Portrait of My Dead Brother, 1963
Surrealist artist Salvador Dali had a brother who died in infancy nine months before Dali's birth. Dali's parents took their five-year-old son to his brother’s grave and told him he was the reincarnation of his brother.
You were first. I followed.
I was born from your death,
a Phoenix rising from your grave.
I picked up where you left off.
I am the two of us.
I am a broken twin.
This canvas is a mirror.
It is slowly gathering your forgotten face,
the lost parts coming together
like a flock of dark seagulls
moving into formation.
It is my face but strangely different.
It is a soft clock with no hands.
You are a shattered constellation
collecting your own wandering stars.
After sixty years I can finally see you.
When I die, you shall see me.
Then, we will share your constellation.
You and I, Gemini,
Kathryn de Leon
Kathryn de Leon is from Los Angeles, California but has been living in England for eleven years. Her poems have appeared in several publications in the US including Aaduna, Calliope and Black Fox, and in several in the UK,including London Grip, The Blue Nib, and The High Window where she was the Featured American Poet.
Death and the Miser
Consider the banality of choice:
the crucifix’s slivered light against
a bag of gold Death’s arrow nears to pierce
the heart yet even as a demon leers
and holds the promise of a cinder’s heat
the miser’s hand moves of its own accord
to that which cannot follow him And as
if memory the miser’s younger self
appears to stash another coin inside
a bulging sack he locks away and does
not see the rat-faced beast that grips the sack
in appetite that turns its head against
the miser’s fumbled rosary
not help but wonder at the artist’s mind:
the fevered brain that drives a man to see
the world as such a dream the hours spent
entranced before a sheet of stainless white
the images that flittered in the eye
but died before they reached the page And more
consider all the children screaming at
the artist’s feet the open mouths that cried
for milk or bread while father bled his mind
to find the perfect line to smear
depends upon so small a cost And yet
the man who meets his leaving doesn’t see
the beasts that slither on the floor nor does
he note the seraphim that spreads its hand
toward the lighted crucifix Instead
he stares at Death itself as if he’d wished
to somehow ward it off as if its flesh-
less face was not expected stares in fact
as if he hadn’t seen that everything
including Death is somehow owed a wage
Jon D. Lee
Jon D. Lee is the author of three books, including An Epidemic of Rumors: How Stories Shape Our Perceptions of Disease and These Around Us. His poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in The Atlantic, Sugar House Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Writer's Chronicle, One, The Laurel Review, and The Inflectionist Review. He has an MFA in Poetry from Lesley University, and a PhD in Folklore. Lee teaches at Suffolk University.
With just a couple of weeks left for our Bird Watching contest many of you have already sent your entries and are ready for another major ekphrastic writing challenge.
We have gathered another intriguing collection of artworks, and the theme this time is Women Artists.
Artists throughout history in many different cultures faced immense obstacles, and women even more so. Few female painters or sculptors have been acknowledged by history or books, and yet we have a rich legacy of creativity if we dig between the lines to find gold.
The subject was so exciting that I got carried away. It was my intention to select 30 to 40 prompts to inspire your ekphrastic writing practice, but ended up with 60. Many more were left on the cutting room floor. I hope each artwork will lead you to study more works by the featured artists, to learn about their lives and work and the worlds they lived in.
Use your ebook of 60 artworks as a reference and a book of writing prompts, now and forever. Purchase before the contest deadline also qualifies you to enter up to ten poems or stories.
Selected entries will be published in The Ekphrastic Review, in a series of special showcases.
We are absolutely delighted to have Alarie Tennille as our guest judge. Alarie is a long-time contributor to the journal, a consultant for our prize nominations, a winner of our Fantastic Ekphrastic Award for her outstanding contributions to the journal and to ekphrastic literature, and a widely published and loved poet.
Alarie will choose a first place winner and two runners up from the published selections.
The first place entry will receive $100 and each runner up will receive $50. Winners may be flash fiction, creative nonfiction, or poetry.
