Tuesday 3 September 2024

A Triptych Poem Consisting of 3 Ekphrastic Poems by Hedy Habra




From: "A Triptych: Visibile parlare in sotto voce: "What the Painter Hears," After The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt

 

 KlimtKiss.jpg 

  


A Triptych 

        Visibile Parlare in Sotto Voce 

 

I. What the Painter Hears 

A Song from the Viennese, Whispered to Klimt 

 

You wanted our encounter to be a ritual,  

         planned every detail: 

             Ivy circled your hair,  

        I interlaced mine  

   with violets and jasmine.   

Wrapped in a diaphanous sarong,  

      I stood by the bed of forget-me-nots.  

            You held me  

against your silk kimono,  

             the sun's folded wings framed us  

        in its golden coin.   

Losing my balance, I fell on my knees,  

       clinging to you,  

            my arm around your bent shoulder.   

Eyes closed, I could see your hands 

             cupped around my face  

as if holding a precious porcelain.   

      I pressed my toes  

            against the ground  

   afraid we’d sink  

              into the abyss,  

both trapped within one trunk,  

             one womb,  

as if you were my own  

        and I, Mother Earth bearing fruit,  

              merging our beginnings.  

Let me become that space  

          between your palms,  

the mark of your lips on my cheek. 

 

 

 

First published by Museum Views: Art Info 

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)





From: "A Triptych: Visibile parlare in sotto voce: 'The Artist as Voyeur,'"  
After The Embrace by Egon Schiele

 

 the-embrace-1917.jpg

  

 


A Triptych 

        Visibile Parlare in Sotto Voce 

 

II. The Artist as Voyeur 

             Schiele’s Glimpse at Love 

 

 

I want them to hold each other as if it were their last embrace. 

It is unusual, I know, for anyone to witness such fiery tenderness 

but long to see desire itself as I’ve always dreamt it, 

not as I saw it in eyes saddened by layers of Kohl and mascara. 

Isn’t it what the child in us seeks 

to be one with the primal act of one’s conception? 

 

 

I want to forget the circled eyes of children consumed  

by their own fire, their pupil, the colour of pain and loneliness . . . 

So I tell my models not to delay this embrace. They undress clumsily, 

hug each other so tightly they can’t breathe. His arms pressed 

around her waist crush her, yet she should not feel the pain, 

for what is pain if not of longing, or letting go? 

 

 

¥ 

 

 

I want her hair to cascade in deep green over the white folds 

of wrinkled sheets framing their face: let it fall on the nape of his neck, 

let him sense her sweet fragrance. I want him to wish he’d drown 

in their dark waters, in the depths of scenes rushing into his mind, 

of her of him of them of then of now all at once. 

 

 

I want to be part of his vision, wish I could paint myself in his place, 

feel images flow from her skin to mine. I turn the hour hand back, 

and over moonless waters in the darkness of a womblike warmth,  

I glimpse my own reflection in their surrender,  

the desire of myself dissolving time and space.

 

 

¥ 

 

 

Her fingers run over his shoulder, digging nails into his flesh 

as if writing on clay, a clay I have become, for I know too well how 

she remodels his chin, his lips, his cheekbone, her fingertips rest 

in the crease of his earlobe, giving me time to paint, to imagine how 

she remodels my chin, my lips, my cheekbone, her fingertips resting 

in the crease of my earlobe as I draw myself onto them. 

 

 

My back overlaps his, as my body and hers become one 

with every stroke. She forgets him, a mere screen for this séance 

to take place. He whispers through her hair, but I know 

she only hears my brushstrokes thrusting her face into her shoulder 

as if trying to silence her, forcing her to bite her own flesh. 

I know she will later read my unwritten words on the canvas. 

Does she notice how his voice is now covered by the sound of my brush?   

 

 

 



 

I paint myself as I paint them, a day at a time, my words suffused 

in linseed oil muffle even their thoughts, seep through sheets,  

beneath wavy curls, fold white curves around her body, between her legs.  

She opens up like a flower offering more surfaces to the wind.   

As I press the tip of the brush, I hear them think in Braille.   

My palette feels heavier, the session is over. They dress up  

like empty shells, leave me facing Us in a visibile parlare, 

She and I, in such an embrace, I will never recapture. 

 

 

 

First published by Museum Views: Art Info 

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)





From: "A Triptych: Visibile parlare in sotto voce: "Before the Storm," 

After Bride of the Wind by Oscar Kokoschka 

  

bride-of-the-wind-1914.jpg!Blog.jpg





A Triptych 

        Visibile Parlare in Sotto Voce 

 

III.  Before the Storm 

            The Wind Trapped by Kokoshka, Rests by his Bride 

 

 

   He lies eyes wide-open, brows tense, 

lips pressed together, 

               his rugged hands  

                      knotted over his belly as if in pain.   

                   They have just made love,  

    their bodies’ tide lulled her to sleep, 

                and soon, they’d be swept away  

   in a whirlwind . . .   

             yet she sleeps unaware,  

                   lost in enchanted woods 

      while he senses the gust      miles away,  

            hears murmurs      in the thickets,  

               feels ripples formed  

   by frightened wings. 

        Head leaning on his shoulder,  

              a closed fist against his chest,  

      her dreams speak in tongues, 

         in her faint smile . . . 

                  under her lowered eyelids.   

 

                               µ 

 

     He remembers how she’d wait for him:  

          in the clearings    at her doorstep,  

                by the circular fountain  

    beneath tall beech trees.   

               He’d watch her read omens  

        in their bark’s charcoaled eyes,  

                   outline her profile . . .  

               a medallion in evening sepia,  

        see her dress     tremble  

   at the slightest breeze;  

        he’d enter the courtyard,  

            rush through dark corridors, 

                  drape himself with her smell 

             till she’d bend under his weight.  

 

 

                               µ 

 

  As though lying in tall branches,  

             they feel the rustle of leaves,  

                  the sway of sycamores, imposing pines.  

        He has to leave without looking back,  

        join forces with the North wind,  

          break the reflection captured in her eyes. 

                 Could he ever explain he was just 

                        the substance of her dreams?   

          She would wake up soon, 

                the fury of the storm deafening,  

       its call      irresistible,  

                 erasing the mirage of her shadow. 

                          He thinks of getting up but cannot move . . . 

          the painter’s gaze anchoring him by her side. 

 

 

 

First published by Museum Views: Art Info 

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)  



 


 

 

 

 

Hedy Habra is a poet, artist, and essayist. Her latest poetry collection, Or Did You Ever See The Other Side?won the 2024 International Poetry Book Award and was a Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award; The Taste of the Earth, won the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honourable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award; Tea in Heliopolis won the Best Poetry Book Award and Under Brushstrokes was a finalist for the International Poetry Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honourable Mention and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Her book of criticism, Mundos alternos y artisticos en Vargas Llosa, focuses on the visual aspects of the Peruvian Nobel Laureate's narrative. A twenty one-time-nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/  


 

 

 


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