Chair Car
Not important is where they are going is where they are coming from here is where they are now is this train moving is this a train is not as important as the light how it infuses everything with the clarity of cataracts illuminates nothing outside the windows is the sky the vaulted interior of this car of seats half empty is the interior the sky half full of light on a gray day refracted into the interiors into wherever whoever they are now these four passengers retracting destinations departures any sense of journey or could this be it manicured rows of hedged chairs blunt tongued fescue door mats stuck out licking light like meat cleavers down the center aisle licking light like square-booted one-legged giant tracks some limb-lopped ticket puncher coming or going left some monk of the crippled always here to always there always neither here nor there passing shroud wrapped in light through this cloister of passing unnoticed unimportance punching no tickets punch left in the next or before car anyway if there is one anyway they don’t have tickets anyway don’t need a pass for this any way you can tell from their faces what you can see of them anyway whatever these scattershot passengers are or are not passing to or from and this is important the door the door at the far end what the door at the far end of this car doesn’t have a handle is what we can’t quite get on this picture out of this scenario is what we can’t quite get how the light bathes so completely the blonde woman so shall we say it radiantly yet unenlighteningly her right ankle hosiery the same opaque sheen as the scenery behind her not passing by her face down-drawn drawing us to it the light like a prayer in her hands unopened a book given or received in passing an offering to or from the light-footed usher who has just passed has yet to pass is always passing just out of frame behind the door maybe hiding invisible impossible to open but ajar slightly and this is important not open is her face like light through a window seen from a street but not the lamp purse slipping forgotten pocket of days this day that day always the same dark verdurous day slipping from between her slightly blushed knee and the proximate arm of the chair is this what the black-haired bound-haired woman one seat up and across seat odd-angled watches the light not illuminating past her tight-lipped mouth her sharp nose angling her closed book gaze at the closed book or verdant time slipping away or is she that one darkened key-hole eye she allows us to see anyway the illuminato the hidden clue the sharp point of a midnight pump emerging like a jab at the causeway of day after day after day pointing zig zag to the next woman up a bit of face flash of neck seep of brown hair blue-hatted or green-hatted maybe a shadow of doubt maybe over her ultramarine shoulder maybe just barely light-touched a bit of hand tiny bit we can’t tell maybe knitting maybe folded with some unseen other and this is important oh surely this is important where she’s looking the blue woman across the aisle again zig zag stare at a head just the back of a head above an antimacassar gray day blue like the light like the wall the cloister door at the center of it the end of it all the focus of this slightly off-center perspective this study in expansive claustrophobia at which he stares like one does on a blue gray day in the front hedge chair the only man in this car of hedged bet chairs somewhat abstractedly pondering zig zag zig zag zig the spot where there has never been never will be anything to grab onto wondering perhaps like us if this is important if this is still life Robert L. Dean, Jr. This poem was first published in River City Poetry. Robert L. Dean, Jr.’s work has appeared in Flint Hills Review, I-70 Review, Illya’s Honey, Red River Review, River City Poetry, Heartland!, and the Wichita Broadsides Project. In April 2017 he organized a program of poetry and improvised music at Fisch Haus in Wichita. His haibun placed first at Poetry Rendezvous 2017. He was a finalist in the 2014 Dallas Poets Community chapbook contest. His haiku placed second in the 2016 Kansas Authors Club competition. He has been a professional musician, and worked at The Dallas Morning News. He lives in Augusta, Kansas.
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Self-Portrait, Jasper Johns
“No pictures!” the guard at the gallery said, “Not these three…” All Jasper Johns. Curious, I asked “Why?” he shrugged, “Copyright issues I guess”, or “you know, artists.” The red neon “R” got me-- and the mirror image, letters down the middle. Rectangular canvas split in two. Colour splotches on the left, gray-blue on the right. Savarin tin, Ballantine beer can, both affixed, typical Pop-- Flick the switch, the letters stand up, then lie down, like puppet people I hear Jasper speaking, “Turn me on, turn me off.” The cityscape blinks on and off, while he stays dark, referential No face, no arms no torso, no legs-- no disguise needed, The artist is revealed. Lee Woodman Lee Woodman is a longtime artist and media producer, whose radio and film awards include five CINEs, two NY International Film Blue Ribbons, and three Gracies from American Women in Radio and Television. She worked for 20 years in leadership roles at the Smithsonian, was Vice-President of Media and Editorial at K12, Inc., and Executive Producer at Lee Woodman Media, Inc. Her essays and poems have been published in Tiferet Journal, Zócalo Public Square, and (forthcoming), The New Guard. www.poetleewoodman.com The Hunger and the Hunt
Sometimes a blazing torch shows us in another light: the ones who swing the clubs and the ones who pick up the pieces. There are nights of fire and blood, and there are nights of stories and brag around the flames. There is hunger, and there is greed. Night and day. It is shocking to see wolves take down a deer, ripped at the haunches and still alive. And who doesn’t pity the mouse cornered and facing the mouth of the snake? And there are days when everyone gathers at the table, and the aroma of seasoned, cooked birds fills the room with all the satisfaction to come. Matthew Murrey This poem was written as part of the ekphrastic surprise challenge on birds. Matthew Murrey: "My poems have appeared in various journals such as Tar River Poetry, Poetry East, and Rattle. I received an NEA Fellowship in Poetry a number of years ago, and my first book manuscript is seeking a publisher. I am a high school librarian in Urbana, Illinois where I live with my partner. We have two sons who live in the Pacific Northwest. My website is https://matthewmurrey.weebly. com/" The Bird Goes First
