the Horses of Saint Mark‘The Venetian Doge on the Sack of Constantinople’: A Poem by Brian Yapko The Society October 27, 2024 Culture, Poetry 22 Comments . The Venetian Doge on the Sack of Constantinople Setting: Constantinople in the Summer of 1204 AD. Doge Enrico Dandolo of Venice prepares for bed after an exhausting day visiting Byzantium’s famous bronze Hippodrome horses as they are loaded onto a ship for the journey back to Venice. These venerable sculptures, looted a few months earlier during the Sack of Constantinople (as orchestrated by Dandolo), will soon be placed on the terrace of the facade of St. Mark’s Basilica. Don’t test me, Aldo. That quote’s from the Book Of Marco, Venice’s great patron saint. But I expect to be served, not to serve, For this is here and now. Respect your doge And don’t quote bromides when my night rest calls. Oblige me! I am near as old as Moses! See to my hat and then attend my leggings. A blister on my right foot gives me pain From standing too long by the Golden Horn. My face is burnt; I feel a migraine pound. This ‘Zantine sun is crueler than in Venice! The right shoe first. Ah! Now remove the left. Be careful! There are coins hid in the heel! I too recall a quote. Matteo, no? “For where your treasure is there rests your heart!” Well, some is in my shoe, some on that ship— The Santa Abundantia by which I gift Byzantium to Italy! Such wealth! Rare gems which frame old, dusty icons! They gleamed? Alas, my broken eyes saw nought. Imagine, Aldo, thirty years now since The ‘Zantine emperor pierced both my eyes And sent me back to Venice as a cripple! Well, I’ve returned. Their conqueror and judge. What did you think of Alexander’s horses— The four we pried from off the Hippodrome? Oh, what I’d give to have my sight return For just one length of Mass! Still, I could “see” With these stiff, gnarled fingers every shape And texture of those old bronze-sculpted beasts. If only they could speak of all they’ve seen! Regrettable the heads had to be severed— But metal can be healed. Venetian smiths Will melt down other objects we’ve retrieved To manufacture harnesses of bronze. They’ll hide the scars of what we had to do. I touched them, Aldo! Made when Alexander Was doge of Greece! Like me he oversaw Important slaughters. Do not think me heartless Because two-thousand ‘Zantines lost their lives. Why would we Westerners, men of the Pope, Bow down to effete merchants belching Greek? You call them “Christians,” but these men waged wealth Against our Fourth Crusade. Debt held us back From moving forward to the Holy Land. Though we lacked funds, Crusaders do not wilt— Nor do we bow to decadence and pride! Hush, Aldo. Venice simply had no choice. You call them “Christians,” but they were corrupt: Those robes, the beards, the tuneless way they prayed Were stained by Mohammedan influence. “The golden rule?” Not on the Golden Horn! And yet don’t think my conscience doesn’t ache From shaping what occurred from our ship’s prow. Though I am blind and could not see the blood I yet could smell the smoke and, hear the screams And picture through the clouds inside my eyes The vast destruction of this Second Rome! I heard the churches sacked, the women raped. I felt the pain of hundreds as they died! But Aldo, I’ve not trembled till today— Today when these hands touched those four bronze horses And once again could hear Constantinople In flames. That’s when the horses spoke to me Each in his turn: “I’m Conquest,” “I am War,” “I’m Famine.” And the last said “I am Death.” The horses, Aldo! Which in Revelation Call forth this corrupt world’s apocalypse! But hear me speak as if a frightened child! What revelation could they have for me? My nightgown, Aldo! Do not leave me now In such immodesty as my bare skin! You call me “Son of Adam!” Aren’t we all? Ah. Bless these sheets of purest Eastern silk Which I retrieved from the old Emperor Alexios, the one we just deposed. I shall sleep well tonight! Yes, dim the lamp. You know full well light matters not to me. . Poet’s Note In April 1204, members of the Fourth Crusade were detoured from their destination—the Holy Land—and instead came to Constantinople, the center of the Orthodox Christian world. Byzantine royals jockeying for power asked the Crusaders to interfere in the succession of emperors. When they did so but went unpaid, the Crusaders, including Doge Dandolo’s Venetians, sacked Constantinople. The Crusaders looted, pillaged, and vandalized Constantinople for three days, during which many ancient and medieval Roman and Greek works were either seized or destroyed. The famous bronze horses from the Hippodrome were sent back to adorn the façade of St Mark’s Basilica in Venice. These horses were said to have been cast in Classical Greece during the Fifth to Fourth Century B.C. They remain at St. Mark’s to this day. Of the civilian population of Constantinople, it is estimated 2,000 were killed. The Crusaders also sacked churches, monasteries and convents. The altars of these churches were smashed and broken up for their gold and marble. Most of the objects of value were shipped back to Venice. Constantinople never recovered from the political, economic and spiritual wounds inflicted when it was sacked by fellow Christians. It ultimately fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453. Doge Dandolo (1107-1205), though blind since the 1170s, was a master political strategist. He was a vigorous 95 at the time of the sacking of Constantinople. He died within a year of that event and was buried in the Hagia Sophia. When Byzantine rule was restored to Constantinople in 1261, Dandolo’s tomb was sacked and his bones were scattered to the winds. . . Brian Yapko is a retired lawyer whose poetry has appeared in over fifty journals. He is the winner of the 2023 SCP International Poetry Competition. Brian is also the author of several short stories, the science fiction novel El Nuevo Mundo and the gothic archaeological novel Bleeding Stone. He lives in Wimauma, Florida. NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary. Trending now: 22 Responses Paul Freeman October 27, 2024 Great stuff. I particularly liked how you linked the bronze horses to the Four Horses of the Apocalypse, and the way you introduced Doge Dandolo and his character as an old man listing