On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel

I'VE grown a goitre by dwelling in this den --

As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,

Or in what other land they hap to be --

Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:

My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in

Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly

Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery

Bedews my face from brush-drips, thick and thin.

My loins into my paunch like levers grind:

My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;

My feet unguided wander to and fro;

In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,

By bending it becomes more taut and strait;

Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:

Whence false and quaint, I know,

Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye;

For ill can aim the gun that bends awry.

Come then, Giovanni, try

To succour my dead pictures and my fame;

Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.

Michelangelo (tr. John Addington Symonds)

Index to poems in the collection by Michelangelo