The Bronze David of Donatello
A sword in his right hand, a stone in his left hand,
He is naked. Shod and naked. Hatted and naked.
The ribbons of his leaf-wreathed, bronze-brimmed bonnet
Are tasseled; crisped into the folds of frills,
Trills, graces, they lie in separation
Among the curls that lie in separation
Upon the shoulders.
Lightly, as if accustomed,
Loosely, as if indifferent, The boy holds in grace
The stone moulded; somehow, by the fingers, The sword alien, somehow, to the hand.
The boy David
Said of it: “There is none like that.”
The boy David’s
Body shines in freshness, still unhandled,
And thrusts its belly out a little in exact
Shamelessness. Small, close, complacent,
A labyrinth the gaze retraces,
The rib-case, navel, nipples are the features
Of a face that holds us like the whore Medusa’s–
Of a face that, like the genitals, is sexless.
What sex has victory?
The mouth’s cut Cupid’s-bow, the chin’s unwinning dimple
Are tightened, a little oily, take, use, notice:
Centering itself upon itself, the sleek
Body with its too-large head, this green
Fruit now forever g!een, this offending
And efficient elegance draws subtly, supply,
Between the world and itself, a shining
of delimitation, demarcation.
The body mirrors itself.
Where the armpit becomes breast,
Becomes back, a great crow’s-foot is slashed.
Yet who would gash
The sleek flesh so? the cast, filed, shining flesh?
The cuts are folds: these are the folds of flesh
That closes on itself as a knife closes.
To so much strength, those overborne by it
Seemed girls, and death came to it like a girl,
Came to it, through the soft air, like a bird-
So that the boy is like a girl, is like a bird
Standing on something it has pecked to death.
The boy stands at ease, his hand upon his hip:
The truth of victory. A Victory
Angelic, almost, in indifference,
An angel sent with no message but this triumph
And alone, now, in his triumph,
He looks down at the head and does not see it.
Upon this head
As upon a spire, the boy David dances,
Dances, and is exalted.
Blessed are those brought low
Blessed is defeat, sleep blessed, blessed death.
The right foot is planted on a wing. Bent back in ease
Upon a supple knee–the toes curl a little, grasping
The crag upon which they are set in triumph–
The left leg glides toward, the left foot lies upon
A head. The head’s other wing (the head is bearded
And winged and helmeted and bodiless)
Grows like a swan’s wing up inside the leg;
Clothes, as the suit of a swan-maiden clothes,
The leg. The wing reaches, almost, to the rounded
Small childish buttocks. The dead wing warms the leg,
The dead wing, crushed beneath the foot, is swan’s-down.
Pillowed upon the rock, Goliath’s head
Lies under the foot of David.
Strong in defeat, in death rewarded,
The head dreams what has destroyed it
And is untouched by its destruction.
The stone sunk in the forehead, say the Scriptures;
There is no stone in the forehead. The head is helmed
Or else, unguarded, perfect still.
Borne high, borne long, borne in mastery
The head is fallen.
The new light falls
As if in tenderness, upon the face–
Its masses shift for a moment, like an animal,
And settle, misshapen, into sleep: Goliath
Snores a little in satisfaction.