Your purchase of our ebooks has made it possible for us to offer cash prizes in these new contests at The Ekphrastic Review. Your support also helps with the time, maintenance, web and other expenses, and promotion of this journal. We can't thank you enough.
1. Click on button below to get your ebook of sixty prompts by women artists.
2. Write from any or all of the artwork prompts. You may submit up to ten pieces.
3. Please submit all of your entries in one email. Wait until you have your complete entry to send.
4. You may write poetry, flash fiction, or creative nonfiction, or a combination, up to 1000 words each.
5. Deadline is July 7, 2021.
6. Send your entry to firstname.lastname@example.org. In subject line, put WOMEN ARTISTS CONTEST.
7. We hate to censor your creativity and will try to accommodate experimental formatting, but be aware that flush left formats work best for the web. Complicated formats or spacing is difficult or impossible to reproduce faithfully.
8. Your work must be inspired by the prompts in the book. They can incorporate a description of the art or connect to the artwork's history or subject matter, or to the artist biography, or they can use the art as a point of departure for imagination, memory, correlation, etc. In other words, the writing can be about the art or about anything else the art triggers you to dream up.
9. The Ekphrastic Review will publish selected works in special showcases from the entries. Of these selections, guest judge Alarie Tennille will choose her favourites. The judge's decisions are final.
10. The winners will receive $100 CAD for first place and $50 each of two runners up. Winners will be paid by PayPal.
11. Winners will be chosen and announced by the end of July 2021.
12. Please include a third person biography up to 100 words.
13. Please use copy and paste in body of email, or a word document. You may include a PDF to show formatting and italics, but please include it in addition to your copy and paste or word document.
13. Good luck and have fun!
Welcome to the forth installment of the Ekphrastic Writer’s column. As the author of the first comprehensive guidebook on multi-genre ekphrasis, The Ekphrastic Writer, I’ll be posting monthly musings, fielding your questions on ekphrasis (and beyond), and fostering a conversation on contemporary practices in visual-art-influenced creative writing.
Happy National Poetry Writing Month! Before I respond to a couple of letters, I want to share a tribute. Late last year I had written a letter to the wife-husband editorial team of the first journal dedicated to ekphrasis: Ekphrasis—A Poetry Journal. The year was 1997. The World Wide Web was in its infancy and the term “ekphrasis” was foreign to everyone but a few literary scholars. Carol and Laverne Frith created a small, loose-leaf journal which they secured with staples. If you were writing poems influenced by the visual arts back in the late nineties and early aughts, you dreamed of placing your poems in Ekphrasis. Back then, physical dictionaries did not include “ekphrasis” and the word was not Internet-searchable until around 2004. While I myself knew the types of poems the highly discerning Friths where seeking, I assumed that the journal’s title was just a unique name with no grand meaning. As a young writer, Ekphrasis was the first place that I could actually read poems by poets who engaged with the visual arts, such as Peter Cooley, Grace Bauer, Jeffery Levine, and David Wright.
Back to my letter. My guidebook on ekphrasis had been released and I wondered about the Friths’ journal and succession planning. I’d sent several emails that had gone unanswered, so I composed a handwritten letter and sent it to California. “I’m so grateful to you both for the work you’ve done for the world of ekphrasis,” I began. However, months later a terrible thing happened, which I shared in a desperate post on Facebook: “Writer friends, please help. A letter I wrote to Laverne and Carol Frith was returned with the word “deceased” scrawled across the envelope.”
Once I received confirmation, I wrote this next post: “My heart is heavy as I announce that Ekphrasis—A Poetry Journal has folded (and the website scrubbed from the Internet) after nearly a quarter century. Founders Carol and Laverne Frith both passed away, in May 2020 and December 2020 respectively. Today I celebrate the Friths having championed ekphrastic poetry at the dawn of the ekphrastic movement. While journals that tout ekphrasis will continue to come and go, theirs was the first. Thank you for paving the way, Ekphrasis editors.”
