Artemisia, Part 3 of 12
Robert Browning and Me (1)
Imagine me in nineteen ninety-two,
in need of something to ignite the flame:
the London Independent – a review!
The painter Gentileschi – striking name!
(American professor’s brand-new book,
describing how the Roman girl was raped,
and how this trauma subsequently shaped
her art) – I didn’t need a second look!
Now, Robert Browning. Never was a man
more like myself (though, naturally, I’m
not fit to shine his shoes). Rodin? Cezanne?
They don’t come close. More sweetly than our rhyme,
his spoke, in smiles, of clods and cognoscenti:
he taunted human frailty lovingly,
embracing our shortcomings. Italy!
We both adored the art, the grace, the “gente”.
What Browning did (so may we all rejoice!)
is take a person (Lippo Lippi, Pippa)
and let him tell it in his own sweet voice,
as if upon the stage – what could be snipper?
The beauty of Dramatic Monologues
(for thus he named them) is, the subject speaks
to put the best face on it, but out leaks,
despite his caution, stuff that’s fit for dogs.
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