 Public Sale, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1943 On Andrew Wyeth’s Public Sale, 1943 An old farmer forced to sell the place after his wife’s long illness. It’s just as well― the land had grown sick, too, the ochre hills now whispering of death, the near-bare trees lisping loss, the graying sky sighing with sorrow. Just off the dirt road leading to the house, people swarming like crickets, scavenging through barrels and baskets and harvesters and ploughs for bargains, steals and giveaways. The old pick-up truck, having hauled many a load of wood and livestock and grain, now sits rusty, no life in its bed, only traces of sun-kissed blueberries and silken stalks of corn and golden-red kindling for the fire that must have raged tenderly just inside the clapboard building where cast-iron pot atop cold furnace still invites the fire. Which objects bespeak life in this solitary place? The husked, seed corn roped across barn rafters, the hollowed-out bread trough on rough, log-hewn kitchen table, the faded blue apron thrown over nail on cedar-paneled wall? What of hand- crafted baby crib, a yellowing christening gown and cobwebs its only décor? The enameled bedpan at the foot of four-poster bed, now a nesting berth for rats and lizards and other critters? What will witness of life? What will testify in silence to love? For while the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night shall not cease. Jo Taylor Jo Taylor is a retired, 35-year English teacher from Georgia. Her favourite genre to teach high school students was poetry, and today she dedicates more time to writing it, her major themes focused on family, place, and faith. She says she writes to give testimony to the past and to her heritage. She has been published in several print and on-line journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2021 she published her first collection of poems, Strange Fire.
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These poems were written this fall in a reflective writing workshop with Toronto based Hong Fook Asian Mental Health Association. We contemplated a variety of artworks, including works by contemporary and historical Asian artists, artists suggested by participants, art by participants, Canadian art, and more. Thank you so much to the poets for showing your work to the world! "blue night" is inspired by Starry Night by Matthew Wong (Canada) 2019, at 1.15 in above video. blue night in the night, it is quieter, calmer the sky like blankets - thick, soft, heavy, held it isn’t warmer, but comforting all the same. i am flattened by darkness life is fuzzy and and and and my thoughts are smaller. it is black in darkness but, most blacks are blue, in reality there is softness, there is depth blues are heavy in a way unexplained. heavy, but not cloying there are no promises in a blue night the world breathes quiet and holds me here. in the night, the colour floats like a cape a weight i chose, and so too, it is done. the way it has been - forever. good night Winsome Adelia Tse This work was inspired by the painting Nocturntable, by the above artist, Duy Huynh, the fifth image at this link: click here. Nocturntable Secluded far away from the city of lights, lies ominously a sleepless pond of lily pads. As the water lilies slumber deep into the moonless night, a heron as glossy as white crystal pearls lingers over an ancient antique forgotten as the course of time moves into a new era. Just a little peak from the bird's beak, the record player dances a fragile tune that displays its hoarse voice from not singing for aeons. As it scratches the surface of the vinyl discs, where the dust bunnies float like cherry blossoms wafting down the trees during the autumn seasons, the melody merges into the soothing zephyr. The gloomy clouds surrendered to unveil the iridescent sky with a celestial body beaming, gleaming the small oasis and leaving the scene like a dreamlike state. Gradually, the lilies wake from their morning snooze, blooming life all around the majestic creature and the vintage audio device. Mumbled words that were no longer spoken and sounds that are constantly cracking and fading, nonetheless bringing nearby objects alive like a marionette performing a ballet controlled by songs played from above. Words and phrases mean nothing, yet the music speaks universally to all. Silently humming tunes where just between the two of us can listen in a harmonious paradise. Janet L. Janet L. lives in Toronto, Canada. She got interested in writing not too long ago and was pleasantly surprised by how exciting it is. She enjoys playing video games, reading graphic novels and listening to a variety of music genres (from Kpop to gaming soundtracks and Eurobeat). She is currently a college student.  