Rubens at Musée Granet, Aix en Provence, France "Portrait d'un dignitaire" Regardez, how Rubens shines among the petty imitators, for elegance is illuminated from within and without, each emotion stroked to perfection, il adore. With brushes of ox-hair and red sable, he portrays the devout as he delves into the depth of soul in shades of ebony; for elegance is illuminated from within and without. A sheen of iridescence recalls onyx; then to a softer degree is coaxed toward the black-velvet of affluence and might as he delves into the depth of soul in shades of ebony. Limpid eyes search the gallery, “Is it love or fright?” See the patron’s blush burnished, as it rises above the ruff; then coaxed toward the black-velvet of affluence and might. Their costume sombre betrayed by lush mouths, each pout a bluff for candlelight and warm nights is foretold in their eyes. See the patron’s blush burnished, as it rises above the ruff. If not skilled of hand and eye, de jouer avec art, is ill advised. Regardez, how Rubens shines among the petty imitators seducing us with the darkness, longing and love baptized; each emotion stroked to perfection, il adore. Deborah Guzzi Deborah Guzzi is a healing facilitator specializing in Shiatsu and Reiki. She writes for Massage and Aromatherapy publications. She travels the world seeking writing inspiration. She has walked the Great Wall of China and visited Nepal (during the civil war), Japan, Egypt (two weeks before “The Arab Spring”), Peru, and France (during December’s terrorist attacks). Her poetry appears in Magazines: here/there: poetry in the UK, Existere - Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China, Eunoia in Singapore, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, RedLeaf Poetry, India and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Sounding Review, The Aurorean, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Liquid Imagination, Poetry Quarterly, and others in the USA.
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House, Home
I. In my own space I struggle Comfort is learned behavior The home I knew was disorder The home I knew was nostalgia—stockpiled II. In my own skin an itch Discomfort without caregiving Set up a home with trappings that order Set up a home where I can rest easy Mark Danowsky Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in Alba, Cordite, Grey Sparrow, Mobius, Shot Glass Journal, Third Wednesday and other journals. Mark is originally from the Philadelphia area, but currently resides in North-Central West Virginia. He works for a private detective agency and is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal. The Pocket Hamlet on the Last Day of School
He asked me to hold out my hand, my A-student gifting his English teacher on the last day of school. Cold June rain pelted smeared windows. Boxes gaped for books. Under ragged bulletin boards I dreamed of July reading, humming Summertime. His bit of book filled my palm like a mouse, a miniature printing of Hamlet in a font I could barely read, gilt title rubbed off, musty leather soft as fledgling hawks. This Hamlet could float in Ophelia’s apron pocket, cram Yorick’s gaping jaw, digest in the lining of my purse. I accept talismans and crushes. He hid under stringy blonde hair he chewed in class, more hanger on than talker. “You’re the only person I know who reads Shakespeare.” The blue smell of truth; I’d read his journal. He looked through sliding hair, walked and closed the door I’d left open for air. Four weeks later I read his name in the paper – a noose, an attic. I dug his Hamlet from my box, a mouse soft memory he chose not to be. Tricia Knoll Tricia Knoll, an Oregon poet, has obsessions. Writing poetry every day, working to see them published in numerous journals, a chapbook out called Urban Wild, and a book coming out from Aldrich Press in spring of 2016, Ocean's Laughter. Others? Going to theater, running, tai chi, dancing, growing a native plant garden for pollinators and birds. Coming in doors to write more poetry. www.triciaknoll.com The Gallery Van Gogh stood in the rain at Saint-Rémy and later went off and died and Winslow Homer did much the same despite the expanse of fields behind him. And we will have to leave the museum eventually, we will be forced out, we will be escorted to the single blot of a shutting door as if there weren’t a storm coming up, as if we hadn’t seen a smudged freighter going down in the gallery or known there were windows to be closed back home and no distance anymore between the flower and the burning. Annie Lighthart From Iron String, Airlie Press 2013. Used with permission of the author. Annie Lighthart started writing poetry after her first visit to an Oregon old-growth forest. Since those first strange days, she published her poetry collection Iron String with Airlie Press, has had her poetry chosen by Naomi Shihab Nye to be placed in Ireland’s Galway University Hospitals, and read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer’s Almanac. She has taught at Boston College, as a poet in the schools, and currently teaches workshops for Portland’s Mountain Writers. She can be reached through her website www.annielighthart.com Having Never Been Charged, by W. Jack Savage. After Vlad the Impaler, or Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia (1431–1476), of the House of Drăculești- who also inspired Bram Stoker's Dracula.
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of seven books including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage (wjacksavage.com). To date, more than fifty of Jack’s short stories and over five-hundred of his paintings and drawings have been published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California. The illustrated poem, "Deficient," by Ariel Rainer Fintushel, is a response to Dali the personality and painter.
Ariel Rainer Fintushel currently lives in Los Angeles, California, writing and making comics. Ariel is working on a book about a female skydiver from the 1900s, and has recently been published in Baltimore University's Welter, Dali's Lovechild, Shabby Dollhouse, and Defenestrationism, with a poem forthcoming in Bop Dead City. Into The Tempest
The last moments of this play do not require counting bodies. No nobles draped over stairways and risers, knifed, bludgeoned, pricked with poison. We went along with transformed usurpers, false dukes, new love, a jealous monster and an exile embracing forgiveness. Lithe Ariel who hopped the sea winds of freedom. We applaud sweat on the actors and stumble to exits, bump against strangers recycling programs– others whose hours saw what ours saw and ears heard what ours heard, a ship-wreck storm, the swash to shore, eyes to a brave new world. Out into an April downpour on slippery bricks, a starless night storm-charged with words, the wind shreds pink blossoms on the plum trees. Gutters churn with washed-up blooms. You held onto my thumb, we totterers advancing through a storm as if the world itself was no longer at war, under the thumb of usurpers and grudging poisonous monsters, as if only the theatre this night went dark. Tricia Knoll Tricia Knoll, an Oregon poet, has obsessions. Writing poetry every day, working to see them published in numerous journals, a chapbook out called Urban Wild, and a book coming out from Aldrich Press in spring of 2016, Ocean's Laughter. Others? Going to theater, running, tai chi, dancing, growing a native plant garden for pollinators and birds. Coming in doors to write more poetry. www.triciaknoll.com |
The Ekphrastic Review
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