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This month's poem about Gustav Klimt's painting The Kiss is from Lawrence Ferlinghetti's collection of ekphrastic poetry entitled When I Look at Pictures.
"Ekphrastic" (from the
Greek word
"ekphrazein," which
means to describe or
proclaim) applies to
poems that focus their
attention on other
works of art. Famous
examples include Keats' Ode
on a Grecian Urn, Rilke's Archaic Torso of Apollo, and Auden's Musée
de Beaux Arts.
Those poems not only
vividly describe an
ancient urn, a
fragmented statue of
Apollo, and the
Brueghel painting The
Fall of Icarus,
they lead to universal
insights inspired by
each work of art.
Although Ferlinghetti
calls his poem a "Short
Story," a glance at his
creative line structure
assures us that he is
writing poetry. Each
short line focuses on a
single detail within
Klimt's painting,
including the lovers'
positions on the
canvas, their bodily
actions, the color and
flow of the man's robe,
the woman's dress, her
facial expression, etc.
Ferlinghetti's
indentations invite us
to move our eyes back
and forth from one part
of The Kiss to the next, savoring each detail before moving on, as we might do were we in a gallery, studying a great work of art. The poet is acting as our docent.
Ferlinghetti's first eleven lines say nothing surprising about The
Kiss. The lovers are "kneeling upright" on a "flowered bed." The man has "caught" the woman in an embrace and "holds her still." Her "gown" has "slipped down" "off her shoulder." The man's head is "dark" and "bends" to the woman "hungrily."
So far, our poet's description does not challenge the usual view of The Kiss which is widely seen as a celebration of romantic and erotic love, wherein a man and a woman join in a rapturous embrace. The man leans lovingly toward the woman, who appears to blissfully accept his fervent kiss. The golden aura surrounding the couple hints at an almost mystical connection, symbolizing a blending of souls by iconic lovers.
As our poet pays attention to the woman's body language,
however, a radically different narrative starts to emerge. Our
docent points out that the fingers on one of the woman's hands
clutch one of the man's hands like "a languid claw"; while her
other hand (its "fingers / strangely crimped / tightly together")
looks like "the head of a dead swan / draped down over / his
heavy neck" as she "turns her tangerine lips" away from him.
These details make us wonder if Klimt is trying to capture the
essence of a woman in love or is up to something more
complicated.
We cannot see the man's eyes, face, or mouth, buried as they are
in the act of kissing, although the ardor with which he cradles the
woman's head and presses his lips to her cheek imply that he, at
least, is passionately in love.
Of course, if Klimt is to give us insight into what the woman may
be feeling, he must turn her head away from the man so we can
study her face; but why has he painted her arms, hands, and
fingers in a manner that suggests she is determined to prevent the
man from kissing her lips? How are we to put together such
resistance with the dreamy, blissful expression on her face? Like
Mona Lisa, here's a woman with a mystery.
Some feminist critics have argued that her closed eyes and tilted
head suggest she is a victim of male domination. Others go a step
further, aguing that Klimt is alluding to the Apollo and Daphne
myth, wherein, smitten by Cupid's arrow, the god pursues a
woman who, in Ovid's story, "dislikes all suitors" and vows to
"enjoy virginity forever." Just as Apollo is about to seize Daphne,
she begs her father to destroy her beauty which has brought men
"too much delight." Her wish is granted. Daphne escapes Apollo's
embrace by being transformed into a laurel tree.
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