his ailments and aches and pains. Thanks for the read. Reply Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 The Four Horses of the Apocalypse was one of those inspiration things that came midway through writing the poem rather than at the beginning. But once I hit on the idea it seemed exactly right. And glad you liked the characterization of this doge who was both famous and infamous. Thank you so much for reading and your kind words, Paul! Reply Roy Eugene Peterson October 27, 2024 As you likely know, I seldom comment on a blank verse poem; however, once I began reading this work, it was as compelling as the best of novels and a fantastic work of art. The idea that in an ancient age one could live so long, possess his faculties, plan such an amazing feat, and achieve so much, gives hope to all of us in advancing age and informs us that we can still achieve our dreams despite the woes we may be suffering. This is a masterpiece in its own right. Reply Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Roy, I’m so grateful that you read and commented on this poem. I know full well that you don’t generally enjoy blank verse, so I’m honored that you made an exception here. Dandolo is an amazing character in history. It’s hard to picture someone so old and completely blind yet having the power and ability to do what he did (as I mentioned to Paul, “famous and infamous.”) I started this poem with the intent of presenting the horrors of mob actions, but ended up becoming utterly fascinated by this consequential man. He sort of took over the narrative and the poem unexpectedly morphed into a character study. Sometimes when you’re writing you just need to let that happen. Thank you again for a truly generous comment! Reply Joseph S. Salemi October 27, 2024 Brian, to me this is the most Browningesque of your dramatic monologues. Its speaker is a well-known figure out of history, it has a silent interlocutor (Aldo), it reveals unflattering personality traits, and it expresses the speaker’s resentment and greed as well as his appreciation of fine art. This could easily have been a subject that Browning would have tackled. What first came to my mind is “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s,” where an old and dying ecclesiastic gives directions for his burial, lamenting his coming death while expressing his love for fine stone, his fear of being cheated, his contempt for a long-dead rival, and his all-consuming pride. But I also was reminded of the Duke of Ferrara in “My Last Duchess,” where a cruel and murderous nobleman freely speaks of killing a wife who annoyed him, while at the same time expressing delight in objects of fine art. Your picture of the Doge has unmistakable echoes of these two Browning pieces. The dramatic monologue as a genre is well suited to the depiction of the uglier side of human nature — selfishness, greed, cruelty, hate, stupidity. But combining those traits with other commendable ones (courage, determination, the appreciation of fine art, political savvy, and energy) is what makes the poem compelling and intriguing. Imagine a dramatic monologue that revealed the speaker to be a paragon of kindness, wisdom, good nature, piety, and politeness. It would bore the hell out of us. Reply Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Thank you very much, Joe — Having my work considered Browningesque is deeply satisfying to me since, as you know, he is one of my favorite poets. Insofar as looking at this poem through the prism of “The Bishop Orders His Tomb…” I am delighted with how perceptive you are. I would not say Bishop was a model for this poem, but I am very familiar with the subject matter as you described (don’t forget the bastard child!) and the fact that Browning wrote this one in blank verse also. Historic, jewel-encrusted setting. I would say my poem definitely took inspiration from this overly material man of God. I am also very familiar with My Last Duchess but would never have consciously thought of it as one of the inspirations for this poem. But now that you mention it, I can definitely see that you are right — that Browningesque in-character trivialization of something the normal reader would find to be heinous. Sometimes we are inspired by work and do not necessarily realize it until the piece is completed. You are so right about dramatic monologues as a vehicle for exploring the character of someone who is morally as well as psychologically complex. Characters with a skeleton or two in their closet are more fun. You mentioned how dull it is to write in the character of someone who is a paragon of kindness and good nature. It’s possible but you really have to get a good plot-twist in place to make it readable. I’ve tried several times to write a poem in the voice of Albert Schweitzer and have failed each time. African missionary, physician, Bach scholar… and yet I still can’t make him poetically interesting! Reply James A. Tweedie October 27, 2024 Brian, Amen to most all of the above comments. Your narrative is flawless blank verse, something I didn’t even note until I was half-way through the second stanza. I second Paul’s compliment on your link to the apocalypse as well as your a-sympathetic psycho/physical analysis/description of the Doge. Having been to both Venice (twice) and Istanbul (once) the conflict you so dispassionately describe is one I have come to consider one of the greatest blots on the Crusades. How ironic that the sack of (Eastern) Christian Byzantium by (Western) Christian Crusaders destroyed Europe’s last great defense against Islam’s expansion to the West. Venice survived, of course, but it could be argued that too much of its greatness came as a result of what Brian so compellingly shares with us in this poem. Reply Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Thank you so much for this generous comment, James! “Flawless blank verse” is about as high praise as a poet could hope for! I’ve also been to both Venice (only once, alas) and Istabul and found them to be incredible experiences from a historic, religious, artistic point of view and I knew that sooner or later I would have to write about them. I saw the marker of Dandolo’s (probably empty) gravesite in the Hagia Sophia. And I was especially excited to see the horses at St. Mark’s