Season Inside Season, by Thanh Nhan Nyugen (Vietnam) 2020. Click image for artist site. waters of secret large pads of lily, of lotus, of legend a far off mist creeps into your gaze. eyes lose focus, thoughts elsewhere to mystery unfolding… but what? “Tonight, I have met my crane wife,” is that how it goes? a memory soaked in water, fish eye lens, ‘delicious,’ - that was the bird. I am myself and you and her and they… they meet in shadowed jungle, - or was it forest? we are lost in the moment my beautiful bride poised to meet me in secret. a moment stolen all we can “Hello again, my Love” Winsome Adelia Tse  Aurore, by Winsome Adelia Tse (Canada) 2016. Click on image for artist site. Poem After Aurore Sculpture Once upon a time Lighthearted in a family house Harmony was the world Plane fled like a shot Solutions appeared as magic Cinderella would be my future Awake in my bed Depressed living alone in an apartment Conflict through the world Plane moves as weather Solutions require logic Lars* is who I am Anonymous *Lars is a fictional character from the movie, Lars and the Real Girl (2007) The following two poems are inspired by Cynthia Tom's Location, Location, Location. A glimpse can be seen at 00.48 in the above video, or click here to view the work fully. Poem for Cynthia Tom's Painting Leaving the bamboo house Through a mist of blue and miles of mountain to a distant ground Home over my head Toilsome cultivation for a living But rice nowhere to be found Deserted farmland, east meets west Seed grows a modern Woman Standing on farm soil yet a root to be found In the outskirt of the farm Glad to find the taste of home Anonymous ** a safe of my own it is warm again. sigh, exhale, weightless in my mind, i return to the sunlit meadow again i am glowing, softly. i think of none and of calm and of being alight Sunny windowsill the air - oh, it is warm again. fingertips pressed against expanse of clear glass stillness, but not rigid soak in it like a feeling of goodness the sky is blue but my eyelids are gold-orange it is warm; i could stand here all day, it is warm; there is nothing waiting on me, it is warm - and so it is, it is warm again. Winsome Adelia Tse caught in a storm What must it feel like for skin to change, The shift beneath the surface Bone, sinew, flesh - Moving… rearranging… pushing... Out at your fingertips. Are you still yourself? Have you ever been? a conflict within: in myself, two sides, - or perhaps more tugging me to form shaping me to their nature and whim at mercy of thunderous forces when i am rocked to sleep by naked discomfort of which i find no cause, no completion my skin wraps around me and hums - Cacophonous. i cannot say the change as it happens i cannot name it until i am of the otherside if i find myself there - A new presence, A new sound to ear, - i shall find it, body as anew. Winsome Adelia Tse  Fruits and Flowers, by Seraphine Louis (France) 1920 angelic in the leaves, i see my mother’s eyes they look at me, repeating on each branch, they rustle but don’t blink if i close my eyes, the angels will sing again so i paint like they say, and maybe tomorrow i will see Mother again when the wind sings instead, the angels are quiet my heart flows like a breeze picking up fallen debris my mother smiles at me in the branches and i smile back big and i sing i am her angel and i sing and i paint and i keep my eyes open wide to see her, between the trees Winsome Adelia Tse Winsome Adelia Tse is an artist, designer, and creative from Greater Toronto, Canada. She works in a variety of media on themes of introspection, beauty, and the monumental within the mundane. Though her professional work manifests visually, she often finds her personal thoughts and immediate response of experiencing the world spilling out onto pages as poetry. Regardless of final product, her process is as much intellectualized, as it is visualized. She sees each creation as its own contained story, worth telling no matter grand or fleeting. A selection of her visual works is on her artist portfolio, www.winsomeadeliatse.com.  View at Mimizan, by Winston Churchill (UK) 1920 The new prompt is up! Click on the image above for details about our challenges.
