Michael Coy Poet Blank verse

The Crucifixion of Barna, Part 1 of 2

(In the late 1300's, veteran painter Barna of Siena 
was killed when he fell from the scaffolding whilst 
working on "The Crucifixion", the final panel of his 
fresco cycle in the Church of the Collegiata, in San
Gimignano, central Italy.) 

I'll mount the scaffold first, sir. Mind the rail - 
at one point there, it's not reliable. 
Oh, careful, sir. I'm flattered you should come 
from - Monteriggione, is it? - here 
to view the work in progress. As you see, 
- that rail, sir - the scheme is an ambitious one. 
You have the standard scriptural episodes 
arranged before you. Here, my Crucifixion 
- unfinished, need I say? - in pride of place. 
The pinnacle, and culminating piece! 
Oh sir, you're kind. You like the cobalt ground? 
I know my limitations. No, it's true. 
I'm past the time in life when confident morn 
returns upon the awareness, like a song 
remembered. See my hair? Once chestnut-gold, 
where now it is not knotted with hard paint, 
the years have slowly snowed the color off. 
I'll never go to Florence now. No, no, 
I mean it. I'm no longer sure I want to. 
We work on this commission - there's my son 
below, mixing the plaster - which is fine. 
I'm not an angel. God chose not to shower 
astounding gifts on me - no, hear me, sir! - 
as on his Chosen Ones. I don't resent it 
- not now. For man, there's no escape from work. 
Our ambit was determined by The Fall. 
And if I do this task, and do it well, 
do I not please my God? And think again - 
a thousand toilers in December mud 
in earshot of these bells would switch with me 
tomorrow, counting themselves blessed. Here 
I'm quiet, I direct the work, and if 
not warm, I'm neither rained nor spat upon - 
that's something. No, I can't say that I'm happy. 
It seems to me that few are born to that, 
lead lucky lives, have touched the Savior's hem. 
Who of the rest of us, if honest, can 
claim to be happy? Well, I certainly can't.

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