Here are excerpts from some letters that I received in March:
My question is....what ekphrastic poems about music rather than visual art can you recommend?
Signed, Seth C.
Dear Seth C.,
The grandfather of ekphrastic scholarship (insofar as “ekphrasis” is a subgenre of creative writing), James A. W. Heffernan, defined the term thusly: “verbal representation of visual representation.” So, the term ekphrasis as set forth by scholars limits “ekphrastic poems” to those that concern only visual representation. Hence, while there are indeed music-influenced poems, it’d be antithetical to the literal definition of “ekphrasis” to label them as ekphrastic.
Furthermore, it’s worthwhile to note that when writers call their poems “ekphrastic,” they are choosing to inform their readership of the genesis of their inspiration. In every one of my ekphrastic poems, for example, I both use the artworks’ titles as the poems’ titles and I include citation epigraphs.
While it’s possible that we’ve all read music-influenced poems, if the writer chose not to indicate to the readers that specific fact, then the poems cannot be categorized. The readers’ curiosity about the poems’ origin, as it were, remains a question.
It is interesting to note the inherent transparency in “ekphrastic” poems’ influence, as compared with non-ekphrastic poems in which we cannot know, and perhaps are happily ignorant, to their origins.
(By the by, it’s not the poets’ responsibility to offer any caveat to their readers. Poems should stand on their own.) Yet, if one simply embraces “ekphrasis” as synonymous with “description” (as in the Greek term, “ekphrasis”) in the spirit of naming music-influenced creative writing, it’d be wise to offer a prefix byway of specifying a musical relationship. In my guidebook on ekphrasis, I coined “phonoekphrasis” to specify verbal representation of sound elements of artwork (which could include other disciplines besides the visual arts, I suppose).
So, to answer your question, I recall poems by Langston Hughes which evoke what were then called Negro hymns and spirituals, as well as the prose of Gregory Spatz, who’s also a gifted violinist and thus writes poignantly of playing music. On the Poetry Foundation website, you can search “poems about music” for an exhaustive display of both poems and prose that, in some way, treat music. As an ekphrastic practitioner, what I also find fascinating is the ways in which the visual arts have been informative to composers. For example, a musical composition influenced by artwork, and aptly called, “Pictures at an Exhibition,” is a suite of ten pieces composed for piano in 1874 by Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky. Also, I recommend Siglind Bruhn’s 2000 nonfiction book, Musical Ekphrasis: Composers Responding to Poetry and Painting.
A friend of mine, after reading something I wrote about a historical character, suggested there was too much of myself in the poem. And I thought, isn’t that the point? If there is nothing of us in what we write, then it has no emotional core; it’s flat prose, not poetry.
Signed, David B.
Dear David B., I can think of very few things more injurious to a writer than an indelicate reader. Readers who know us personally are perhaps the worst providers of feedback, for they lack objectivity and they’re offended by the notion that they’re interlopers to our creative process. I implore everyone: If you chose to share your work with people close to you, ask them to do one of two things: “Please just read this for enjoyment, as I require no feedback.” Or, “please read this and indicate to me the places in which you were confused.” Most people have fine intentions, but it’s your job to direct them to a response that supports your creative process. Instead, allow only your instructors, workshop members, and editors to provide you with critical assessments.
Last December I attended a virtual event hosted by Middlebury College which featured Julia Alvarez (poet, novelist, and essayist). During her talk, Alvarez offered this brilliant articulation of the creative writing/creative writer relationship: “Every novel is emotionally autobiographical,” she opined. Remember the adage, “writers don’t write about feelings, they write with feelings”? What we feel is highly specific and autobiographical. If what we’re writing has been enlivened by deep imagery and particularities, we are necessarily writing from the wellspring of truth. Not truth in terms of verifiable facts about our lives, but the emotional and bodily truths. In other words, if you (the writer) believe it (can imagine it), then you can embody it, which can result in a sense of truth-telling for your readers.