 Storyville Portrait, by E.J. Bellocq (USA) c. 1912 Storyville Metamorphoses In E.J. Bellocq’s faded flash of time A woman curves across a straight-backed seat. A mantle, dripping fringe, enfolds her frame. Her zebra hose are gartered. Still, a neat White wedge of unobstructed thigh, Pale as her hollowed underarm is dark, Remains to captivate your roving eye And hint the human nature of her work. An elbow, bent, supports her heavy head, Connecting her to all her treasured things: Carved table, nymph or goddess caught in lead, Silver clock, tiny rockers tipped with wings. And though the moment here appears to stop, The clock’s hands fixed, forever pointing up, See how the rooted objects writhe toward change: The table legs twist taut as if they could Bore up to bud in open air. The strange Statue swirls, Daphne changing flesh for wood, The little feathered rockers tense for flight To the grave of Laveau, their Voodoo queen, Chafing until the depths of red-lit night When they can swarm, then wing away unseen. And the woman, at rest from evening wiles, Turns toward her own deliverance, and smiles. Kate Ravin Kate Ravin, a freelance writer, lives in Atlanta, Georgia. She has served as poetry editor at XS magazine, a subsidiary of South Florida’s Sun-Sentinel newspaper, and been published in The Lyric magazine and The Road Not Taken: The Journal of Formal Poetry.  “If you love learning about art and artists and if you love writing, Lorette's workshops are the perfect place to twine those loves together! Comfortable, educational and inspiring, these two enjoyable hours fly by. And like me, you may linger breathing in the riches of The Ekphrastic Review for your heart and soul.” Fran Turner We are grateful for these testimonials from our workshop participants. Thank you for your generous responses and for being part of these inspiring events! Click on image above to read more testimonials. Our workshops are generative- come prepared to write! They are also intimate, friendly, welcoming, supportive, and challenging. All are welcome. Our objective is to expand and grow our workshop events next year, to have an ongoing space for inspiring ekphrastic writing, to gather together as a community for work and fun, to promote art history education, and to grow as writers. We have a number of workshops lined up for December and next year, including Wine and Art Write Night, an introduction to ekphrastic writing, and Love Stories. Join us!  Mountains and Pines in Spring, attributed to Mi Fu, (China) Song Dynasty 960-1279 A Thunder Storm The storm raged on for many days, Endlessly pummelling the sage And his apprentice, night by night, But they took comfort in its rage. Hiding beneath a craggy ridge, They watched along the mountainsides The elemental beauty of The storm erupt before their eyes. They watched the storm in all its grace, In every stage, from nascent clouds Into the hoary majesty Of thunderheads swarming in crowds, Until at last the tempest fades Away and empty skies of grey Remain like consciousness in an Old man who slowly fades away. A glimmer too, of light, appeared-- The kind we only see, perhaps, When we have reached the end of ends, When we have run life’s final laps. The travellers spoke of many things Throughout that storm: the student asked His master many questions on His travels and his loves, his pains. The sage replied, “It’s a long story”-- Pausing, he calmly looked into The parting sea of gilded clouds, “One day, you’ll know your story too.” David Gosselin David Gosselin is a poet, translator, and linguist based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse poetry website and New Lyre Podcast. His first collection of poems is entitled Modern Dreams.  We we make our way through the entries for our last contest, it is time to announce our new one!
