my breakfast table awaits his return my home is small and dark in a dirty street of this city full of widows the table is set for my son’s return from Ypres he said it would be soon so I fill this house with patches of bright colour I polish the teapot until it is a mirror reflecting light from three windows and the lustreware milk jug dances with copper, red and blue scintillations on the spotless white tablecloth none of my crockery matches but cleaner and shinier you will not find in all London the turquoise and gold patterned wallpaper matches the forget-me-not blue of his eyes I brighten myself too with a poppy-red scarf a dress with splashes of scarlet my breakfast table awaits his return Annest Gwilym Annest Gwilym lives in North Wales, near the Snowdonia National Park in the UK. Her work has been published in various literary magazines and anthologies. She has been placed, highly commended and shortlisted in several writing competitions in recent years. She was the winner of firstwriter.com’s Fifteenth International Poetry Competition 2016. She edited and designed the e-book anthology Flowers in the Machine in 2017 on behalf of the Poetry Kit. free download: https://www.poetrykit.org/pkp/flowers.pdf
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(In Canada) What if daily life is boring, and I can’t muster the enthusiasm to power my lung-bellows? Or if everyone else is dun, and only I remain, naked before predators? Or what if I am not (aware) (interesting) (interested), lost in soughing branches all around, conviviality sweeping past like a wave, me mud-buried? Or if the font never changes, either endless capitals or 12-point Times New Roman, a monotony as fearsome as heaven? Or the paper is ruled, trapping me between parallels, or the palette off-putting, as in the antechamber of an obscure government office? Or what if, despite all opportunity, I croak the same questions, the most plaintive night peeper? Devon Balwit This poem was written for the surprise challenge, ekphrastic poetry in response to Canadian art. Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements (Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). More of her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Inflectionist; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more. The Snow Lay Moist and Heavy The snow lay moist and heavy upon the ground Great gouts of it had fallen from the church roof, almost burying Ti-Guy and Jeannot who had snuck out of mass early If they were older it might have been God’s will that they die that they smother under the heavy wet snow clogging their mouths, their nostrils the way Grandpere said it was in the mud in the trenches in the war We played that war with snowballs It was a serious thing picking sides Who made the best, the hardest, the roundest who had the best aim, the fastest arm This was good snow for forts and snowballs We played all afternoon into the darkening evening when a rare winter thunderstorm sent us running home booming above us We zig-zagged, ducking the shells from the artillery guns Pam Martin This poem was written as part of the Surprise Challenge, ekphrastic poems from Canadian paintings. Mary Pratt, Study for Butter and Honey, 2008
Why is there a silver soup ladle in the jar mouth open to lucent honey alive with floral orange red hues on that garish table cloth? The jar hexagon shaped near the square butter both sitting in that rectangular dish, foil twists out knife on top the yellow spread a breakfast scene Mary Pratt painted to bring us to our senses. Amy Phimister This poem was written for the surprise challenge, ekphrastic poems inspired by Canadian paintings. After a long corporate career, Amy Phimister has returned to writing full time. She graduated from St. Mary's College in Notre Dame with a B.A. in Creative Writing. A member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, she is currently working on a chapbook of her poems. Christmas Morning
Mother, I’ve hung a wreath of yellowed flowers from your August bed. Off to your right, yes, just beyond your left ear, more of those berries, red like cardinals. The kids are fine but left me alone to my memories this morning. The spruce above stands wet, snowy, and silent-- her nest empty. Todd Sukany Todd Sukany <editor@upstarespress.com> is an instructor of English at Southwest Baptist University. He has published poems in Ancient Paths, Cantos, Cave Region Review, Grist, Intégrité, and The Bleeding Typewriter. Sukany received a Pushcart nomination. A native of Michigan, he has lived in Missouri for thirty-plus years. He holds degrees from Southwest Baptist University and Southeast Missouri State University. Trees of Light
A porous tunnel of trees makes the light lighter than the butterflies. It seeps to reach me, with all my shadows getting high on dopamine and doom on a weekday. You can't stop a tree from dancing. a viscous life fixated to rhizome, screens the sun, and kisses infinite over-world to make rains for my sex-starved deserts. I smell death. I see deathless. I hear trees talking about the Buddhas we all were once. Sudeep Adhikari Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal. His recent publications were with Beatnik Cowboys, Zombie Logic Review, The Bees Are Dead, Silver Birch Press and Eunoia Review.
Newlyweds You rode out of a folk tale on a white horse dressed in your best traditions clothes carefully kept handed down from mother to daughter father to son worn at weddings and other great celebrations a story in each bright embroidered stitch something new added in each generation boots or gloves or headpiece worked with the same dedication in the same language of figure and design reset and reimagined ever more elaborate and rich- the horse steps high arching his neck almost dancing carrying you both home to some small cottage built of gingerbread and candy made to bless and amplify your joy and yet there must be more unsaid in your simple story you look so stiff pale and sad your faces flat and blank as wood carved to fit some elder god’s dark intention Mary McCarthy This poem was written for the Surprise Challenge, ekphrastic poetry from Canadian paintings. Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has had work published in many online and print journals ,has been a Pushcart nominee, and her electronic e chapbook “Things I Was Told Not to Think About” is available as a free download from Praxis magazine. Searching for Indian Harbour I Learn How Provincial Google Can be Before I Strike Gold I type in “Indian Harbour, CN” but even with the “u” in there I only get links to a yacht club in Greenwich Connecticut, where I learn that the dress code requires jackets and collared shirts for men in the main dining room, hats, caps and visors must be removed in the clubhouse, and bare feet, denim and t-shirts are strictly forbidden everywhere. I try again with “Canada” spelled out and learn that Indian Harbour is part of the Nova Scotia Alden Nowlan wrote about and that we have a history. Wikipedia say the roads were dirt and kept up by locals till 1955; power didn’t come in until 1945. Years ago, on our first long road trip north, we swam there near Peggy’s Cove, ate sharp white cheddar sliced from a huge round, and stayed in a motel cabin with an oil burning stove. The quilt that still hangs in our bedroom came from a neighbourhood church sale. We were young and in love and had to think about it a long time. A hundred bucks was a lot of money in those days. Charlie Rossiter This poem was written for the Surprise Challenge, ekphrastic poetry about Canadian paintings. Charlie Rossiter's popular poetry podcast can be heard on the first and third Fridays of every month. http://www.poetryspokenhere.com/ Get his free ebook, Poems People Like, here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39347 The North American Iceberg
melts one soul at a time melts one heart at a time melts one life at a time melts one spirit at a time William Schmidtkunz This poem was written for the Surprise Challenge, ekphrastic poetry about Canadian paintings. William Schmidtkunz lives, works, and writes in Sutton, Alaska. His recent publication is 6 poems, by Red Horse Press. Shivering in the Church Yard
His tombstone cast a long shadow, stretching from his death toward hers. She began skipping church, afraid to watch his reach growing shorter. Alarie Tennille This poem was written for the Surprise Challenge, ekphrastic poetry from Canadian paintings. Alarie’s latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. |
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