On Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome Writing

On Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome Writing
What is it that Saint Jerome was writing?
And why can’t the art take that history back?
It seems the wine-soaked pills made vision lack—
Was Caravaggio with all the gods fighting?

Even the bards sing of his paint’s lightning.
Capturing truth was his vision’s knack.
Of paints and dyes he was a noble Jack—
Even as on art the Monarch’s grip tightening.

O—Sir Jerome whose skull had you scribbling?
A king? A porter? A blacksmith put to death—
For the ungodly childish kings belittling?

Were bones of the dead for his pen kindling?
He spilled his hues and tints just like his breath—
Perhaps now he’s chasing ghosts in old Opeth.

By: Matt Cooper