cruel Vittoria, at mass on a certain day <br />With the Count D_ by her side at the pew <br />Shall look up at my nine panels of perspiration <br />And sin in her thoughts with me, in full Apocalyptic view.<br /><br />Mandira Mitra<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rome-painting-the-sistine-chapel/
