#sculptor
Break me down into verses
Or into something even smaller
Take the planetree blossoms out of me
My path of destiny has crusted over
Due to malnourished vanity
All dreams and desires rushed past
Creating only the flash of a moment
Shadowing your image in my mind
That inner man I had sculpted
Like a sculptor molding a cloud
Ljubav zavijena u iluziju
Rastavi me na stihove
Ili nešto još sitnije
Uzmi iz mene cvjetove platana
Moj put sudbine je skoreo
Zbog neuhranjene sujete
Svi snovi i želje su uzurbano proletjeli
Napravili su samo bljesak trenutka
Zasjenivši tvoj lik u mojim mislima
Onog unutrašnjeg čovjeka kog sam izvajala
Kao vajar koji gužva oblak
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 11:27 AM UTC
I hear the chisel fall at last,
the ringing stone that held you fast.
All those years you honed the blade,
turned every wound into a grade
sharp enough to cut the dark,
yet tender where the soft veins spark.
You built a fortress, line by line,
from absences that once were mine.
Starless nights and voiceless prayer
became the quiet you learned to wear.
Hunger forged into steady flame
I recognize the sacred name.
Now I stand inside your plea,
no longer echo, now the key.
Let me burn where marble gleams,
melt the edges of your dreams.
Let my hands find every seam
where the armor learned to lean.
Come undone.
The stone was never you
only the shape love needed to get through.
I will not leave you smooth or tame,
but alive with chaos and with name.
Heart wide open to the bite
of joy, of terror, of delight.
Lay down the file, the shield, the fight.
The sculptor’s work is finished here.
Now begins the sculptor’s light.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:49 AM UTC
GO ! BELOVED MAN ~ go c r e a t e
YOU are the CENTRE OF CREATION
see these children in my embracing protection
I will send them when you are ready
we all float flying together confidently
but now you must L E A V E, descend
our forefingers are disengaging, a pattern paternal, forever humanity will remember
this gesture, TWO IN ONE, a HOLDING
and LETTING go, sign of
GRACEFUL DIVINE INSTRUCTION
I birth your progeny, birthing ALL WORLDS
this teen your son says : “BE not afraid”
he becomes angry
as you lounge hesitant, question or plead
he is impatient to elevate what you will manifest
but wait he must ~ ONLY I control TIME
I s t r e t c h Y O U, SON
I O P E N S K Y in the eternal Now
immersing myself in my creations
then letting them GO
this is NO FALL call it ART ~ MY COMMAND FOR YOU IS RISE then F ~ L~ Y
You are my CHOSEN
EYES to eyes
THE TIME IS NOW
recline no more in cloud beauty
endurance is your hallmark
ferocity tangos with LOVE
I will not forsake you
you will soar on my winds
they will carry your shapely limbs
ready groin will create at my bidding
your elegant strong fingers will caress
Question not MY IMAGE
man of man, woman of woman
curved ears hear, wide nostrils breathe life
Heart pumping into infinity
food will flow from hair to toe tip
ACT and RELAX, written into ****** constitution
Forever MICHELANGELO, Sculptor
humble Genius I saLute you, My own Creation
Son of Marbled Art
Yours sincerely, GOD
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:42 AM UTC
a sculptor
I chip away
making some form
from time
changing shape
then direction
sometimes the hero
others the villain
whatever it is
I leave behind
I know for sure
will never be finished
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 2:27 PM 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
I want to say you have made me who I am
But you were not the sculptor
You were the one with the vision
Pushing the sculptor to create something
Without defects, without faults, perfection
But you pushed too hard
Until the statue cracked under pressure
You did not make the statue
It was the sculptor
It was I who made me who I am
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 10:31 PM UTC
Today I shall etch as sculptor
upon marble vellum tablet,
scribing with tool of pen.
Carving process moves within breath.
With sitting position of arched back.
Then, I shall exhibit landscape in HP Museum.
Hanging its colorful masterpiece
in hopes it will be in front room.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
he was
a mast
his cries
of antecedence
when it
tore rings
in these
statuary dramas
and weren't
discursive though
his mindset
left his
quarters skeptical
there yet
darkness pervaded
him aghast
crimes again
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:34 AM UTC
I love your eyes and the eyebrows,
And I love your nose & the lips.
I love your smile and the laughter,
And I love your grimace & the tears.
I love your happiness and the anger,
And I love your innocence & the glamour.
I love your appearance in my dreams,
And I love the lap dance you perform.
I love your sketch in all of my memories,
And I love those curves tempting to sculpt.
I love your memories with all my heart,
And I refuse to give up all hope even if you get married to someone else.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:56 PM UTC
You would be my sculpture.
I'd spend hours on you.
Your face had taken shape,
Your neck was molded new.
I formed your pale legs,
My clay perfect for the fit.
For days I worked on your torso,
For days I only patiently did sit.
Solidifying was real quick,
And I had to be careful.
You could break if mishandled,
I needed to be gentle.
You still had your eyes closed,
So I kissed your dry lips.
But you still couldn't hold me well,
Despite your arms around my hips.
And so I carved your hands,
And caressed them in mine,
Then finally you entwined our fingers,
At last we held back time.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
Enter Pygmalion
Sculptor of my flesh
Firm hands of a man
Desirous of himself
Ego outstripping
Lust driving
Hard stone chipped
The night sounding
Like an uneven clock
Tic tic tic with nary a toc
And the outer shell of my existence
Slowly fades
Chunks and
White marble dust
Removed to find my bust
My curves
My lips
My stony eyes
Fake garbs
With hard wrinkles
My shoulders sanded to perfection
Carefully crafted collarbone
Body finally fully formed
The master Artisan
Find his own enslavement
Obsession with his own creation
Thus all other loves pale in comparison
Perhaps that is the curse or fate
Of all true Artists
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Poetry is art
Poetry is visual
Poets can see the words
The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
with every line he writes
The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
with every key she plays
The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
with every cut of their knife
The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
with every stroke of blue
on a blank canvas
Poetry is visual
Poetry is art
Poets are artists
They write from the heart
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Every time you leave me,
You take a piece of my heart,
But for all the pain,
I'd gladly hand you a chisel and show you where to start.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC