#marble
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Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 10:58 PM UTC
I am just a chip of the statue that has raised me.
But I do not have enough stone in these hands
to make myself whole alone.
And I know it isn't your fault
Because you cannot control what you have to carve away
To fit your figure,
But I had really hoped you'd let this imperfection stick around
A little while longer.
I ask around, I search for clay to fill the holes,
but every time I find another,
I am left with less than before.
And I know I am not easy,
but I did not ask to be cut from marble
That is too cold to touch.
I will be good,
I will be kind
And I will be quiet.
So please,
Give me a soft spot to land
Next time I fall from your pedestal.
Because soon, I will be almost nothing
And no one will know whose fault
It really was
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 9:44 AM UTC
I bring the tablecloth
Across the marble
And marvel
As the ants make no
Effort to go
Ahead and scurry away.
Watermelon juice
From earlier in the day
Acting more like glue—
Syrup. Drowned in molasses.
My mother'd take passes
On killing the ants, giving
Them another chance at living.
I am not as nice.
I wipe once, twice
To make sure it doesn't stain.
If you listen closely,
Perhaps you'll hear
The ants crying in pain.
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 6:29 AM UTC
This gold bar will oxidize more
Rusting onto my hand
There is blood on this marble floor
Stained glass windows are only sand
There is a crown split in four
There are holes in the door
And this is the life you call luxury?
You made these diamonds with chemicals
And try to bribe me with emeralds
But I will not let them touch me
What turns to ash?
What turns to fame?
What is cash?
What is a name?
Our lights are as bright as gold
Twinkling stars over my head
They turn green, turn to mold
I turn to hope instead
Apr 20, 2025
Apr 20, 2025 at 11:06 PM UTC
Marble is cold
like a lover, scorned.
Hard. Cutting.
It rejects heat.
Yet,
If you should touch
that frigid matter,
painstakingly, you can bring it to life;
make it look like there is blood
flooding through that stone.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 2:36 AM UTC
___𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝
𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜,
𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎;
𝙻𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛,
𝙼𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎,
𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎.___
Jun 3, 2021
Jun 3, 2021 at 3:44 AM UTC
MICHELANGELO TRANSLATIONS
Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (1475-1564) was an Italian sculptor, painter, architect and poet. He and his fellow Florentine, Leonardo da Vinci, were rivals for the title of the archetypal Renaissance man. Michelangelo is considered by many to be the greatest artist of all time.
Michelangelo Epigram Translations
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch
I saw the angel in the marble and freed him.
I hewed away the coarse walls imprisoning the lovely apparition.
Each stone contains a statue; it is the sculptor’s task to release it.
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.
AIM HIGH
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo
If we shoot for the stars
to only end up on Mars,
that's still quite a trip.
The choice is ours.
—Michael R. Burch
Our greatness is only bounded by our horizons.
Be at peace, for God did not create us to abandon us.
God grant that I always desire more than my capabilities.
My soul’s staircase to heaven is earth’s loveliness.
I live and love by God’s peculiar light.
Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.
Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.
I have never found salvation in nature; rather I love cities.
He who follows will never surpass.
Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.
I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.
If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn’t call it “genius.”
SONNET: RAVISHED
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair,
yet starved for virtues pure hearts might confess,
my soul can find no Jacobean stair
that leads to heaven, save earth's loveliness.
The stars above emit such rapturous light
our longing hearts ascend on beams of Love
and seek, indeed, Love at its utmost height.
But where on earth does Love suffice to move
a gentle heart, or ever leave it wise,
save for beauty itself and the starlight in her eyes?
SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A pena prima.
I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes
Which unto yours were life itself, and light,
When he closed them fast in death's eternal night
To reopen them on God, in Paradise.
In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise,
Yet the fault not mine: for death's disgusting ploy
Had robbed me of that deep, unfathomable joy
Which in your loving memory never dies.
Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine
To make our unique friend smile on, in stone,
Forever brightening what dark earth would dim,
And because the Beloved causes love to shine,
And since the artist cannot work alone,
I must carve you, to tell the world of him!
BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Al cor di zolfo.
A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so;
Bones brittle wood; the soul without a guide
To curb the will’s inferno; the crude pride
Of restless passions’ pulsing surge and flow;
A witless mind that – halt, lame, weak – must go
Blind through entrapments scattered far and wide; ...
Why wonder then, when one small spark applied
To such an assemblage, renders it aglow?
Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean,
Must exceed nature – so divine a power
Belongs to those who strive with every nerve.
Created for such Art, from childhood given
As prey for her Infernos to devour,
I blame the Mistress I was born to serve.
SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sì come nella penna.
Just as with pen and ink,
there is a high, a low, and an in-between style;
and, as marble yields its images pure and vile
to excite the fancies artificers might think;
even so, my lord, lodged deep within your heart
are mingled pride and mild humility;
but I draw only what I truly see
when I trust my eyes and otherwise stand apart.
Whoever sows the seeds of tears and sighs
(bright dews that fall from heaven, crystal-clear)
in various pools collects antiquities
and so must reap old griefs through misty eyes;
while the one who dwells on beauty, so painful here,
finds ephemeral hopes and certain miseries.
SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A che più debb' io.
Am I to confess my heart's desire
with copious tears and windy words of grief,
when a merciless heaven offers no relief
to souls consumed by fire?
Why should my aching heart aspire
to life, when all must die? Beyond belief
would be a death delectable and brief,
since in my compound woes all joys expire!
Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow,
I rather seek whoever rules my breast,
to glide between her gladness and my woe.
If only chains and bonds can make me blessed,
no marvel if alone and bare I go
to face the foe: her captive slave oppressed.
Keywords/Tags: Michelangelo, translation, translations, English, Italian, epigram, epigrams, art, artist, sculptor, angel, marble, stone, statute, genius, beauty, creation, mrbtran, mrbtrans
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 5:08 AM UTC
Paint myself a stone.
Equipped to roam aesthetic empire.
I walk the street,
Peeling up the corners of posters
for those who reach toward victory over death,
to see the stone beneath.
The pedestrians beside me sulk in rain
so eternally present,
it's pulsing collisions with the pavement
have drummed it's echoes into the soundtrack.
Engines stirring.
Rain pouring.
Walkers chattering.
Unnoticed erosion.
I watch the posters bleed.
A warning of their shared fate with the stone.
Canaries painted up with the brightest feathers.
Monuments like gleaming limestone pyramids.
But we won't remember the feathers as bright.
We'll remember the colors bled out, when they're bled out.
The paint on our pantheon will wash to white marble.
And they'll re-remember it as white marble.
They'll re-remember the lustrous white
limestone as dirt and sand,
when its dirt and sand.
Our history will be rewritten, as its remembered.
Oct 20, 2020
Oct 20, 2020 at 4:32 AM UTC
The ancient way across this world lies like sunset over black pearls,
The treetops are marble-made that the riffler of wind deforms,
To know all mother tongues from the quarry of rough stones,
To speak everything at once, Bride of Unbecoming,
The moldering walls of lips, the kiss of vacant streets
And the quiet, wet solitude bespoken by back roads,
The whispered origami of the Forum, paper gods in folds,
Smothered in the false pillows of their own repose,
The wolf’s beard dipped in the fresh pant of dewfall,
While lovers have placed on the stones of the Appian Way
Their perfect hearts like votive candles, cupping the flames,
Looking down the swift arrow of loneliness, Sagittarius its same
Heaven-glow and besprinkled guidepost of a starlit Sacred Way.
Mother of Rome, your powdered face has been made ashen by those
Unreturned home, your far-off travels lead only to the graves of sons.
The ancient way across this world lies like sunset over black pearls.
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
Fountainhead
by Michael R. Burch
I did not delight in love so much
as in a kiss like linnets’ wings,
the flutterings of a pulse so soft
the heart remembers, as it sings:
to bathe there was its transport, brushed
by marble lips, or porcelain,—
one liquid kiss, one cool outburst
from pale rosettes. What did it mean ...
to float awhirl on minute tides
within the compass of your eyes,
to feel your alabaster bust
grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs
seem hisses now; your eyes, serene,
reflect the sun’s pale tourmaline.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetica Victorian, PW Review, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: Fountain, love, heart, pulse, bathe, kiss, sun, marble, bust, tides, sighs, eyes, sun, tourmaline
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 6:03 AM UTC
We fall into
Form fitting pieces
Of one another
Each other's own
Silent feeling
But it is all I want
To sleep still and
Dream unafraid
Aching deeply to
Drum thunder across
Vacant marble halls
Coalescing as the
Texture of the things
We all have
Trouble believing
Though it shows
Aimlessly we go
Out with lanterns
Looking for this thing
We call a soul
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 2:43 AM UTC
Tap
Tap
Tap
Cold white marble
Shot through with
Streaks of black
And swirls of
Gray
And cemented firmly into it is
Something
It shines as
It catches the
Light
Tap
Tap
Tap
You lead me closer
But to what?
You are dragging me
But to where?
I can't ask
My voice-
My voice
Tap
Tap
Tap
Brown leather
And wooden heels
Scared and old
But beautiful
Tap
Tap
Tap
Is that
Silver?
Steel?
Iron?
What ever it is
It's sharp
Tap
Tap
Tap
Scratchy and tan
The bands chafe against my raw skin
And leave scars
They are bound tight
TOO tight
I'm caught,
Utterly caught
Tap
Tap
Tap
More marble
It's
A table?
No
No
NO
Tap
Tap
Tap
It's an alter
Placed on this cold floor
An now i'm on it
My back pressed against it and
I think
Why
Tap
Tap
Tap
There are words leaving
Your dry lips
They sound quick
They sound red
They end sharply
They sound painful
Tap
Tap
Tap
Your face hangs low
Over mine and it's-
How do I explain?
It's the stars in a forest
Astonishing
You can't believe they exist
There are simply too many,
Too many to be possible
And you wonder how you
Never noticed them before
Never noticed that above you
Those dots
Those specks
Burn hotter than everything
That they burn longer
So much so that we may as well
Be mayfly's
And you are a star
Living longer than me
A star that will burn and
End my li-
Scratch
Scratch
Scratch
Are you
Freeing me?
Scratch
Scratch
Scratch
What-
What are you doing
How did I not see before
It's a knife
Tears
They flow
From my eyes
Or yours
And my thoughts-
End
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 8:41 AM UTC
She was made
of gold
and marble
and she stood
above
the water.
A boy of stone
less looked at
stood hidden
behind
the ivy.
Forgotten
by most
he loved
the girl
made
of gold
and marble.
He
loved her
she
loved him
and they whispered
their love
in the night.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
Fingernails clack on
Piano keys, yellow teeth
Sour milk on marble...
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 6:34 PM UTC