The theme this time is Fifty Shades of Blue. We have compiled an intriguing array of visual art throughout history and the world, on the theme of blue. This ebook includes fifty works of art to inspire your ekphrastic writing practice. It is $10 and purchase also qualifies you to enter five stories or poems, if purchased before the contest deadline. A selection of finalists will be chosen and published in February. One flash fiction and one poem will each win first place and $100CAD. Deadline: January 31, 2022 Rules: 1. Flash fiction and poetry only. Each submission must be inspired by one of the selected artworks in the Fifty Shades of Blue ebook. 2. Word limit for both is 1000. 3. Up to five poems, five stories, or a combination of both. Please submit all of your entries together in one email. 4. Send to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com by midnight EST, January 31, 2022. 5. Include a brief bio of 100 words or less. 6. Subject line: BLUE CONTEST. 7. We especially encourage flash fiction and microfiction as we have received volumes more poetry than fiction in the last few contests and all of our challenges! 8. Purchase of ebook qualifies you to enter, up to five works. 9. Winners will be paid by PayPal.  Way Home, by Bhat Boy (Canada, b. UK) contemporary. Click image for artist site. Soon the Goose Must Fly Again He feels no fear, knows what to expect. He will crap on people in the park. And just miss Justin in his limo. The errands are forever urgent. No more wasting time with the Flying Nuns. He knows his flights have been slightly off course lately. The winds have become unpredictable. He’s still proud of his plumage. Just a bit more grey around the beak now. Bhat should soon be looking for a gosling. So he can fly off to an elegant golf course, near an ocean somewhere. Start writing about his life on canvas. Elsa Fischer Elsa Fischer comes from the Netherlands, studied Art History at Carleton University, Ottawa, lived and jobbed on four continents and currently lives in Switzerland’s capital where she is a “yelpie” rather than a “woopie”. She tries hard to convey her love of poetry to the natives and is a member of a workshop for expats. She has two pamphlets in the UK and poems published in magazines and anthologies. She endeavours to age with grace  The Ekphrastic Review extends hearty congratulations to the six nominees for the Best Microfiction Anthology Awards 2022, six microfiction stories published in our online pages in 2021. This will be the fourth Best Microfiction series anthology, founded by microfiction luminaries Meg Pokrass and Gary Fincke to honour the form of very small stories. Last year, one of our nominees, Cyndi MacMillan, made it into the anthology with her story, When Alice Became the Rabbit. Congratulations to this year's six. Read their microfiction below. (Click on the site link to see the artwork that inspired them.) Without further adieu, our nominees this year are: Star Swallowed, by Olivia Wolford Hollow, by Christina Pan Lost Rivers, by Jamie Brian The Moon Practises the Art of Night Photography, by Marjory Woodfield Elusions, by Kerfe Roig At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle School, by Nancy Ludmerer Bravo to all of you!!!! ** Star Swallowed, by Olivia Wolford https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/star-swallowed-by-olivia-wolford Her white dress was the only detail that stayed consistent in the retellings, how it shone in the dazzle that poured down. Most said her dog Cricket was taken up with her, though others claimed he still frisked the edges of their fields, pissing off barn cats. Either way it was agreed he was an inky, yippy little thing, one they preferred out of sight. Come to think of it, they preferred her out of sight too; she’d been a hazy child, more curtain of water than girl. Her brothers wouldn’t speak for seven months after, and they weren’t boys of many words to begin with. “She was swallowed,” one had confided, “by stars.” Truth was, they’d both been bowled clean over by the dazzle, witnesses only to the insides of their eyelids. It was said the cows minded their business while she was taken up. The horses, of course, watched the whole thing. They saw her bathed in moonbeam certainty, head upturned, swimming with clean strokes to a place beyond all light. ** Hollow, by Christina Pan https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/hollow-by-christina-pan Egon handed him a scalpel. It had a slender grip, a sharp blade that slid upward. He thought about people in horror films, fates at the hands of a monster. How many lives could be saved with this scalpel? How many girl-eating goblins gutted, dragon-toothed piranhas slashed, brain-starved zombies decapitated? He wondered. Carve out your collarbones, Egon told him. He drew one smooth arch in the air. Like this, Egon said. But he knew it would take more than one cut. That night, facing the mirror, he took off his shirt. He placed the scalpel on his shoulders and slanted it inward, away from his neck. He moved the blade in then