Poems for the Stone Lady 

Così nel mio parlar voglio esser aspro

 

 

Così nel mio parlar voglio esser aspro

com’è ne li atti questa bella petra,

la quale ognora impetra

maggior durezza e più natura cruda,

e veste sua persona d’un diaspro                    5

tal, che per lui, o perch’ella s’arretra,

non esce di faretra

saetta che già mai la colga ignuda:

ed ella ancide, e non val ch’om si chiuda

né si dilunghi da’ colpi mortali,                      10

che, com’avesser ali,

giungono altrui e spezzan ciascun’arme;

sì ch’io non so da lei né posso atarme.

 

Non trovo scudo ch’ella non mi spezzi

né loco che dal suo viso m’asconda;             15

ché, come fior di fronda,

così de la mia mente tien la cima.

Cotanto del mio mal par che si prezzi

quanto legno di mar che non lieva onda;

e ‘l peso che m’affonda                                 20

tal che non potrebbe adequar rima.

Ahi angosciosa e dispietata lima

che sordamente la mia vita scemi,

perché non ti ritemi

sì di rodermi il core a scorza a scorza,           25

com’io di dire altrui chi ti dà forza?

 

Ché più mi triema il cor qualora io penso

di lei in parte ov’altri li occhi induca,

per tema non traluca

lo mio penser di fuor sì che si scopra,           30

ch’io non fo de la morte, che ogni senso

co li denti d’Amor già mi manduca;

ciò è che ‘l pensier bruca

la lor vertù, sí che n’allenta l’opra.

E' m’ha percosso in terra, e stammi sopra      35

con quella spada ond’elli ancise Dido,

Amore, a cui io grido

merzé chiamando, e umilmente il priego;

ed el d’ogni merzé par messo al niego.

 

Egli alza ad or a ad or la mano, e sfida          40

la debole mia vita, esto perverso,

che disteso a riverso

mi tiene in terra d’ogni guizzo stanco:

allor mi surgon ne la mente strida;

e ‘l sangue, ch’è per le vene disperso,           45

fuggendo corre verso

lo cor, che ‘l chiama; ond’io rimango bianco.

Elli mi fiede sotto il braccio manco

sí forte, che ‘l dolor nel cor rimbalza:

allor dico: “S’elli alza                                    50

un’altra volta, Morte m’avrà chiuso

prima che ‘l colpo sia disceso giuso”.

 

Così vedess’io lui fender per mezzo

lo core a la crudele che ‘l mio squatra!

poi non mi sarebb’atra                                  55

la morte, ov’io per sua bellezza corro:

ché tanto di nel sol quanto nel rezzo

questa scherana micidiale e latra.

Ohmè, perché non latra

per me, com’io per lei, nel caldo borro?          60

che tosto griderei: “Io vi soccorro”;

e fare’ l volentier, si come quelli

che ne’ biondi capelli

ch’Amor per consumarmi increspa e dora

metterei mano, e piacere’le allora.                 65

 

S’io avessi le belle trecce prese,

che fatte son per me scudiscio e ferza,

pigliandole anzi terza,

con esse passerei vespero e squille:

e non sarei pietoso né cortese,                     70

anzi farei com’orso quando scherza;

e se Amor me ne sferza,

io mi vendicherei di più di mille.

Ancor ne li occhi, ond’escon le faville

che m’infiammano il cor, ch’io porto anciso,    75

guarderei presso e fiso,

per vendicar lo fuggir che mi face;

e poi le renderei con amor pace.

 

Canzon, vattene dritto a quella donna

che m’ha ferito il core e che m’invola             80

quello ond’io ho più gola,

e dille per lo cor d’una saetta:

ché bell’onor s’acquista in far vendetta.

I Want to Charge My Words with So Much Harshness

 

I want to charge my words with so much harshness

as this enchanting stone has in her actions,

she who is ever growing

harder in nature and more fierce and ruthless,

and clothes in such hard adamant her being            5

that, either for its strength or her retreating,

never does any arrow

that leaves the quiver find her ever bare:

she slays, and, oh, to no avail can one

withdraw or run from all her mortal blows,               10

which, as endowed with wings,

reach every man and every armor break;

so there is no defense that I may take.

 

No shield is there for me she would not sunder,

nor any place where I may shun her features;         15

for, as a stem its blossom,

holds she the summit of my intellect.

She seems to care about my suffering

as much as would a ship in tranquil seas;

and such is now the burden                                  20

that pulls me down, no rhyme is fit to tell it.

Oh, pitiless and most relentless file,

so deafly wearing my existence out,

why do you not refrain

from gnawing at my heart, bit after bit,                   25

as I from naming him, who grants you might?

 

My heart beats faster when I think of her

in places where I am by people seen,

for fear that all my thinking

may so shine through as to be seen outside—      30

more than I tremble at this death, now biting

all of my senses with the teeth of Love;

it is my thought, I reckon,

chews on their strength and makes their functions fail.

Love struck me to the ground and stands above me, 35

the sword that once slew Dido in his hand,

so that for mercy, mercy

to him I cry with every humble prayer;

but oh, no truth—only denial’s there.

 

Daring my weary life, he often raises                     40

his hand against me—this horrendous god

who keeps me on my back

upon the ground, too weak even to writhe.

Cries of despair then surge up to my mind,

and all the blood that through my veins is coursing 45

comes rushing to the heart,

that calls it: whiteness is all over me.

So fiercely under my left arm he wounds me

that the new pain rebounds deep in my heart.

“If once again,” I say,                                           50

“he lifts his hand, Death will have taken me,

before his blow descends, mercifully.”

 

Oh, might I see him strike right through the heart

of that most cruel one who quarters mine!

The death to which I’m running for her beauty         55

would only then no more be black to me:

for no good comes by sunshine or by shade

from this my thievish, thankless, murderous foe.

Oh, why does she not yelp

for me, as I for her, in fiery pit?                              60

“Let me now help you,” I would quickly shout;

and gladly I would do, as others would:

in her blond, lustrous tresses,

which Love has curled and gilded for my death,

I’d thrust this hand, to please her then and there.   65

 

Oh, if I could but seize those lovely tresses

which have become both whip and lash for me,

from very early matins

I’d make them ringing bells unto the night:

and I would not be pitying or kind,                         70

but like a playful bear with her I’d play;

and, since Love whips me still,

I would avenge myself a thousandfold.

Into those eyes, from which the sparks come forth

that burn this deadened weight that is my heart,     75

I very close would stare,

thus to avenge the cowardice of my past,

and then with love I’d give her peace at last.

 

To such a woman, O my song, go straight—

to her who wounded me and still conceals             80

what I most hunger for:

her heart (oh, now!) with a fast arrow cleave,

for in revenge great honor we achieve.

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