Enter handle, crank, shaft and suddenly man controls nature. The birds elongate their postures and become a dream of their own making. Sounds curl in their throats. We crave to wear the masks of other creatures. I would like to wear the mask of an ancient bird with eyes that can’t hold tears. The beak is only a phallus when imagined by man. It is difficult to decipherer between the clouds and the down of the swan’s belly and more difficult still to refrain from reaching out. To be seduced by a swan is to believe that beauty equals goodness. Out on the pond I’m told they kill their young. When I climb to the top of the ladder, attached by a string to a hummingbird, the string means we both know I lack courage. In the end I wont fly or try to fly, especially against the backdrop of this white sky. It’s hard to see the stars over my head or that my feet are carefully encased in plaster. The bird goes first. Another incomplete circle draws blood. There is no denying the scythe, round as a breast or a belly, but less forgiving. Ravens haunt the edges of the canvas. Feathers and hair the same shameful black. When the light hits it, a mirror most terrifying. Feet bare to the ground signifying sin, unnamed, but winged. Crystal Condakes Karlberg This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic poetry challenge on birds. It responds to multiple bird paintings at once. Crystal Condakes Karlberg is a graduate of Simmons College and the Creative Writing Program at Boston University. She writes looking out her kitchen window where she often sees cardinals, house finches, blue jays, woodpeckers, and the occasional Baltimore oriole. Hélène is Restless
The child is half-held, awkward arm over mother's shoulder, a looking-elsewhere child. The mother is half-hid, blood-red scratchings are her garment, her hair is black. The scene is indiscernible, smudged blankness, dull cream, dull green, ochre. A nowhere place, most likely walled. The artist is observant, entering, or restless herself, intensified as she works down the canvas. But the child is a looking-elsewhere one, whole-faced, thoughtful-eyed, active-minded. She is herself, and at the centre. Shirley Glubka Shirley Glubka is a retired psychotherapist, the author of three poetry collections, a mixed genre collection, and two novels. The Bright Logic of Wilma Schuh (novel, Blade of Grass Press, 2017) is her latest. Shirley lives in Prospect, Maine with her spouse, Virginia Holmes. Website: http://shirleyglubka.weebly.com/ Online poetry at 2River View here and at The Ghazal Page here and here. Quiet
When one escapes the language and frees the screaming bird, perches above letters rising, there is little she needs to say. John Riley This poem was written for the surprise ekphrastic challenge on birds. John Riley lives in North Carolina, where he works in educational publishing. His fiction and poetry have appeared in several print and electronic journals, including SmokeLong Quarterly, Connotation Press, Willows Wept Review, Loch Raven Review, Dead Mule, and Blue Five Notebook. He can be reached at riley27406@gmail.com. In the Dead Grass of November
Dan opened his fist and there on his muddy palm, a pocket-knife, red, holding two blades. soon as I saw it want came to me the way a pig goes to slop, just pushing its snout in, not caring what’s in the trough-- open-mouthed and swallowing. so only thing to do was take it, easy enough when he hung his coat and took his seat. now I carry it in my pocket and it pecks at me like a blackbird, wearing a deep hole. can’t nobody tell me I done wrong because I already know. only take it out when I’m alone-- big blade good for carving, small for poking holes like the eyes of a pot shot crow. Judy Kaber Judy Kaber's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Eclectica, Crab Creek Review, Miramar, Off the Coast, and The Comstock Review. She is a retired elementary school teacher living in Maine.
Fountain Why am I an artwork when that is not, Said a urinal put down on a plinth. Philosophy was raised, but from the work; The consciousness of art then knew itself. From then on art became philosophy. But why not, then, just write it down, make up An example of two objects? But, look, A urinal! It’s disingenuous To say it could be anything. How male. But curved and open, how female. How like Brancusi’s white, suggestive, abstract works, Made that same year. The question’s time was right. He called it “Fountain,” what was that about? It makes you think the liquid will shoot out. Eric Fretz Eric Fretz has been a student of contemporary visual arts since they were modern, and not contemporary, and a long time reader of modern poetry. He is a published author of art criticism and history, but has only recently been persuaded to share his ekphrastic writing exercises. He divides his time between Brooklyn and Beacon, New York, and between art and politics. Owl in the Bathroom
sir, what would you have said to me as you saw me laying there feeling the cold tile aspirate drops popping up and down again? or maybe you would’ve said, “you’re better off going in blind, you’ll choke if you know beforehand all there is to torment you with…” i would only have understood my own fear, not the quiet light behind your eyes telling me it was going to be fine because i had no confidence back then, and hiding out in the bathroom, cover up on the toilet, seat down and ready for business, that was no way for me to live: it was never someplace to hide-- even you couldn’t just fly away… me, i just wanted to, which wasn’t the same thing as jerking off on the bathroom floor wishing i was anywhere but here Garth Ferrante This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic challenge on birds. Garth Ferrante is a complete unknown who teaches, writes, and makes games out of challenging his own creativity. He writes because he loves to, because he finds meaning and purpose in it, because if he didn’t, life would be lifeless. Mediterranean Nocturne: Warm Horizon at Dawn 1999
after Stephen Hannock "What you hear is not my voice" sonically enhanced as it travels the wide spread palms of water, blue- blackened in the distance near dawn; signal fires appear at the base of water spouts, the tide slackens, the air still as withheld breath Alan Catlin Editor's note: Alan Catlin's poem was inspired by the work of artist Stephen Hannock, whose stunning landscape paintings can be viewed at http://www.stephenhannock.info. Alan Catlin has been publishing for parts of five decades in little, minuscule, not so little, literary and university publications from the Wisconsin Review to Tray Full of Lab Rats, to Wordsworth’s Socks and The Literary Review among many others. His chapbook, Blue Velvet, won the Slipstream Chapbook Contest in 2017. He is the poetry and review editor of Misfitmagazine.net, an online poetry journal. |
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