If you wish to join the conversation, send your letters to E.W. at ekphrasticwriter(at)gmail.com.
Ekphrastically Yours, E.W.
Post Script—Biographical Note: E.W. (Janée J. Baugher) is the author of The Ekphrastic Writer: Creating Art-Influence Poetry, Fiction and Nonfiction, as well as the ekphrastic poetry collections, The Body’s Physics and Coördinates of Yes. Recent work has appeared in Saturday Evening Post, Tin House, The Southern Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and Nimrod. Her writing has been adapted for the stage and set to music at venues such as University of Cincinnati, Interlochen Center for the Arts, Dance Now! Ensemble in Florida, University of North Carolina-Pembroke, and Otterbein University, and she’s performed at the Library of Congress. Currently, she teaches in Seattle and is an assistant editor at Boulevard magazine. www.JaneeBaugher.com. Follow her on Instagram: @ekphrastic_writer.
The Flying Nun Rests Against a Lifeboat
Sally Field, between takes, leans
against a wooden lifeboat, beached.
It’s January. Her bare feet look as cold
as the remnants of snow on the sand.
Under her nun’s costume she wears
a harness that gives her excellent posture.
She cannot slouch like the costume rosary
sliding off her lap. Her white headdress
looks like gulls’ wings. In fact, two distant
gulls like mini-nuns soar by. Beneath this gray
sky she cannot imagine giving Forrest Gump
advice and chocolates, or spilling her
guts over a daughter’s film-set grave,
or standing up for union rights and
winning an Oscar. We already like her,
but she doesn’t know it yet. Her feet hurt.
She’s been up since four a.m. for makeup
and wardrobe. The script changes she has
memorized are as bad as yesterday’s. This
could be the end of my career, she thinks,
unaware of the convent behind her, nuns
inside peeking out the windows at Sally
and the lifeboat, wishing they, too, might
don a harness and soar through the heavens,
their white veils billowing like sails.
Pat Valdata is a poet and novelist. Her poetry book about women aviation pioneers, Where No Man Can Touch, won the 2015 Donald Justice Poetry Prize. Her other poetry titles are Inherent Vice and Looking for Bivalve. Her poetry has been published in Ecotone, Fledgling Rag, Italian Americana, Light, Little Patuxent Review, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. She has a new novel, Eve’s Daughters, out from Moonshine Cove Publishing. Her other novels are Crosswind and The Other Sister. Pat is a retired adjunct professor who lives in Crisfield, Maryland, with her husband Bob Schreiber.
Something about having my ashes scattered about Ghost Ranch, and the unsanctimonious decision by Arthur Pack to turn my beloved sanctuary over to the Presbyterians so they could make of it a retreat (and thus my remains, trampled on by these pilgrimages into my lovely hills), this irony, has caused me to think of you, my dear Alfred—and all the things we left unsaid, and though I wish I could put down on paper and let these few words serve to manifest something of my vitality to you, death disallows it, and even these few thoughts I wish to speak to you, knowing they won’t ever actually reach you, and as I stated, something about the pious nature of my beloved Ghost Ranch hints toward a final confession, but not as a penitent confesses will I, for I ask for no forgiveness, as none is needed—only understanding, and this for myself more than from you as I hash over our life together and try to resolve something of the substance. For I feel another breakdown coming on, Alfred. It’s as if everything is dissolving, washing away, and you know how waters terrify me when I reach this mindset.
I’ve been thinking lately how distance always managed to clarify our relationship more so than being in each other’s presence. Absence, or the negative space in both our respected Arts, appears, or more accurately—it disappears to petrify and complement existence and psychological mood more than physical presence ever could. But absence, without the knowledge of a future reunion is it not just another form of loneliness?
