The Desert To bring a child into this breaks a man, leaves him laid out to the mercy of the sand, wears a woman down until her vigilance is undone like a soft, broken chair. Even the sky loses its stars. Even the smoke of a meagre fire seeks the thinnest line of escape. Every fleeing parent and child makes a holy family in this darkness where the present hones its blades, where the future comes like a hammer for nails. Ask the night Will I live to see them grow up? Will the ones I love die in peace? It will answer you like a sphinx. Poor family. Poor child born to such barren chance, saviour of nothing, so far. May you get across the border; may the night go easy on you. Your life is one of many small lights. Matthew Murrey This poem was written in response to the surprise ekphrastic Christmas challenge. 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/"
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Nativity Pendant, Ethiopia it's not what a lot of people in the west are used to, but we all interpret these things on a local level, it's just that between the spread of pop culture and the ascendancy of western art for the last several hundred years, ethnic perspectives like these were not valued, were not featured except in museums and on christmas shows as a zoomed in and cut-away example that appears for an instant and just as quickly vanishes again with little or no mention made as to what the image was even of, or who made it, or where it'd come from...and yet looking on it now, being able to gaze as long as one wants, it's beautiful in that it does not presuppose itself to be holy...these are holy beings who aren't of the clouds above, but are of the same earth we belong to, and if only for this, their faces are lovely to behold with child and mother as we've seen countless times before, but different because in their eyes is a familiarity almost like family, and on the left christ runs the devil through with a spear that might as well be a string, the line of his love making him seem like a goodly brother putting down a wicked one...and then back to the mother where it's appropriate to say all things begin, but not where anything ends, for all eyes are on her as she looks right back at us and through to whoever is next and on and on and on for as long as it takes to hold her child close to her that he may never have to take that long walk up that hill... Garth Ferrante This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic Christmas challenge. 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. Adoration of the Magi so much fanfare and heraldry for such a dying place to be born: isn't this what the artist is trying to tell us, that the kings of earth have the same colours as the angels of heaven, that only god has more splendour and more power than any of them, and we still don't know what sort of divinity this imparts to the little lord who sits as a full-grown babe as opposed to a newborn, but artists can be forgiven such things, and after all, he wouldn't want to make the christ-child impossible to see just for perspective's sake...heck, they wouldn't even do three-point perspective right for quite a time yet, but that isn't the worst of it, no...it's that no one should bend to his creator just because they are a creator...what did this god do that was so wonderful before this but make a string of mistakes he wanted nothing more than to disown with his inconsistent and selfish rules, with allowing so much pain in the name of free will, and yet where was that free will for mary when it was time to choose whether she wanted to be a mother, to carry such a burden with her all her life, if it was even revealed to her what that burden was and where it would lead her...maybe we're all looking at the best of that old man in the child who would buck the system just by being the revolutionary who told people to love as they wanted to be loved, to treat others as they wanted to be treated...this was enough to get their weaponized hatred aimed right at him, and what have we lost?: only exactly what we've gained, that every year we hear the libretto going on and on about glory and being born, but we don't hear of his messages that would make the man's words truly the stuff of legend, the stuff that makes all who hear his words love him...we get the allusion to a saviour and a king of kings, and we are supposed to set aside the tragedy of his death because it is his birthday, not his deathday, and yet the ouroboros of his life cannot be segmented to just his birth, for what was he, really, at this stage?...he was a seed, he was a baby aureoled, haloed, blessed with the artist's rendering of what is supposed to be the holy trinity with mary as the proxy for all women, without whom this miracle could not have happened...and the lowliness of his birth is given the complete revisionist history of what people at that time might've thought it was like to be visited in the middle of the night by three magi and their entourage, which is much like what we have done with our songs and our merriment that always hunt us and find us and kill us with one arrow of melody and madrigal after another: it is better for most to think of the beginning of this story when he was not dead, when he was just born, which is the furthest thing from death...everything that comes after really is the rock just rolling down again... Garth Ferrante This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic Christmas challenge. 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. Just a Girl When that angel came aimed like a lightning bolt at your life when his word entered you like a tongue of fire you knew gods do not request permission. They announce, they take, they overwhelm and whatever follows, joy and grief the simple loneliness of the chosen will be yours your world transformed in one searing breath. Later they will name you Blessed, Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven, like any mother set to intercede between us and the father’s wrath. Mother of sorrows, you will be crowned with a halo of stars surrounded by a nimbus of roses, your small bare foot set firmly on the serpent’s head your arms forever open to cradle the new born child, or to hold the body of a murdered son. Mary McCarthy This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic Christmas challenge. Mary McCarthy is a poet and former Registered Nurse who has had work published in many print and online journals, including Third Wednesday, Gnarled Oak, Praxis, and Earth’s Daughters. She has an electronic chapbook “Things I was Told Not to Think About,” available as a free download from Praxis magazine online. The Annunciation to the Shepherds
