THE KISS —an ekphrastic poem after Gustav Klimt

THE KISS

     —an ekphrastic poem after Gustav Klimt

I stood on the steps outside the Secession Building 
in tears, because my friend was late.
We surreptitiously slipped into a darkened room,
were greeted by Klimpt’s Kiss, so golden, so tender,

filled with such lavish detail, I couldn’t take it all in.
His hands cradling her face, a beacon of hope.
The textures surrounding them, a lush carpet,

or a ceremonial kimono. For the bride, or for the dead?

Even the walls were flecked with pieces of the sun.
She is made of flowers and limpid pools of water,
he is the fecund geometry of the fields in winter.
His dark hands are rooted in rich earthen loam,
while her face has never been graced by sunlight.
They are an odd couple. Perhaps a mature Romeo and Juliet,

or Orpheus and Eurydice, that moment when 

he turns, and loses his love forever.

They can’t fathom that they are day and night. 

He kisses her so tenderly on the cheek, she swoons, 

they are cocooned in the euphoria of post-coital love. 

He wears a crown of vines, and she, a crown of flowers.

What you can’t see is that she is kneeling 

on a floral carpet, or the edge of a meadow, 

golden chains hobble her slender ankles.

From the look of it, there’s a baby on the way.
And the claustrophobia of dailiness has not taken root. 

I stand on the outside, looking in,
about to embark on a journey to Leningrad 

to meet a lover who loves me no less tenderly,
but already the weight of the golden gown 

is dragging me down to an Undine realm.

11/18/21

Terri Glass’s Write On ~ a Generative Poetry Gathering

FIRST DRAFT

I stood on the steps outside the Secession building, 

in tears, because K. was late. 

We entered the darkened room, 

Klimpt’s Kiss, golden, so tender. 

Such lavish detail, I couldn’t take it all in. 

His hands, her face, a beacon of hope. 

The texture surrounding them 

like a lush carpet or a ceremonial kimono. 

She is made flowers and water, 

he is the fecund geometry of the fields in winter. 

His hands have held dark loam, 

while her face has never been graced by sunlight. 

They are an odd couple. 

Perhaps an older Romeo and Juliette. But they are day and night. 

He kisses her so tenderly on the cheek, 

she swoons, they are cocooned in the euphoria post-coital love. 

The claustrophobia has not yet set in. 

I stand on the outside, looking in, 

about to embark on a journey to Leningrad to meet a lover, 

who loves me no less tenderly 

but already I feel the weight 

of the golden gown dragging me down to an Ondine world