Basilica because they are truly legendary. The idea of connecting them to the Four Horses of the Apocalypse only came midway through the drafting of this poem. But it worked and especially so in the context of having Dandolo suddenly (and only briefly) fearing God. Otherwise, he’s knowledgable about religion but only as a tool of statecraft. He is here to be served, not to serve. The Spirit is not in him. I share your views of this blot on the Crusades. The betrayal was so unexpected and so thorough I had to write about it. It felt so modern. I’m grateful, James, to have a reader of this poem who has actually been to the sites described. Thank you again for the kind words! Reply Joseph S. Salemi October 27, 2024 Just some added thoughts on the subject of this poem: By the year 1200, the hostility between the Latin West and the Greek East had become a linguistic, cultural, and racial one, with religion being just an afterthought (except among clerics, of course). The larger Graeco-Roman unity that still existed in Constantine’s day, and that had made the move to Byzantium thinkable, was gone forever. An empire that still used Latin and koine Greek administratively, and learned classical Greek to understand ancient literature, thought of itself as a single body. That was long gone by the year 1200, with the rise of the Romance languages and the disappearance of Greek studies in Europe. As far as the Venetians were concerned, the Byzantines were just troublesome and foreign commercial rivals who wore strange clothes and looked like the Moslem enemy. They had also done some unpleasant things to Western Europeans living in their domains. Brian now has written two dramatic monologues focused on the city of Constantinople. Perhaps, like W.B. Yeats, he is fascinated by the place! Reply James A. Tweedie October 28, 2024 Good context, although I would add “economic” to the hostility list, a matter of great importance for keeping trade routes to the East open not only for the European Crusaders as a whole but for Venice in particular. The Silk Road existed long before Marco Polo (a Venetian) followed it to China some 70 years after Dandolo’s death. Venice’s wealth was (as Shakespeare points out in The Merchant of Venice) in its fleet and the control of shipping lanes and land routes was vital for Venetian trade and for its lucrative transportation of Crusaders to and from the Levant. There was piety involved, of course, admixed with the Papal excommunication of Fourth Crusade Venetians (including Dandolo) for laying siege and sacking the rebellious city of Zara (in modern-day Croatia) while on their way to Constantinople and the Holy Land. A very complicated historical moment, well captured by Brian’s impressive poem. Reply Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 James, please see my reply below which for reasons which baffle me did not appear as a direct response to your comment. Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Joe, these additional thoughts are much appreciated. I imagine Venice would have been extremely jealous of Constantinople which, after all, was and had been the greatest city in the world for centuries. You are quite right about my fascination with Byzantium. My recent poem on Constantine dealt with the sunrise of the city as a great power. This poem addresses its sunset. One more poem as a requiem might be in order. That being said, perhaps Yeats had already written one. His “Sailing to Byzantium” is a poem I’ve long admired and which is short enough to reproduce here: Sailing to Byzantium By William Butler Yeats I That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. II An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. III O sages standing in God’s holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IV Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. Reply Joseph S. Salemi October 28, 2024 Brian, you have quoted one of the most powerful and moving poems of the twentieth century. It brings me to tears whenever I read it. The fourth stanza comes so close to ethereality in language that it virtually explodes the limits of mundane perception. Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Thank you for this additional comment, James, and the interesting discussion of the Silk Road. You bring exciting subject matter to the forefront for who is not inspired by the story of Marco Polo? His story would make for some brilliant poetry. You also bring up some fascinating history about Doge Dandolo and how politically manipulative he was. I just fished the following out of Wikipedia. Dandolo and his Crusaders were to address some dispute in a city called Zara where they were wintering en route to the Holy Land. Pope Innocent threatened excommunication to anyone who antagonized the Zarans. The Crusaders attacked the city anyway, and it at last fell on 24 November 1202. All of the Venetian members of the Crusade were thus excommunicated, but Dandolo kept their excommunication a secret since he knew they would abandon the Crusade if they found out. So Dandolo and his Crusaders were excommunicated, but he decided not to tell them so they could keep the juggernaut rolling. Whatever piety Dandolo had took a backseat to his ambition. No role model for sure, but a terribly interesting man! Macchiavellian hundreds of years before the term even existed. Reply Margaret Coats October 29, 2024 Don’t test me, Brian. Your terribly interesting Machiavellian is, by your own account in the poem, a study in moral blindness. That insight is the literary merit of the work. Look at its clever beginning, with unheard words of Christ, spoken by Aldo and immediately rejected by Dandolo as inapplicable to self. Then scroll to the end, “light matters not to me,” after the doge’s enthusiastic declaration that he will sleep well. In between he counts out his treasure of mortal sins amid a display of piety in words only. Anger with its accompanying murder, revenge, and hatred; greed joined to theft, and maybe a little envy of Byzantine emperors. Pride–the sin that lasts longest even when a good man valiantly quells the others. None of this is statecraft. You place him where he speaks with unrestrained honesty to a confidential servant. The interlocutor isn’t silent. This Christian functions as an irksome guardian angel, to no avail, despite his apparent kindness to the aged ailing body. We see in action the actual graces never acted upon. This has been going on for years and years. The enormity of the sins plus emphatic rejection of grace deepens blindness. You say he felt the ache of conscience, for the many, many evil acts committed by his men according to his shaping. Brian, you wanted a poem on mob violence? You depict its motivating essence. We see no pang of conscience take effect. God is good, but all the more does moral blindness darken as opportunities pass. Finally, a twinge of fear from the sensory impact of the horse that seems to remind him Alexander (likewise guilty of important slaughters!) died. We can only wonder at what point the clouds in corrupted eyes thicken into fatal blackness. Yet you make Dandy such a sympathetic character! So smart, so strong, such shrewd judgment, such determination! Such an encouragement to elderly men to exert themselves in great deeds! To look at crimes as less commendable traits! We see something of how he turned men into war criminals. The last paragraph is sarcastic, Brian, but not bitterly so. Reading your poem can manifest a real but negative aspect of moral reality. Seeing it does, however, take judicious vision. Reply Joseph S. Salemi October 30, 2024 It’s one thing to judge a poem on its aesthetic merits, and quite another to complain that its subject fails to live up to your personal moral standards. Brian’s dramatic monologue did not intend to sermonize against “moral blindness” but merely depict it, as is the case with many of Browning’s monologues as well. Besides, he could have chosen to write a monologue on the real moral cesspool behind the sack of Constantinople — Pope Innocent III, the power-crazed maniac who preached the unnecessary Fourth Crusade, browbeat European rulers to undertake it, and practically choreographed its operations. And when things didn’t go exactly as he wished, he flung around politicized excommunications like a child having a tantrum. This was the same bastard who put England under interdict for nearly seven years, depriving a devout Catholic nation of all sacraments, simply because he had a dispute with King John over an episcopal appointment; and who was responsible for the savagely destructive and murderous war against the Albigensians. He certainly had a number of “less commendable traits.” Finally, I don’t think we post poems here at the SCP to be a resource for teaching proper moral behavior, although they might be used for that on occasion. And there is a difference between reading a poem with “judicious vision,” and seeing it exclusively through the lens of a catechism. Reply Brian A. Yapko October 30, 2024 Quite right, Joe. I have no desire to sermonize in this poem. This is a character study in which data is provided which allows its readers to assess the speaker however they see fit. I do discuss moral blindness (the metaphor with Dandolo’s literal blindness was irresistable) but it was not my intention to use this as a springboard for a discussion of his sins. On he other hand, character is always important. I think there’s a clear line between inviting discernment and preaching and, like Robert Browning before me, I wanted unsavory character traits to be observed and noted. So that my purpose is clear: You mentioned in a prior comment “My Last Duchess.” We do not read this poem from a forensic point of view concerning murder; nor do we read it from a sermonizing point of view on the evils of violating the Sixth Commandment. Robert Browning did not write My Last Duchess to pontificate on the evils of murder or even on arranged marriages or the moral failings of the nobility. Browning is not an agenda-driven poet like that. He wanted to present a character study of an unsavory character and he invited us to see the Duke’s unsavory qualities, note them and find literary pleasure in resolving the mysteries in his character. That is generally my goal in a dramatic monologue. If I want to speak out against murder as a poet, I will almost certainly choose a different form. Brian A. Yapko October 30, 2024 Margaret, thank you so much for this appreciative comment which offers considerable insight into he moral character of Dandolo – insights which I only made implicit through his own uncensored ramblings, forcing the reader to read between the lines as to what really makes a man such as this tick. This is, for me, one of the funnest aspects of dramatic monologues. We get to listen to someone speak and then discern how truthful he is, how insightful he is or, as you point out, how moral he is. When we talk about his less commendable traits, what is particularly exciting about this artform is that what we discern is in the eye of the beholder. Being presented with a character study in poetic form is not all that different from meeting a person for the first time and assessing his or her character. That is one of the reasons why I so enjoy this type of poetry and why Browning has become one of my favorite poets – no one does it like he does. Moral blindness. You distill the poem into two absolutely apposite words and I appreciate the diametrically opposite compliment to me of “judicious vision.” I also appreciate you going line through line and finding instances of Dandolo’s moral blindness. It’s interesting that you find him in some ways sympathetic because I find little to love in this man. Much to respect, however. It is indeed a portrait of someone who was able to inspire decent men to become criminals. You mentioned the “important slaughters” that, as you infer, actually betrays the pride Dandolo feels as he imagines himself comparable to Alexander the Great (who he unconsciously and self-servingly refers to as a “doge.”) You have also mentioned the servant, Aldo — a name with two possible etyomologies a) foreign name borrowed from Old German early on in Italian with a meaning of “old and wise” — irony intended here — and b) a diminutive of “Alessandro” — i.e. Alexander whose historical presence in this poem matters — also some irony intended here. But with the discussion of Aldo I find myself a bit muddled regarding what qualifies as a “silent interlocutor.” I never quote Aldo in this poem, so does that not make him silent? On the other hand, we have Dandolo’s responses to him. So I guess my question (this would be for you and for Dr. Salemi as well) is how do you define silent interlocutor? Is it based on the silence of the character or is it based on whether or not the poem is presented as an uninterrupted one-man conversation in which the other party neither speaks nor is implied to speak? Thank you again, Margaret, for your attention to this poem. Reply Joseph S. Salemi October 30, 2024 I invented the phrase “silent interlocutor” many years ago, during an on-line dispute with another poet about dramatic monologues. The interlocutor is silent if his words are never heard or quoted in the monologue, but who is nonetheless palpably present because the speaker addresses him directly, and therefore his actual presence must be assumed. In some of Browning’s monologues (like “Caliban on Setebos”) the speaker simply talks to himself, with no one else present. I suppose one could call such a poem a “soliloquy,” though that word is usually reserved for a dramatic character who is alone on stage, and who is presumed to be expressing his thoughts privately. The situation is complicated if in the dramatic monologue the speaker seems to answer a question that we the readers do not see in the text, or if he seems to be responding to something that the interlocutor must have said, but which is also not recorded in the text. This happens several times in Browning. Brian A. Yapko October 30, 2024 Thank you for clarifying the “silent interlocutor” meaning for me. I didn’t realize you had coined this extremely useful term! My poem would fall in the ambiguous section since I do have Dandolo respond to words Aldo must have said. But if I don’t quote Aldo (which I don’t) then I see that he is necessarily the silent interlocutor. The alternative would take it out of the realm of dramatic monologue and into that of dialogue. I’ve heard the term soliloquy in dramatic monologues on occasion. “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister” comes to mind. But this seems to be a relatively rare subset of the genre. As you point out, it is far more common in theater. Susan Jarvis Bryant October 31, 2024 Brian, in seemingly effortless, smooth-flowing narrative, you manage to convey the multifaceted nature of the human condition in a poem that’s compelling and particularly relevant in today’s power-crazed political climate. I especially like the smug gusto of these striking lines: “Still, I could “see” / With these stiff, gnarled fingers every shape /And texture of those old bronze-sculpted beasts” where even blindness cannot mar the pleasure of this dastardly deed. Magnificent. Thank you! Reply Brian A. Yapko November 1, 2024 Thank you so very much, Susan, for this generous comment! I’m glad you see some parallels to our present “power-crazed political climate.” I wanted, among other things, to present the psychology of someone who simply riots and steals because he thinks he is entitled to do so without even passing regard for the lack of morality involved because he is so self-referential. 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Paul Freeman October 27, 2024 Great stuff. I particularly liked how you linked the bronze horses to the Four Horses of the Apocalypse, and the way you introduced Doge Dandolo and his character as an old man listing his ailments and aches and pains. Thanks for the read. Reply
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 The Four Horses of the Apocalypse was one of those inspiration things that came midway through writing the poem rather than at the beginning. But once I hit on the idea it seemed exactly right. And glad you liked the characterization of this doge who was both famous and infamous. Thank you so much for reading and your kind words, Paul! Reply
Roy Eugene Peterson October 27, 2024 As you likely know, I seldom comment on a blank verse poem; however, once I began reading this work, it was as compelling as the best of novels and a fantastic work of art. The idea that in an ancient age one could live so long, possess his faculties, plan such an amazing feat, and achieve so much, gives hope to all of us in advancing age and informs us that we can still achieve our dreams despite the woes we may be suffering. This is a masterpiece in its own right. Reply
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Roy, I’m so grateful that you read and commented on this poem. I know full well that you don’t generally enjoy blank verse, so I’m honored that you made an exception here. Dandolo is an amazing character in history. It’s hard to picture someone so old and completely blind yet having the power and ability to do what he did (as I mentioned to Paul, “famous and infamous.”) I started this poem with the intent of presenting the horrors of mob actions, but ended up becoming utterly fascinated by this consequential man. He sort of took over the narrative and the poem unexpectedly morphed into a character study. Sometimes when you’re writing you just need to let that happen. Thank you again for a truly generous comment! Reply
Joseph S. Salemi October 27, 2024 Brian, to me this is the most Browningesque of your dramatic monologues. Its speaker is a well-known figure out of history, it has a silent interlocutor (Aldo), it reveals unflattering personality traits, and it expresses the speaker’s resentment and greed as well as his appreciation of fine art. This could easily have been a subject that Browning would have tackled. What first came to my mind is “The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s,” where an old and dying ecclesiastic gives directions for his burial, lamenting his coming death while expressing his love for fine stone, his fear of being cheated, his contempt for a long-dead rival, and his all-consuming pride. But I also was reminded of the Duke of Ferrara in “My Last Duchess,” where a cruel and murderous nobleman freely speaks of killing a wife who annoyed him, while at the same time expressing delight in objects of fine art. Your picture of the Doge has unmistakable echoes of these two Browning pieces. The dramatic monologue as a genre is well suited to the depiction of the uglier side of human nature — selfishness, greed, cruelty, hate, stupidity. But combining those traits with other commendable ones (courage, determination, the appreciation of fine art, political savvy, and energy) is what makes the poem compelling and intriguing. Imagine a dramatic monologue that revealed the speaker to be a paragon of kindness, wisdom, good nature, piety, and politeness. It would bore the hell out of us. Reply
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Thank you very much, Joe — Having my work considered Browningesque is deeply satisfying to me since, as you know, he is one of my favorite poets. Insofar as looking at this poem through the prism of “The Bishop Orders His Tomb…” I am delighted with how perceptive you are. I would not say Bishop was a model for this poem, but I am very familiar with the subject matter as you described (don’t forget the bastard child!) and the fact that Browning wrote this one in blank verse also. Historic, jewel-encrusted setting. I would say my poem definitely took inspiration from this overly material man of God. I am also very familiar with My Last Duchess but would never have consciously thought of it as one of the inspirations for this poem. But now that you mention it, I can definitely see that you are right — that Browningesque in-character trivialization of something the normal reader would find to be heinous. Sometimes we are inspired by work and do not necessarily realize it until the piece is completed. You are so right about dramatic monologues as a vehicle for exploring the character of someone who is morally as well as psychologically complex. Characters with a skeleton or two in their closet are more fun. You mentioned how dull it is to write in the character of someone who is a paragon of kindness and good nature. It’s possible but you really have to get a good plot-twist in place to make it readable. I’ve tried several times to write a poem in the voice of Albert Schweitzer and have failed each time. African missionary, physician, Bach scholar… and yet I still can’t make him poetically interesting! Reply
James A. Tweedie October 27, 2024 Brian, Amen to most all of the above comments. Your narrative is flawless blank verse, something I didn’t even note until I was half-way through the second stanza. I second Paul’s compliment on your link to the apocalypse as well as your a-sympathetic psycho/physical analysis/description of the Doge. Having been to both Venice (twice) and Istanbul (once) the conflict you so dispassionately describe is one I have come to consider one of the greatest blots on the Crusades. How ironic that the sack of (Eastern) Christian Byzantium by (Western) Christian Crusaders destroyed Europe’s last great defense against Islam’s expansion to the West. Venice survived, of course, but it could be argued that too much of its greatness came as a result of what Brian so compellingly shares with us in this poem. Reply
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Thank you so much for this generous comment, James! “Flawless blank verse” is about as high praise as a poet could hope for! I’ve also been to both Venice (only once, alas) and Istabul and found them to be incredible experiences from a historic, religious, artistic point of view and I knew that sooner or later I would have to write about them. I saw the marker of Dandolo’s (probably empty) gravesite in the Hagia Sophia. And I was especially excited to see the horses at St. Mark’s Basilica because they are truly legendary. The idea of connecting them to the Four Horses of the Apocalypse only came midway through the drafting of this poem. But it worked and especially so in the context of having Dandolo suddenly (and only briefly) fearing God. Otherwise, he’s knowledgable about religion but only as a tool of statecraft. He is here to be served, not to serve. The Spirit is not in him. I share your views of this blot on the Crusades. The betrayal was so unexpected and so thorough I had to write about it. It felt so modern. I’m grateful, James, to have a reader of this poem who has actually been to the sites described. Thank you again for the kind words! Reply
Joseph S. Salemi October 27, 2024 Just some added thoughts on the subject of this poem: By the year 1200, the hostility between the Latin West and the Greek East had become a linguistic, cultural, and racial one, with religion being just an afterthought (except among clerics, of course). The larger Graeco-Roman unity that still existed in Constantine’s day, and that had made the move to Byzantium thinkable, was gone forever. An empire that still used Latin and koine Greek administratively, and learned classical Greek to understand ancient literature, thought of itself as a single body. That was long gone by the year 1200, with the rise of the Romance languages and the disappearance of Greek studies in Europe. As far as the Venetians were concerned, the Byzantines were just troublesome and foreign commercial rivals who wore strange clothes and looked like the Moslem enemy. They had also done some unpleasant things to Western Europeans living in their domains. Brian now has written two dramatic monologues focused on the city of Constantinople. Perhaps, like W.B. Yeats, he is fascinated by the place! Reply
James A. Tweedie October 28, 2024 Good context, although I would add “economic” to the hostility list, a matter of great importance for keeping trade routes to the East open not only for the European Crusaders as a whole but for Venice in particular. The Silk Road existed long before Marco Polo (a Venetian) followed it to China some 70 years after Dandolo’s death. Venice’s wealth was (as Shakespeare points out in The Merchant of Venice) in its fleet and the control of shipping lanes and land routes was vital for Venetian trade and for its lucrative transportation of Crusaders to and from the Levant. There was piety involved, of course, admixed with the Papal excommunication of Fourth Crusade Venetians (including Dandolo) for laying siege and sacking the rebellious city of Zara (in modern-day Croatia) while on their way to Constantinople and the Holy Land. A very complicated historical moment, well captured by Brian’s impressive poem. Reply
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 James, please see my reply below which for reasons which baffle me did not appear as a direct response to your comment.
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Joe, these additional thoughts are much appreciated. I imagine Venice would have been extremely jealous of Constantinople which, after all, was and had been the greatest city in the world for centuries. You are quite right about my fascination with Byzantium. My recent poem on Constantine dealt with the sunrise of the city as a great power. This poem addresses its sunset. One more poem as a requiem might be in order. That being said, perhaps Yeats had already written one. His “Sailing to Byzantium” is a poem I’ve long admired and which is short enough to reproduce here: Sailing to Byzantium By William Butler Yeats I That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. II An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. III O sages standing in God’s holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IV Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. Reply
Joseph S. Salemi October 28, 2024 Brian, you have quoted one of the most powerful and moving poems of the twentieth century. It brings me to tears whenever I read it. The fourth stanza comes so close to ethereality in language that it virtually explodes the limits of mundane perception.
Brian A. Yapko October 28, 2024 Thank you for this additional comment, James, and the interesting discussion of the Silk Road. You bring exciting subject matter to the forefront for who is not inspired by the story of Marco Polo? His story would make for some brilliant poetry. You also bring up some fascinating history about Doge Dandolo and how politically manipulative he was. I just fished the following out of Wikipedia. Dandolo and his Crusaders were to address some dispute in a city called Zara where they were wintering en route to the Holy Land. Pope Innocent threatened excommunication to anyone who antagonized the Zarans. The Crusaders attacked the city anyway, and it at last fell on 24 November 1202. All of the Venetian members of the Crusade were thus excommunicated, but Dandolo kept their excommunication a secret since he knew they would abandon the Crusade if they found out. So Dandolo and his Crusaders were excommunicated, but he decided not to tell them so they could keep the juggernaut rolling. Whatever piety Dandolo had took a backseat to his ambition. No role model for sure, but a terribly interesting man! Macchiavellian hundreds of years before the term even existed. Reply
Margaret Coats October 29, 2024 Don’t test me, Brian. Your terribly interesting Machiavellian is, by your own account in the poem, a study in moral blindness. That insight is the literary merit of the work. Look at its clever beginning, with unheard words of Christ, spoken by Aldo and immediately rejected by Dandolo as inapplicable to self. Then scroll to the end, “light matters not to me,” after the doge’s enthusiastic declaration that he will sleep well. In between he counts out his treasure of mortal sins amid a display of piety in words only. Anger with its accompanying murder, revenge, and hatred; greed joined to theft, and maybe a little envy of Byzantine emperors. Pride–the sin that lasts longest even when a good man valiantly quells the others. None of this is statecraft. You place him where he speaks with unrestrained honesty to a confidential servant. The interlocutor isn’t silent. This Christian functions as an irksome guardian angel, to no avail, despite his apparent kindness to the aged ailing body. We see in action the actual graces never acted upon. This has been going on for years and years. The enormity of the sins plus emphatic rejection of grace deepens blindness. You say he felt the ache of conscience, for the many, many evil acts committed by his men according to his shaping. Brian, you wanted a poem on mob violence? You depict its motivating essence. We see no pang of conscience take effect. God is good, but all the more does moral blindness darken as opportunities pass. Finally, a twinge of fear from the sensory impact of the horse that seems to remind him Alexander (likewise guilty of important slaughters!) died. We can only wonder at what point the clouds in corrupted eyes thicken into fatal blackness. Yet you make Dandy such a sympathetic character! So smart, so strong, such shrewd judgment, such determination! Such an encouragement to elderly men to exert themselves in great deeds! To look at crimes as less commendable traits! We see something of how he turned men into war criminals. The last paragraph is sarcastic, Brian, but not bitterly so. Reading your poem can manifest a real but negative aspect of moral reality. Seeing it does, however, take judicious vision. Reply
Joseph S. Salemi October 30, 2024 It’s one thing to judge a poem on its aesthetic merits, and quite another to complain that its subject fails to live up to your personal moral standards. Brian’s dramatic monologue did not intend to sermonize against “moral blindness” but merely depict it, as is the case with many of Browning’s monologues as well. Besides, he could have chosen to write a monologue on the real moral cesspool behind the sack of Constantinople — Pope Innocent III, the power-crazed maniac who preached the unnecessary Fourth Crusade, browbeat European rulers to undertake it, and practically choreographed its operations. And when things didn’t go exactly as he wished, he flung around politicized excommunications like a child having a tantrum. This was the same bastard who put England under interdict for nearly seven years, depriving a devout Catholic nation of all sacraments, simply because he had a dispute with King John over an episcopal appointment; and who was responsible for the savagely destructive and murderous war against the Albigensians. He certainly had a number of “less commendable traits.” Finally, I don’t think we post poems here at the SCP to be a resource for teaching proper moral behavior, although they might be used for that on occasion. And there is a difference between reading a poem with “judicious vision,” and seeing it exclusively through the lens of a catechism. Reply
Brian A. Yapko October 30, 2024 Quite right, Joe. I have no desire to sermonize in this poem. This is a character study in which data is provided which allows its readers to assess the speaker however they see fit. I do discuss moral blindness (the metaphor with Dandolo’s literal blindness was irresistable) but it was not my intention to use this as a springboard for a discussion of his sins. On he other hand, character is always important. I think there’s a clear line between inviting discernment and preaching and, like Robert Browning before me, I wanted unsavory character traits to be observed and noted. So that my purpose is clear: You mentioned in a prior comment “My Last Duchess.” We do not read this poem from a forensic point of view concerning murder; nor do we read it from a sermonizing point of view on the evils of violating the Sixth Commandment. Robert Browning did not write My Last Duchess to pontificate on the evils of murder or even on arranged marriages or the moral failings of the nobility. Browning is not an agenda-driven poet like that. He wanted to present a character study of an unsavory character and he invited us to see the Duke’s unsavory qualities, note them and find literary pleasure in resolving the mysteries in his character. That is generally my goal in a dramatic monologue. If I want to speak out against murder as a poet, I will almost certainly choose a different form.