out, ending a breath away from his sternum. The severed skin looked nearly egg-like, lower flaps bloated with yolk. Red dots stained skin like seeds from a gashed pomegranate, little cracked milk teeth. He faced his reflection, jutting his torso open. He could see the cabinet from the mirror, the bottom of a spinning music box. The tiles started to sog under him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. From his window he could see the cutting board on the table with slabs of a fish carcass dangling from rope. The belly had shrunk to half its size, molding the fat and sangria flavour. So much to lose, he marveled. He slit up the other collarbone, his hand more practiced, the cuts smoother. He looked through the hollow of his collarbones again. This time, through the hollow, he could see the entire music box. It sputtered out a small note. He withdrew the scalpel and slipped it back inside the cabinet. The hollow seemed to be getting bigger as blood trickled out. How much blood can the body lose before it fails? He wanted to ask Egon. But Egon had left already, as he always did. He arched his head downwards and fitted his index finger between his collarbones. Neither his finger nor his knuckles touched the wounds; the hollow was not even as wide as the scalpel blade. But he felt like he could be chewed into the opening, spit back out, find himself no different from when he started. He faced his reflection again. From the depths of the mirror, he could only see the hollow in place of a human, the mouth shaped like a black hole. ** Lost Rivers, by Jamie Brian https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/lost-rivers-by-jamie-brian Everything feels wrong. Heavy. These hands do not feel like her hands. Where did the lines on her skin come from, these rivers that separate who she was from who she is? Once, she was a river running freely to the sea. Now, her feet ache from standing still in hospital rooms. Kicking off her slippers, she walks to the bathroom and kneels beside the bathtub. She twists the faucet and runs the water until it is so hot that it steams the glass of the window. She has always associated water with clarity. When she was young, she and her grandmother would walk to the bath house on Saturday mornings, take off their starchy clothes, and sink deep into the spring water. She sat still as her grandmother scrubbed her back with soap and kneaded the muscles of her shoulder blades. This ritual soothed her mind and cleansed her soul. Over time, those quiet moments have become harder and harder to find, but she needs them now more than ever. She removes her nurse’s uniform and lays the pieces on the floor one at a time. Slowly, she lowers herself into the water. It covers her knees, then her thighs, then she is submerged to her chin. She takes the first deep breath that she’s been able to savor in months. Here, there are no late-night phone calls, no ambulance sirens, no ringing of heart monitors. Exhaling, she taps a few grains of bath salts out of a vial her mother sent her. The cypress scent of her childhood fills the room. She can almost imagine her baa-baa sitting beside her, tracing the lost rivers along her spine. The water soothes the soreness in her calves and eases the tension in her wrists. She sinks deeper into the bath, until her hair fans out behind her. Gradually, she relaxes into the unraveling. ** The Moon Practises the Art of Night Photography, by Marjory Woodfield https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/selected-challenge-responses-garabet-yazmaciyan 1. He leans into a sea-green sky. Soft focus. 2. Leander’s Tower. Foreground, midground and background: Straits of the Bosphorus. 3. Beyond Sultanahmet men sit in winding streets, play backgammon and drink small glasses of z’atar tea. Cats slink into shadow. Panorama. Pan from left to right. 4. In Beşiktaş a young woman stands, watches as mourners lift her mother’s bier into a waiting carriage. Amber beads twist through her fingers. Point of focus: the daughter. 5. A single boat with quiet oars. To avoid noise lower the ISO. 6. The muzzein calls the hour for morning prayer. The moon shutters the lens, slips away. ** Elusions, by Kerfe Roig https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/selected-challenge-responses-garabet-yazmaciyan And yet there were two sources of light. Each beckoning, calling, asking me to recognize their silhouettes of darkness as the true patterns showing me how to reach my journey’s end. Inviting me to join their respective circles, to choose a side, in or out. To open the channels between sea and sky or to burrow into the ashes of earth and fire. What did I know of my destiny? I sailed an empty vessel waiting to be filled, navigating between the spaces held by promises. Whispered words and ghostly hands extended towards the edges I straddled, balanced on the verge of both inhaling and exhaling. My breath could not tell which way pointed to certainty. I tried to recast my shadow onto something else, but I was suspended too tightly inside the directionless void. Everything