Thank you all dear readers for keeping the home fires burning at The Ekphrastic Review. I am near the end of my two week hiatus, having an exhibition in Mexico. If you haven't heard from me about your Halloween writing submissions or if postings are slow, please be patient and know I'll catch up soon. It's been a terrific opportunity and learning experience to show my work here in Mexico and I'm so blessed.
-Lorette
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Mimicry
“More like the sitter than the sitter herself,” Raphael declared of a Lippi Madonna. The living may seek their own perfection but never find, the painter implied, the way a mother cannot hold a child close enough to keep it from all harm though that be a woman’s deepest desire. The sun would never glare in her child’s eye, for she? She would never turn away. But Maria, Madonna’s model, is hungry and imagining pears, with none like herself seeing herself in any way than what she is, at least in her own eyes. Where else would art find its light to launch itself above our shade than in a beauty bound to be nevermore, with nothing else like it when it lived? Lines etch themselves beneath our eyes. Art though in lines finds no such doom once freed from the tomb of the artist’s hands. It photoshops a shadow in the blank march of days that flicker by us on our way, a flock of birds frozen in the sky, a sun blinding us by other means. Sometimes we see the fatty hand of art loom over the hand, or a portrait not with the gait of any man that lived, a limp counterfeit of humanity, as Hamlet says. Sometimes we awake to find we’ve been actors in our own skin. That’s when death or love throws out art, and we find ourselves sitting in a park on a cold slab crying hot tears, a sad clown, our mascara dripping, or frozen like a stone, freed by death from having to act another’s part. Will we care then if nobody comes by to offer a word, remark on how we look, place a flower just so turned to the light? It could be a common one, not even bought, a violet plucked from a garden where a crow seemed to mock our hand for its secret theft. Anthony DiMatteo This poem previously published by Levure Littéraire. Anthony DiMatteo's recent poems and reviews have sprouted in the Cortland Review, Hunger Mountain, Los Angeles Review, Verse Daily, and Waccamaw. His current book of poems In Defense of Puppets has been hailed as, "a rare collection, establishing a stunningly new poetic and challenging the traditions that DiMatteo (as Renaissance scholar) claims give the poet 'the last word."(Cider Press Review). Egon Schiele, Seated Male Nude
In the studio, shadows stretch and sprawl across the easels; a pale array of colours mottles the torn and hanging canvases. The air eats the morsels of food that remain, while coffee colors the palette itself. And after darkness engulfs the room, light bulbs bulge into brightness, and the shadows cleave to their corresponding objects, caressing the extensions of themselves. Hands and feet, once numb, dull into nubs at his concentration, vermilion, over the days, spiders the whites of his eyes. He draws quick, ascetic breaths, not drawing—but flaying the paper, carving figures into existence. He climbs from his seat, palming his protrusions. I am fierce and angular. Andrew Hanson Andrew Hanson is an English Literature student at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. His work has appeared three times in his college literary magazine. He was born and raised in Miami, Florida and grew up careening around the Caribbean—catching fish and spearfishing. As of late, he has turned his attention to Medieval Literature and Philosophy, studying as a visiting student at Oxford University. Procession in Fog Squeezed out by the heavy feet of mourners, an unearthly fog rises from hell. Day after day, the dead pass my door, followed like a shadow by those who can still pray or dig. I think I see Mother, and she’s been gone ten years. Death, like a new pastor, busily makes the rounds to every household before winter. I have nothing more to say to God for myself, but ask mercy for parents who plead, Please, Lord, please. Take me instead. Alarie Tennille This poem was written for the surprise Halloween ekphrastic challenge. Alarie’s latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. The Boy in Red
