Yes, art comes far more thrilling
from forms that are averse
to drilling,
enamel, onyx, verse.
To Hell with false constrictions!
But to march straight as strait
please fashion,
o muse, a narrow gait.
Shame on the easy rhythm
just like a shoe that's loose
whose pattern
most feet refuse to choose!
Proud sculptor please relinquish
the clay that's moulded by
the finger
when elsewhere drifts the mind:
struggle with stern Carrara,
with Parian just as hard
if rarer,
of purest contours guard;
from Syracuse please borrow
its bronze where firmly it
shall hollow
that charming trait which struts;
with hands both fine and delicate
pursue in a rich vein
of agate
Apollo's profiled mane.
Sharp painter, flee the gouache,
and fix that colour grown
too nuanced
in the enameller's stove;
create the bluest sirens,
which writhe one hundred ways
their tailfins,
like monsters heralds blaize;
in their tripartite halo
the Virgin and her Son
impale too,
plus globe with cross above.
All passes. - Robust artworks
alone for Aye endure:
the torso
survives the city's cure.
And oh that austere medal
which a day-labourer draws
from death's soil
reveals an emperor.
The gods themselves will die out.
But sovereign lines of verse
will riot
longer than strongest brass.
So carve and file and chisel;
and let your dream that mocks
yet dazzle
in those resistant blocks!
Translation © John H.B. Martin