Postcards from Klimt
From behind the complex wall of colour
That shields the artist from the boisterous world,
The mirror between
Art and autonomy,
Patronage and relevance,
Public and private,
Death and life,
Klimt spoke for himself;
Not in the sea-sick language
Of words
Spoken or on a page,
But through postcards and paint,
Intertwined in the golden thread
Of the highs and lows of his art.
Scrawled postcards trace journeys
Both glorious and tiring,
While sensuality streams from portraits
Of lovers and beloved,
Fashionable and seductive sirens
Of art nouveau.
Oh to be one of those sirens,
To feel the touch of genius,
Damp brush on warm canvas,
Gold leaf on rich pigments,
One of many in the studio garden,
Among the poplars and beech forests,
Or on the shores of a lake;
To receive just one postcard
From Klimt.
Image found on Pinterest
writing in north norfolk 