Brian A. Yapko October 30, 2024 Margaret, thank you so much for this appreciative comment which offers considerable insight into he moral character of Dandolo – insights which I only made implicit through his own uncensored ramblings, forcing the reader to read between the lines as to what really makes a man such as this tick. This is, for me, one of the funnest aspects of dramatic monologues. We get to listen to someone speak and then discern how truthful he is, how insightful he is or, as you point out, how moral he is. When we talk about his less commendable traits, what is particularly exciting about this artform is that what we discern is in the eye of the beholder. Being presented with a character study in poetic form is not all that different from meeting a person for the first time and assessing his or her character. That is one of the reasons why I so enjoy this type of poetry and why Browning has become one of my favorite poets – no one does it like he does. Moral blindness. You distill the poem into two absolutely apposite words and I appreciate the diametrically opposite compliment to me of “judicious vision.” I also appreciate you going line through line and finding instances of Dandolo’s moral blindness. It’s interesting that you find him in some ways sympathetic because I find little to love in this man. Much to respect, however. It is indeed a portrait of someone who was able to inspire decent men to become criminals. You mentioned the “important slaughters” that, as you infer, actually betrays the pride Dandolo feels as he imagines himself comparable to Alexander the Great (who he unconsciously and self-servingly refers to as a “doge.”) You have also mentioned the servant, Aldo — a name with two possible etyomologies a) foreign name borrowed from Old German early on in Italian with a meaning of “old and wise” — irony intended here — and b) a diminutive of “Alessandro” — i.e. Alexander whose historical presence in this poem matters — also some irony intended here. But with the discussion of Aldo I find myself a bit muddled regarding what qualifies as a “silent interlocutor.” I never quote Aldo in this poem, so does that not make him silent? On the other hand, we have Dandolo’s responses to him. So I guess my question (this would be for you and for Dr. Salemi as well) is how do you define silent interlocutor? Is it based on the silence of the character or is it based on whether or not the poem is presented as an uninterrupted one-man conversation in which the other party neither speaks nor is implied to speak? Thank you again, Margaret, for your attention to this poem. Reply
Joseph S. Salemi October 30, 2024 I invented the phrase “silent interlocutor” many years ago, during an on-line dispute with another poet about dramatic monologues. The interlocutor is silent if his words are never heard or quoted in the monologue, but who is nonetheless palpably present because the speaker addresses him directly, and therefore his actual presence must be assumed. In some of Browning’s monologues (like “Caliban on Setebos”) the speaker simply talks to himself, with no one else present. I suppose one could call such a poem a “soliloquy,” though that word is usually reserved for a dramatic character who is alone on stage, and who is presumed to be expressing his thoughts privately. The situation is complicated if in the dramatic monologue the speaker seems to answer a question that we the readers do not see in the text, or if he seems to be responding to something that the interlocutor must have said, but which is also not recorded in the text. This happens several times in Browning.
Brian A. Yapko October 30, 2024 Thank you for clarifying the “silent interlocutor” meaning for me. I didn’t realize you had coined this extremely useful term! My poem would fall in the ambiguous section since I do have Dandolo respond to words Aldo must have said. But if I don’t quote Aldo (which I don’t) then I see that he is necessarily the silent interlocutor. The alternative would take it out of the realm of dramatic monologue and into that of dialogue. I’ve heard the term soliloquy in dramatic monologues on occasion. “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister” comes to mind. But this seems to be a relatively rare subset of the genre. As you point out, it is far more common in theater.
Susan Jarvis Bryant October 31, 2024 Brian, in seemingly effortless, smooth-flowing narrative, you manage to convey the multifaceted nature of the human condition in a poem that’s compelling and particularly relevant in today’s power-crazed political climate. I especially like the smug gusto of these striking lines: “Still, I could “see” / With these stiff, gnarled fingers every shape /And texture of those old bronze-sculpted beasts” where even blindness cannot mar the pleasure of this dastardly deed. Magnificent. Thank you! Reply
Brian A. Yapko November 1, 2024 Thank you so very much, Susan, for this generous comment! I’m glad you see some parallels to our present “power-crazed political climate.” I wanted, among other things, to present the psychology of someone who simply riots and steals because he thinks he is entitled to do so without even passing regard for the lack of morality involved because he is so self-referential. Reply
