sexta-feira, 8 de agosto de 2014


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

 They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed
     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
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
                      in a faraway place somewhere
       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
    will not open
                       is not the One

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