I know you are buried near your lake and surrounded by the phalanx of pines to keep you company. I would get claustrophobia in such a cramped space with such a limited view of the sky through the trees. However, I pray they throw a loving chiaroscuro upon your plot of earth when the sun rises each day. The photographer in you would love that. Do you know, Alfred, I never felt like I was in such able hands as the times you photographed me, especially when I made myself most vulnerable and allowed you to photograph me naked. It felt invigorating to be the subject studied. In these instances, I never minded the puritanical claims of sinful eroticism. In fact, I loved such claims, and with my ethics instilled in me by my mother, and applied to highest standard of Art by me, and her teaching her children from an early age what an woman could and should be (not as society saw it, for she believed in her girls, that we could do and be whatever we wanted, albeit she would have been most offended by my nudity, never my audacity), brought out the fight in me, and I turned my nose up to such unenlightened and insulted mentalities and scoffed in the face of public outrage.
Over all these years, Alfred, some things have not changed. I still feel defiant towards society, and that an artist must remain aloof from it to keep an outsider’s eye. I still prefer a flower to a person. You remember me telling you, “When I hold a flower in my hand and really look at it, it’s my world for the moment?” I sometimes think I did not paint my flowers large enough. Perhaps, I should have tripled the size of the canvas. Feminine beauty, larger than life, unfettered and unfraught by the cabal of patriarchy you and your artists clung to like the one true dogma of divinity. My paintings were not meant to offend you, rather to frighten. At the center of your fright, staring back, not in some Freudian embellishment of woman’s repressed sexuality as you and your critics might say to disguise your fear, but in duplicated glory: the flower, blossomed open to expose that at the heart of that voluptuous intimacy and sweetness, an ovary—dark, frightful and beautiful for being nothing more than a simple flower. Nature’s mirror in my paintings often frightened you and made you seek protective rights over me, as if I were the only vulnerable one.
Alfred, l must confess that your affair with that Norman girl affected me. Don’t push on me once more that bohemian tale about artistic entitlement. Could we just call your lust what it was? I had my code, and though I lived by its strictness, that nothing take precedent over my Art, I never once expected you not to live out your intemperance under the guise of “for the sake of Art” as well, though we both know what it really was. So, I remained silent. The gap between us grew. But Alfred, I never applauded you for hurting me the way you did. That hurt, caused by you, opened doors to burgeoning emotive powers that had been trapped within and would have stayed there were it not for you. The hurt helped me see New Mexico like a tragic book laid open and read to the middle, half my painting had already been done for me. Your infidelity contributed to the last half. Thank you, Alfred, and I don’t mean that sarcastically.
I wish you could see this New Mexico you helped me create. It is this barren, desert landscape with mountains rising in the distance, and hills as variegated as zebra stripes, but with many more colors than just black and white. And the reds. Oh Alfred. If you could see the reds like streaks of blood in the siltstone and shale. Or the forlorn crosses atop the hills, making each hill a Golgotha and a suitable spot for crucifixion, like the land itself suffered as much long ago and speaks of endured agonies over geological periods.
And yes, Alfred, after all these years, I found my view of the sky the way it should be painted. From the ground, it’s blue for miles upon miles upon miles in every direction. And then the clouds form overhead during monsoon season. And I have the most amazing seat to watch the drama unfold. This communion between sky and earth is untarnished by the likes of your beloved trees. Lightning from above touches the haunches of earth below and animates it all for a moment. It truly is breathtaking.
As it starts, Alfred, the morning is peaceful and blue. Out of nowhere, the most beautiful and puffy white clouds appear in uniformed rows with a frame of blue between them. As the heat of the day climbs and the moisture from the earth evaporates, more and more of these clouds smack against anything, it can be as small as an anthill (forgive the exaggeration), it seems, and gather into one gigantic thundercloud with an underbelly dark with bruises, and then a fantastic lightning bolt can be seen twenty miles away, as it flashes out in a network of white light at Pedernal Mountain. When this happens, distance becomes this proportional riddle that seems not to exist, as everything appears closer than it should be.
