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Robert browning and Me (2)

Where was I with that book on Artemisia?
No Internet or Amazon back then,
So I got busy trudging round – then busier.
No joy. “American?  We’ll call you when …”
“Import it from the States, you say?  (sigh)  “Sorry …”
That book to me was life-blood.  From dry fact,
I knew I could carve angels.  It was packed
with pure potential.  It would be my quarry,

I, Michelangelo.  But Florence called
(the city, not the girl).  My summer break.
I’d soon be very happily installed
in Art’s sweet Heart.  That book would have to take
a rain check.  There were Browning things to see,
check out the places that the poet knew, 
and stand where he stood (absolutely true!)
the day he found the Yellow Book.  For me,

this part would be the climax.  One fine day
in June of eighteen-sixty, Browning strolled
(the gods of poetry pointing out the way)
the Square of San Lorenzo – and struck gold!
He found a worn old book, and made the sale.
The record of a legal case with pleas,
submissions – this could be his masterpiece!
(A bit like mine, but on a vaster scale.)

So, there I was in San Lorenzo. If
my Artemisia project was on stall,
at least now I could breathe vicarious whiff
of Browning’s triumph.  Oh, I was enthralled!
He read the lawyer’s brief as he walked home.
I traced his steps – down Giglio, Panzani, then
across the Arno at the bridge again –
(I caught a glimpse of Brunelleschi’s Dome)

and then it happened.  Those poetic gods!
A bookstore on the Tornabuoni.  (Time allows.
But what of Browning?  Even Homer nods!
What harm, if I just sidle in and browse …?)
The book on Artemisia!  Divine!
How many thousand lire?  Hey, who cares?
So, I and Browning had our talents (tares?)
He used his well enough.  Now I’ll try mine!
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