Klimt pintava, ou assim me parece sempre que olho para este quadro, em ouro líquido e com a sensualidade à flor da pele. Quer se descubra nele entrega, rendição ou imposição, a verdade é que nos fica no olho. A Ferlinghetti também ficou, com um travo agridoce, e por isso o poema hoje não é meu..
Com um beijinho para a Cris, que conhece tão bem quadro e poema.
"Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt"
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
(1976)
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 blue 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 silent 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
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