I came across this poem in the back of The Beat Reader. Lawrence Ferlinghetti, owner of San Francisco’s famous City Lights bookstore and member of the Beat crowd, rendered Gustav Klimt’s iconic painting The Kiss into a poem. All paintings are itching for interpretation, and I like the story that he conjured up from the scene. When I was in Vienna this summer, I saw “The Kiss” and stopped dead in my tracks. I was mesmerized, and ever since have been more or less obsessed with Klimt. The sheer size and grandeur of the painting is incredible, and makes every dorm room rendition seem feeble. The painting incites inspiration upon impact.
Here’s the poem.
“Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt”
They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed
He
has just caught her there
and holds her still
Her gown
has slipped down
off her shoulder
He has an urgent hunger
His dark head
bends to hers
hungrily
And the woman the woman
turns her tangerine lips from his
one hand like the head of a dead swan
draped down over
his heavy neck
the fingers
strangely crimped
tightly together
her other arm doubled up
against her tight breast
her hand a languid claw
clutching his hand
which would turn her mouth
to his
her long dress made
of multicolored blossoms
quilted on gold
her Titian hair
with blues stars in it
And his gold
harlequin robe
checkered with
dark squares
Gold garlands
stream down over
her bare calves &
tensed feet
Nearby there must be
a jeweled tree
with glass leaves aglitter
in the gold air
It must be
morning
in a faraway place somewhere
They
are slient together
as in a flowered field
upon the summer couch
which must be hers
And he holds her still
so passionately
holds her head to his
so gently so insistently
to make her turn
her lips to his
Her eyes are closed
like folded petals
She
will not open
He
is not the One
