Architecture and Poetry
"It is therefore indisputable that the limbs of architecture are derived from the limbs of man." - Michelangelo
ArchitectureAside from being an artist Michelangelo did some architectural work. He mainly just added his talents to structures that other men had already started. His most famous architectural work is the work he did on St. Peter's Basilica. He contributed to designing the structure of the dome. To the right is one of his sketches for a decorative door in the church.
PoetryAlthough not well known for his poetry, Michelangelo wrote over 300 poems. He combined groups of them in anthologies like the one seen to the right. He commonly wrote about the stress in his life, his artworks, or his desires. He wrote in Italian in sonnet form. Many of his poems have been discovered and elude to the idea that he may have been homosexual.
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A poem Michelangelo wrote while working on the Sistine Chapel:
I've already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin, my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin, my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.