And the bones. Alfred, these bleached bones that are found in the strangest places appear to be the harbinger of a life lived before modern society and its trappings. Sometimes they speak to me of dreamscapes, of an unconscious living where life went on and on, and nature, though it acted as a cruel agent, it couldn’t be said to be cruel of itself, rather indifferent. The hills speak of the other aspect of nature, this softness amongst the harsh elements. They roll out of the earth, like a plump, naked baby on a mother’s bosom. And you take the adobe houses that do the same kind of rising out of the earth, only symmetrically straight lined, and you add the metaphor of the ladders adorning each house, and, oh my, Alfred, it just becomes too much, it overwhelms the senses, and after painting feverishly to capture this essence, one wants to fall and have the earth open and swallow her whole, take her back.
I just wanted to let you know that I am losing my identity, Alfred. The stubborn substance that made our relationship flourish, or that made me paint the way I did, is disintegrating, for Earth does seem to be taking me back, but not as I supposed. It saddens me to think that year by year, the theater between the storming sky and desert earth that attracted me to my New Mexico is the mechanism of my undoing. It’s washing me away from my beloved place, little by little, piece by piece I go, into the arroyos, down the Chama and into the Rio Grande. Until, one day, all of me will have drifted down through Texas and into the Gulf of Mexico, but I am no longer afraid of this water, of its appeal to nothingness. Alfred, I do confess, I wish you were there to greet me, or at least that part of you that might still exist. If you ever do find a way to get out of that pine box, I pray, come join me. We can dissolve together. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
Born and raised in Ogden, Utah, Alec Bryan has called Albuquerque, New Mexico home since 2016. He works for the Bureau of Land Management as a Rangeland Management Specialist. He enjoys birdwatching, photography and wandering over vast tracks of land looking for shed antlers. Alec is the author of one published novel, Night on the Invisible Sun (Aqueous Books, 2010). His short stories have appeared in Pank, Kill Author, Thrice Fiction, Bluestem and Untoward Magazine.
Boys in a Pasture
Two boys rest in an oat field ready for harvest. Late August, hats against the sun, one straw on the smaller boy, one black pot-hat of cotton on the other. Rough white long-sleeve shirts, leather britches. Barefoot, the bigger boy with a bad big toe. He looks beyond the fence to the barn where dad cinched up the Belgians. His brother looks the other way, dreaming of ramming a Minni ball down a musket barrel.
At their feet are wild daisies, meadowsweets, pink delights. It’s the pasture’s edge. They’re not working, they’re watching—wondering who will bring in the sheaves since father and Uncle Jeremiah are off fighting in the war in Virginia, one on horseback, one on foot with a musket.
Mike Lewis-Beck writes from Iowa City. He has pieces in American Journal of Poetry, Alexandria Quarterly, Apalachee Review, Blue Collar Review, Cortland Review, Chariton Review, Eastern Iowa Review, Ekphrastic Review, Guesthouse, Heavy Feather Review, Inquisitive Eater, Pure Slush, Pilgrimage, Seminary Ridge Review, Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art, and Wapsipinicon Almanac, among other venues. He has a book of poems, Rural Routes, recently published by Alexandria Quarterly Press.
НА ВЫСТАВКЕ ЯПОНСКОЙ КЕРАМИКИ
Блуждаю по залу,
ускользая как лис
в узкое горлышко
знакомой мне с детства,
где я витаю
на свет появляются
на поющем свистке
из плена у которого
вырвусь, лишь став
иль каплей воды
на голубой вазе,
похожей на огромный
под которым мне хочется
мокнуть с тобою
от тёплого ливня
и от восхитительных
At the Exhibition of Japanese Ceramics
I wander the hall
stealing away like a fox
through the narrow mouth
of the humming jug
that is crying with music
I have known since childhood
where I am
the hovering pellucid haze
of dawn, out of which
strange hieroglyphs evolve
entering this world
carved upon the singing whistle
of the long-drawn-out time
that will hold me captive
unless I become
the sharp whistling
or a drop of water
on the blue vase
that resembles an enormous
beneath which I want
to get soaked with you
caught in the warm rain
wet with delightful
tears of love.
