Two Poems

Giotto

Disciple of nature, not of
other masters, he gave his

saints landscape—rock ridge,
umbrella pine—novelties, so

Vasari tells us, in those times.
How piteous is the peasant's

gesture, holding his nose
with one hand while the other

brushes flies from Job's face,
lurid with sores, how steady

& sincere the wronged wife's
gaze, whose signore calls

her whore & shuns their
newborn, swarthy son.

 

Masaccio

Scruffy, spacey, scatterbrain,
they called him instead

of his Christian name.
Tommaso cared nothing

for boots or coats, forgot
who owed him what,

died broke. They envied,
regardless, the easy way

he matched flesh tone
to drapery fold, rendered

Christ with feet fore-
shortened, & his nerve

to paint Peter half nude
& numb with cold.