was impending, flickering like a candle carried by the whims of the gods and goddesses that saturated the water and air. If I held out my arms would they become fins or wings? ** At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle School, by Nancy Ludmerer https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/at-the-pool-party-for-my-nieces-graduation-from-middle-school-by-nancy-ludmerer I’m a goner even before Leah, my brother’s new colleague, tells me her psychiatric specialty (“evaluating sexually dangerous people”), and when she reappears, resplendent in a golden-brown one-piece, I drown in desire. While Leah swims laps, I descend the ladder at the deep end, figuring I can hang on to the side faking it, never letting on I can’t swim, my eyes on the prize. Marisa, my niece’s best friend, swims up and asks if she can practice life-saving on me; Leah is watching us, and I’m figuring kindness to children is always a plus. But Marisa loses her grip and then I’m grabbing desperately at her orange bikini top and she’s yelling. By the time I reach the metal ladder, my coughing subsided, my snotty nose wiped clean, everyone has gone inside for cake. A dead bug floats on the surface, and I wonder who will save me now.  Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper (USA) 1942 Hopper’s Nighthawks Absent any other sign of life, but for the four. Tickled a Phillies was still a nickel; yeah, still America’s No. 1 Cigar. When refinished in a shade of cherrywood, the repurposed counter lost its patina. Standing for a past century in a smokey corner tavern now displaced, it was bellied up to by the locals. Some pulled up close on wobbly stools: hammering down shots, thinking of loves lost, glimpsing red eyes in a dusty barroom mirror, ruing not having lived the life one coulda, shoulda lived. Many elbows, clasped hands and throbbing heads once rested on that old oak slab’s rounded edge, worn smooth as a mother’s shoulder. From up above unseen, fluorescent tubes illuminate the diner’s pale ocher wall and darker ocher kitchen door. Bathing in white unnatural light: stool seats, the store-front’s jade-colored sill, projecting a curving, blue-grey crescent glow out on the sidewalk as the block bends around. It streaks vividly off the two gleaming silver urns, the stooped-down counter guy’s glowing back and his paper cap’s white crown. There’s no glinting silverware, nor ashtray to be found for the ashless cigarette jammed between the fingers of his stiff right hand. The man seated facing us with hawkish schnoz and rakish fedora looks defeated, mad, or sad. Upset, perhaps by a too brief romantic interlude on this most-likely, last date out for him with the fine gal from the office. His vivid red-bloused companion seems composed, a bit less stressed. Pondering a nibble on what looks like a thin canapé of watercress, her high hopes for him about petered out. Knowing now what her mother meant when she said she owed it to herself to make the break when the moping starts. A bulky body bulges within the snug blue suit of the man seated, back to us, alone. Is that glass half-empty or half-full? One can speculate; he doesn’t have a raptor’s face or a mug like Al Capone. It’s left for us to flesh that in, as is the spare West Village square we stare at, in oil on canvas. Idle salt and pepper shakers rest at the ready, please pass the sugar Honey, just a half glass-tube view of stale coffee, another vial of clear hot water spied to monitor what’s left in the sleek steel cisterns, to sustain. The nocturnals bask in the diner’s glow. Outside, across the lampless, narrow well-swept street, dark apartment shades and shuttered shops in shadow, vacant for all we know, but for a cash register vaguely discerned through a store window. A carefully wrought angular exercise in color, light, line and form. Imaging a sparse late night snack in an all-night café. A brush stroke conjured into a sandwich: a bite briefly held up enroute from hand to mouth as another chance to connect elopes alone. Attracted to the light, the viewer flits into the painting’s frame. Drawn to more than its visual yin and yang. More than a yen for that sweet twinge when quick-singeing light tears up a squinting eye. A moody film noir soundtrack eases in; comforting, but mournful, melancholic, bittersweet. Perched, aquiline, backs facing the dark corner under artificial glow, we begin to slide into the ruffled nighthawk’s skin. Mark Goldstein A Bronx Baby Boomer who began writing in 12th grade, Mark Goldstein graduated from the State U. of NY with a degree in English (class of '72!). He participated in poetry workshops at The New School and The 92nd St. Y. Marriage, kids, gettin' 'n spendin' etc interrupted the Muse until downsized/retirement in 2016. Now, playing creative catch-up and spending precious time tediously seeking a venue to share some of his eclectic pieces. Read more ekphrastic works on this iconic painting here. |
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November 2021
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