it's just like they said it would be: again, seraphim and cherubs and putti serving and studying in the clouds usually depicted as heaven, only this time we see the shepherds as they were meant to be seen, with families and babies wondering what this light could be, but deferring to it, kneeling before it as they innately understand it to be the presence of god and his avatars...and while this light casts clear shadows, there is also something in the way these men and women shield their eyes and bow their heads like they know there is no precedent for this and they know that, yes, yes, they have to go to wherever it is he's being born, the way is where the messenger's hand opens, they must gather themselves and go, and what tales will they tell when they return?...there will be more of that light, to be sure, and when their wives ask about the child, they will point to some of the babes being held in their mothers' arms, they will say he was just a baby boy born under a shining star, a baby boy whose birth was announced from on high, and who else was there, what was said, was there a festival, were there gifts, what was the point of it all...but the answer does not lie across the dessert with that mother and father and infant making their way to safety...it lies in the eyes of their children, the reason, the gifts, the celebration, all of it is right there in their sleeping faces, in their hungry cries...those shepherds were told only of the beginning, of the birth...did they ever discover that there was to be something afterward to change the state of living and dying for them and their children and their children's children?...and why tell these isolated people, why not the town they were staying in so they could at least get a decent room, why not all nobles, all kings everywhere, and not just the shepherds and the magi?...these are all the lesser mysteries we never ask about, never wonder about, never spend much time thinking about...but he was supposed to love them, too, wasn't he, the saviour, i mean: wasn't he concerned about these people living off the land and their animals, their trip through the desert to where he was born, their return trip back, their life of difficulties and tragedies mixed with some joys much as all our lives are...wasn't he concerned the next time they saw him, he would be the light calling to them, surrounding them, taking them to their new home with his father who was also him?...but he could explain all this faster than thought even as they asked what had happened, why he had allowed them to leave, why he'd never sought them out, why he had let them suffer and die and wait until he closed the door to hell for the rest of eternity to take them with him beyond the stars...and just what would he say?...maybe he would begin with a joke and say those angels weren't lying, were they, when they said they had some big news... Garth Ferrante This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic Christmas challenge. 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. Annunciation to the Shepherds And what would you do if an angel appeared in the sky, shrouded by a cloud? Would you believe this heavenly messenger who’s announced the child of God has been born of a virgin in a stable? If trees can be nourished by rock, cannot this, too, be true? The sheep do not wake, the dog howls with fear. One shepherd has covered his face, the other reaches, one palm open as if to receive a gift. To witness wings and flight when darkness hovers, when you’ve been dreaming, visions swirling, a lamb next to a beast who does not stir. Gail Peck This poem was written as part of the surprise ekphrastic Christmas challenge. Gail Peck is the author of eight books of poetry. The Braided Light won the Leana Shull Contest for 2015. Poems and essays have appeared in Southern Review, Nimrod, Greensboro Review, Brevity, Connotation Press, Comstock, Stone Voices, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart, and her essay “Child Waiting” was cited as a notable forBest American Essays, 2013. The Shepherd’s Scold
I’ve had enough of dreams that tantalize, then blow to nothing like smoke when I wake to the stone fact of tending the flock-- weathered hours for coins, for lentils and wheat, for the homespun on my back. Wishes used to dog me like the fleas feeding on our dog, like thirst on a shadeless day. You anger me angel. Don’t come singing of hope. I’ve seen how things end for sick children, for widows, for the man in debt, for sheep. Leave me in peace, bless me with sleep like those seven with their horns and fleece, like my companion under his hood. His snoring is the best hymn of praise I’ve ever heard. Matthew Murrey 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/" Wax Mother
Another wax mother passes by Grey ashen wax Warmth and flame Extinguished. When will it be mine? When will those hands reach My arm to hold me back? Tears weigh me down Cumulonimbus of grief build Where once radiance reigned And childhood held promise Where this village held me Playful and innocent I suffocate in its clasp. Melinda Dewsbury This poem was written for the surprise ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge. Melinda has been in love with beauty and the beauty of words since she can remember. She grew up in rural Ontario among the rhythms of the agricultural cycle and now lives in Langley, BC, where she teaches writing, literature, and linguistics at Trinity Western University. Although she has written poetry for decades, she has not yet taken the great leap into sharing it publicly. These poems, written as part of the surprise ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge, mark the first time. Undertaker
He is waiting. There is no hurry. Exhalations push against life drag youth from bones displace oxygen fog on life’s unfinished canvas. His stench paints over hope’s joy. He has already claimed it. There is no hurry. Melinda Dewsbury This poem was written for the surprise ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge. Melinda has been in love with beauty and the beauty of words since she can remember. She grew up in rural Ontario among the rhythms of the agricultural cycle and now lives in Langley, BC, where she teaches writing, literature, and linguistics at Trinity Western University. Although she has written poetry for decades, she has not yet taken the great leap into sharing it publicly. These poems, written as part of the surprise ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge, mark the first time. A Lesson in Philosophy
I am Plato’s cave Words void Cacophonous silence Meaning wrung out Squeezed Emptiness spills Pulled by gravity Scraping away layers of self. Now I see but a poor reflection. Dare I turn around? Melinda Dewsbury This poem was written for the surprise ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge. Melinda has been in love with beauty and the beauty of words since she can remember. She grew up in rural Ontario among the rhythms of the agricultural cycle and now lives in Langley, BC, where she teaches writing, literature, and linguistics at Trinity Western University. Although she has written poetry for decades, she has not yet taken the great leap into sharing it publicly. These poems, written as part of the surprise ekphrastic I See a Darkness challenge, mark the first time. |
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