Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SAVONAROLA BURNING, by ALFRED FRANCIS KREYMBORG


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SAVONAROLA BURNING, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: And there are no more emperors in rome
Last Line: Each time a monk believes in liberty!
Subject(s): Caesar, Julius (100-44 B.c.); Grief; Peace; Rome, Italy; War; Sorrow; Sadness


I

And there are no more emperors in Rome,
Venetian doges, dukes in Florence, dead
The Medicis and Borgias, less than loam,
Their treacheries and inquisitions fled?
But who is this who haunts the Coliseum,
What spectres persecute the Vecchio,
Whose ghosts are these infest each dark museum,
Whose presence makes old mirrors shudder so?

And why does that long snake, the Tiber, wind
Ironical and gild the gray remains? --
The slender, yellow Arno -- is it blind? --
What causes it to murmur cold refrains? --
Where is the tree which felt a scaffold grow,
And that wild monk who made the heavens glow?

II

This mask, these holes -- whose eyes, what crafty mood
Once lurked and peered and hatched malevolence? --
What dungeon did these keys enclose with blood? --
Who thought this crown bequeathed omnipotence? --
This rapier and its airy repartees --
Whose body did it pierce and apprehend? --
What secret poison could this ring release,
If any man embraced an evil friend?

The cypresses that grace the portico --
What is it they so darkly indicate? --
Can they be sentinels of graves below? --
What gruesome tyrant do they implicate? --
Where is the tree he sharpened to a stake,
Savonarola's burning flamed awake?

III

The armies Caesar drove to conquer Gaul --
These are the arms and armour he employed? --
Where are the men who held the Roman wall,
Whose liberties their emperor enjoyed?
This is the wall that Romulus began,
And these the gates Attila's men destroyed? --
Where is the powdered hate, the fire that ran
And helped the rain and rats increase the void?

A withered sorrow taunts the memory,
A lone wind wanders, echoes cry and rage,
The willows moan a drooping monody,
A dirge which cannot soothe or soften age:
Where is the fervour, now oblivion,
The flesh, the spark, the smoke, the blaze, the sun?

IV

And who are these who come with martial pace? --
What uniform is theirs, what measured tread? --
Whose awful spirit frightens each blank face
To keep the servile phalanx straight ahead? --
Would any vouch that these are flesh and bone,
Who move as one, yet are a multitude? --
Would any claim each has a soul his own
To walk again a chosen solitude?

Who brought them back, this universal horde? --
Is that a bugle blows a mockery? --
Whose voice is it -- what ghoul or overlord
Can drive these stones like things no longer free? --
Are these the ashes such a man dared brave? --
Do these strange cowards rise from such a grave?

V

But why should men remember mortal dust? --
And what is there for grief to gather here? --
And why do kindred ask his fiery lust,
A body once, an insane dream, to clear
The shrouds and sepulchres of centuries,
Reincarnate himself and burst the shell,
Come striding back and hurl fanatic pleas
To bring the blind the will to conquer hell?

And why should any fool commune with fire? --
What use is dust to dust that follows him? --
What can a carcass blown, in men inspire? --
What do they want of such a scattered whim? --
Far rather, let them strip another tree,
Each time a monk believes in liberty!





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