Sasha A. Palmer
Roman Khe, an acclaimed poet, singer-songwriter, and translator, was born in 1949 on the Sakhalin Island, to a Korean refugee family. Fully bilingual, Roman Khe has been writing poetry since the age of nine; first in Korean and, after his twenty-fifth birthday — in Russian. Roman Khe is the author of five collections of poetry, prose, and translations. He lives in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, Russia.
Sasha A. Palmer is an award-winning poet, and translator. She is the recipient of the international translation Compass Award for Russian poetry in English. Sasha’s poetry, translations, and essays have appeared in Writer’s Digest, Slovo/Word, Cardinal Points and elsewhere. Born and raised in Moscow, Russia, she currently lives in Maryland. Visit Sasha at www.sashaapalmer.com
Click here or on image above to read numerous responses in poetry and prose to this Easter painting.
Did you know? We are always seeking translations of ekphrastic poetry. If you translate literature or write in English and another language, please submit!
We need the permission of the original poet or writer to publish their work. Ekphrastic work only!
Check the submission guidelines in the menu bar above for details.
Here are several translations from our archives.
Blossoms in the Night: Ericka Ghersi and Toshiya Kamei.
Ericka Ghersi’s Spanish poem on a Paul Klee painting is translated by Toshiya Kamei.
Flamingos: Lorette C. Luzajic, Translated into Urdu by Maraam Pasha and Saad Ali
This prose poem by yours truly is from my book, Pretty Time Machine, and I was honoured to have Maraam Pasha and Saad Ali translate it into Urdu.
In Memory of Murni, by Wayan Jengki Sunarta, translation by Brian A. Salmons
Wayan Jengki Sunarta remembers an artist from Bali in Indonesian, and Brian Salmons translates.
Užrašytos fotografijos/Annotated Photographs
A series of poems by Marius Burokas, translated from the Lithuanian by Rimas Uzgiris.
A Special Showcase on Will Barnet, by Salgado Maranhao and Alexis Levitin
A selection of poetry on Will Barnet, by Salgado Maranhao, winner of all of Brazil's major poetry awards, translated from the Portuguese by Alexis Levitin.
Zelfportret, by Albert Hagenaars, translated from Dutch by John Irons
Poetry in Dutch and English on Van Gogh’s portrait.
Mission, by Aymui Nakamura, Translated by Toshiya Kamei
A short story in Japanese and English on a Kandinsky painting.
Buddha in the Mandorla, by Rainer Maria Rilke, Translation by Susan McLean
We are fortunate to have had many translations from the German by poet Susan McLean.
Flock, by Nina Kossman, in Russian and English
Nina Kossman writes in Russian and English on her own painting.
We Want Your List of Favourites From the Archive!
There are almost six years worth of writing at The Ekphrastic Review. With daily or more posts of poetry, fiction, and prose for most of that history, we have a wealth of talent to show off. We encourage readers to explore our archives by month and year in the sidebar. Click on a random selection and read through our history.
Our new Throwback Thursday feature highlights writing from our past, chosen on purpose or chosen randomly. You’ll get the chance to discover past contributors, work you missed, or responses to older ekphrastic challenges.
Would you like to be a guest editor for a Throwback Thursday? Pick up to 10 favourite or random posts from the archives of The Ekphrastic Review. Use the format you see above: title, name of author, a sentence or two about your choice, and the link. Include a bio and if you wish, a note to readers about the Review, your relationship to the journal, ekphrastic writing in general, or any other relevant subject. Put THROWBACK THURSDAYS in the subject line and send to email@example.com.
Also, send a vintage photo of yourself!
The Ekphrastic Review
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