The Next People The last thing we did was paint the ceiling green. We had put it off forever. Then you walked out the door into the busy light, and I climbed up the gleaming ladder and closed the window. Above the empty fireplace, we left the painting of the rainforest we bought in Costa Rica. Neither of us could imagine looking at it in another room. We left the door open for the sun to paint a door of dappled light on the shiny floor for the next people who will fill this hollow space, hoping for a different ending. Ed Gold Ed Gold is a Charleston, SC poet who has published a chapbook, Owl, and over seventy poems in various journals, including the Cimarron Review, Kansas Quarterly, and Rat's Ass Review. One of his favourite gigs today is running the Skylark Contest for the Poetry Society of South Carolina. He discovered ekphrastic writing in this artist's studio, where he wrote this poem.
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a note from Joan Leotta, guest editor for the Ginny Caraco ekphrastic challenge: Selecting work for the Ginny Caraco Challenge was one of the most difficult things I have been asked to do! When I signed up to work with Lorette on this, when I asked Ginny to allow us to use her painting, I never anticipated the range and high quality of responses. Several of the poems touched only lightly on the art, using it as a springboard to other emotional realms. While I was touched by those as poems, the ones I selected for inclusion were more closely tied to the artwork itself—and that still gave me a wide range. Thank you, Lorette, for giving me this opportunity and for reminding me how difficult it is to be on the other side of the pen—editing! Joan Leotta ** Blue hooves sashay-dance toward post time-- jockeys splashed in colour check reins taut, keep constrained horses dappled with blue shadows. Wait, prancing hooves, edgy for victory! Wait—comes victory only after laps through time! Aligned at start gate, hooves spark and shy with colour. When gun cracks, green, red, blue silks float forward as trained. Angled legs, riders strain in stirrups, victory- lean, ignore blur of blue spectators, tick of time. Muscles sprinting, colour above mud-flinging hooves. Horse numbers flash by, hooves land sure and square—constrained by bright leg-wrap colour-- a slip, no victory. Each stopwatch second—time-- counts toward coveted blue. Cerulean sky—blue awning over race, hooves bolt-running. Precious time on track, oval laps constrained. First place nose! Victory pounds from cloud of colour. Heaving sides, blood colour of flared nostrils, win-blue ribbon, win-victory trophy. Walk, splendid hooves! Smiles loosed, grins uncontained-- celebration hay time. Unbridled rest, victory in colour, ribbon of race time. Remember how blue shadows stretched from hooves—running unconstrained. Lucy Tyrrell Lucy Tyrrell lives near Bayfield, Wisconsin. Her favourite verbs to live by are experience and create. ** Derby Painted in loose, quick strokes the bright animal joy of the horses the jockeys like angels ready for flight excitement rising like champagne bubbles as each contender moves into place at the gate- that artificial start our own invention the even playing field that exists nowhere but where we draw it- lines in the sand conflict echoed ordered and shaped- all positions equal as we can make them- and we gamble knowing there is no sure thing no matter how we calculate the odds knowing there’s always the chance of a wild card, dark horse, unexpected upset, reversal of fortune, inside the house of rules that allows us to exchange stampede for the ordered fury of the race, and all our lawless terrors for delight Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a writer, artist and former Registered Nurse. Her work has appeared in many print and online journals, including Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, Verse-Virtual, and 3 Elements. She has been a Pushcart nominee, and has an electronic chapbook available as a free download from Praxis magazine. ** Treasured Joy or Trying Source... So rightly vague is distant crowd bedimmed by prance of those so proud enroute to moment marking fate of wagered purse that they create as beasts of burden bred to run an oval from their gate undone to plane they break of measured course as treasured joy...or trying source of hauntingly embittered doubt that they had gamely gone the route or had indeed been wisely steered amid the traffic never cleared begetting distant, muffled scorn and rustled twist of tickets torn. Portly Bard Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. ** Under Starters Orders Photo start paused mid-motion colours drain in counter print bleached as watercolour silks cling close to sweaty flank jockeys jostle for position nostrils flare with speculation tape gasps, throws itself into the Carolina breeze odds swept up with excitement feel the rhythm catch the pulse hooves thrumming, agitation drumming to the beat of turf finish line paused mid-motion colours seep back into silk pulse settles, veins contract odds recover, safe return. Kate Young Kate Young lives in Kent with her husband and has been passionate about poetry and literature since childhood. After retiring, she has returned to writing and has had success with poems published in Great Britain and internationally. She is presently editing her work for an anthology and enjoying responding to ekphrastic challenges. Alongside poetry, Kate enjoys art, dance and playing her growing collection of guitars and ukuleles! ** A Tip from Number 11 At two I ran my premier race. I zigged and zagged all over the place! My owner laughed, That’s NOT the way it’s done! But both of us were really glad I won! I’ve trained some more and now I’m three – Be sure to place a bet on me! I’ll show you just how much I love to run! Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She’s now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, where she serves on the Emeritus Board of The Writers Place. Her latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. ** Sunken Dreamboat You painted yourself Bukowski Blue, Sweet Man (the Red Devil himself couldn’t sit straight upon your shoulder) when you chose your own cool, coarse coal over the stone-born gold of me. Can we agree that’s just hilarious? (In a stomach pumping kind of way.) Everything simple is made hard again: The children are horned, the children are scorned. Buttercream tastes of ashes, taffeta turns so tough. Sure, fine. Now I actually see the whispers. Honey Bee, how could I possibly know you’d package poison for Royal Air Express? Oh, Truest Heart, a horde of Red Devils could not sit upon your shoulder. Since, of course, I ought to have seen you all assembled: tuxedo bound, altar ready, opposed, from my end of the aisle. Still, I walked the Dirge March like a challenge: Don’t think twice. It’ll be all right. Sophie Afdhal This poem first appeared in The F&M Alumni Arts Review. Sophie Afdhal writes across genres with a focus on fiction, poetry, and personal essays. She was born and raised in Boston, MA where she currently resides and writes, in the company of at least one pug. She holds a master's in creative writing from the University of Oxford. Like Goya King Ferdinand VII of Spain reportedly once told Goya, "You deserve to be garroted, but you are a great artist so we forgive you." Some nights are harder than others Sometimes I can’t hear myself think in the dark where my thoughts cast no shadows I knew a poet once I have an oil painting of him hidden away in my closet I can drag him out anytime I want to but sometimes he drags me out instead We are ruled by our hungers Sometimes I’m hungry for this piece of his soul (It’s mine I deserve it; I earned it I commissioned this painting) But now I can’t get rid of it Who would want it? I’m the only one – for the most part anyway Some nights I feel as if I’m really seeing it for the first time really seeing him for the first time now that he’s gone Some nights I dream of his ghost Too much moon ruined our plans (too much moon and not enough dark) Now I’m just waiting for the shadows to empty so that I can sleep Cynthia Linville This poem was first published at Medusa's Kitchen. Cynthia Linville has taught in the English Department at California State University, Sacramento since 2000. She served as Managing Editor of Convergence: an online journal of poetry and art from 2008-2018. Her work has appeared in many publications and several anthologies. Linville’s two books of collected poems, The Lost Thing (2012) and Out of Reach (2014), are available from Cold River Press. You can visit her website at http://cynthialinville.com |
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