Debating the merits of high- and low- Tuscan machinery – like lutes and flutes, Embellished tales that refine the senses But avert the actual – we sought only To accompany the icons, dissolute And charming, on their way to the eye. By God, the enchanting nobility was not The receptacles nor what they contained, But the idea of storage – so urbane And homely – that eluded the absent- Minded brains all around us: the lousy Shepherd donating his flock to the absolute Wherewithal; becoming the painting and A nuisance. At no point in our belonging – Me and this peasant boy – did we perjure The nymphs of satisfaction, graciously Beguiling yet always worth knowing. The sun’s Cache of verisimilitude put on its cloak for you To cast me a glance so furtive, well thought-out And dismissive, it could hardly be considered Unreasonable to never make up your mind. Jake Sheff Jake Sheff is a major and pediatrician in the US Air Force, married with a daughter and three pets. Currently home is the Mojave Desert. Poems of Jake’s are in Marathon Literary Review, Jet Fuel Review, The Cossack Review and elsewhere. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). He considers life an impossible sit-up, but plausible. Student of Philosophy 1926
Once you are known as the kind of man who asks questions and who expresses his opinions freely, you are the kind of man who is followed wherever he goes. There are no definitive answers to the problems a perpetual student poses. In a world where everything is brown or yellow, this is a dangerous path to follow. When they shoot him, they will do it twice to make sure he is dead. Alan Catlin Alan Catlin has been publishing for five decades in all kinds of styles, voices and subjects. He has published several collections of ekphrastic poems including Effects of Sunlight on the Fog from Bright Hill Press and American Odyssey from Future Cycle Press. Future Cycle Press will publish his book, Wild Beauty. Alfred Schnittke, Symphony no.5, Concerto Grosso no.4, 1988
We have a different sense of time ... as a “simultaneous chord.” – Alfred Schnittke Spectres of Mahler and no doubt Marx are stalking the corridors of a grand hotel in disrepair round which Alfred is pedalling never at rest never at home. Mahler’s murmuring to himself a ghostly piano quartet he forgot to complete (his memory’s not what it was). Marx props up the bar toasting his failures or beckons seductively from the bath his beard spread out like a net. Both Ms are decomposing. Sometimes Alfred turns a corner to be confronted by the pair their voices a sudden shining: Come and play with us, Alfred. Come and play with us forever and ever and ever and ever. Jonathan Taylor is an author, editor, critic and lecturer. His books include the novel Melissa (Salt, 2015), and the memoir Take Me Home (Granta, 2007). His poetry collection is Musicolepsy (Shoestring, 2013). He directs the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester in the UK. His website is www.jonathanptaylor.co.uk. Anonymous
I am the stout tree's branch, the one holding the weight of three-too-many blue-winged birds. Perched, preening, bee balm & forget-me-nots. Kersten Christianson Kersten Christianson is a raven-watching, moon-gazing, Alaskan. When not exploring the summer lands and dark winter of the Yukon, she lives in Sitka, Alaska. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing (University of Alaska Anchorage) and recently published her first collection of poetry Something Yet to Be Named (Aldrich Press, 2017). Her blog: www.kerstenchristianson.com Open House
Can’t you imagine coming home to this stately gem each night? I let clients think I opened every single door to let in light and show off the stunning woodwork. Well below market price – the owner took a job overseas. For sale AS IS, so you can add your personal touches. Last night I closed each door. Today they gaped wide open. As you wish, I whispered. I’m leaving well enough alone, afraid to do my morning walk through. A ribbon of cold air trails me, room to room. I brought my collie, still leashed to the porch rail – as far as she’d come. Crossing my fingers this place sells today. I’ll lower my commission if I have to. Can’t you feel the history? I ask the young couple, giving them my card. Alarie Tennille This poem was written for the surprise Halloween ekphrastic challenge. Alarie’s latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. Crooked shack on a snowy plain near mountains
More of the same fields rise when driving past. I skim the ancient junk piles, measures of time and waste from the rural professor, the ubiquitous poverty of ideas about how to clean this abandonment and romance. Romance is not actually here or anywhere. A repose inside the lack of touch, the lack of poet body like a house slowly eroding into the ground, presently unknowable. Put two hands on the steering wheel at whatever time seems to offer the most control. Get to work on time. Anne Garwig Anne Garwig’s poetry has appeared in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Broad!, and the Jenny, among other journals and anthologies. Anne completed the 2017 Poetry Foundation Summer Poetry Teachers Institute in Chicago and teaches in the English department at Kent State University in Salem, Ohio. She lives in Youngstown, Ohio. |
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