Dream Time These paintings will not leave Australia, for they are on the rock face. There are hands, there are stick figures, there is abstract art. Brown, yellow, white, and red – these are some colours that you might see. But you will be hard put to speak to those who painted them, for they are from the Dreamtime. That is when the laws and stories were laid down. Here is a woman giving birth; here is a kangaroo; and underneath them, rock. This is the land that people walk on. Where rock meets the air is where the paintings are, and that is where a man might live his life. It’s been a long time since men reached this continent – a hot dry place, good for preserving art – a place the sky bears down upon the soil, and what men do is lost in silence. Put a hand to the rock face; the rock will keep it there. John Claiborne Isbell John Claiborne Isbell teaches French and German at The University of Texas - Rio Grande Valley, after twenty years in Europe and more years back in the US. He published a first book of poems, Allegro, in 2018.
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Click here to see everything. And thank you, so much. Also, Isn't There An Orange Ghost, Seated? I know I'm guilty again and again of finding the figure where there is none-- the clear, the sensible, the meaningful, the desired-- desired even if stripped to sadness. At first it was just a single eye behind the black bar at the edge of the orange which has slipped to ochre, or to sad dull green, peering out. One eye, looking at me. One eye, imprisoned, or, at the very least, in hiding. Then I saw a second eye. It's often like this. See part, see more. See toward what can be made whole, or imagined whole. It's there now, it can't be erased: a second eye. With two eyes, perspective is possible. Whose, though? Shirley Glubka Shirley Glubka is a retired psychotherapist, the author of four poetry collections, a mixed genre collection, and two novels. Her latest poetry collection is Through the Fracture in the I: Erasure Poetry; her most recent novel: The Bright Logic of Wilma Schuh. Shirley lives in Prospect, Maine with her spouse, Virginia Holmes. Website: http://shirleyglubka.weebly.com/ Online poetry at The Ekphrastic Review here; at 2River View here; at The Ghazal Page here; and at Unlost Journal here and here. Isle Why cypresses? What is it in those thin shapes? And so slim-dark against the cliffs they come up like a sharp green fire, an elven cunning to their wild tops. What is it that strikes the spirit as we contemplate that wood? Is it that no light has snuck through? Or is it the weirdness of its bent height? The fact it grows above the rock, pillar-like, compelling us to forge a path? We’re hooked to their dark authority, their stern, impartial beauty. These are our judges before the bone silence, the no return. Nell Prince Nell Prince studied English at St Andrews, was runner-up in Girton College's 2016 Jane Martin Prize, and has had work published by Sidekick Books, Measure, The Moth, The Road Not Taken, and Acumen. She lives in Lincolnshire. 1955 (after Kay Sage) if i could fill the space above my head with anything painted, oiled or soaked with colours, i know i should like to brush the hand of copper sculptures, the repeated visions of Marilyn Monroe, pink and green and pink and green and green and pink, but i know that i’d know, standing in the cold, rocks hanging from my breaths, one white bar across the window, that I’d need you. black and blue and hungry the shapes and figures sparse, my wall into the ragged breathing and a bird in the room Cameron Gorman Cameron Gorman is a journalist and writer living in Ohio. She is currently the editor in chief of Luna Negra, Kent State's literary arts journal. Website: https://cgorman.contently.com/
No Treachery of Maggots They eat us up. Snack on the wounds of the world. Who can blame them for saving themselves? But, think of this: we might live on In the lifecycle of a maggot. Maggot to fly. Egg to maggot to fly. Let’s rename them. Something beautiful. Call them what we want to be. A Saint. A Thinker. An Artist. Use a word like Medjugorje. Marginalia. Magritte. Yes, call them Magritte. Remember Ceci n’est pas une pipe? This is not a pipe. This is a poem. Thank goodness this is not a maggot. And this is not The end. Kyle Potvin Kyle Potvin’s chapbook, Sound Travels on Water (Finishing Line Press), won the 2014 Jean Pedrick Chapbook Award. She is a two-time finalist for the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. Her poems have appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Crab Creek Review, The New York Times, Measure, JAMA, and others. She is an advisor to Frost Farm Poetry in Derry, NH, and helps produce the New Hampshire Poetry Festival. Kyle lives with her family in Southern New Hampshire.
Edgar Degas, L’Absinthe, 1876 1. I have seen you both in the morning street Raving in the oily mud and the horse dung Until the one of you takes a bottle to beat The other’s back like a trampled rug Then you fall in a heap on the canal bank Tugging at each other in your shouting love. You push and gripe and then lummox Where you are, singing to everyone and to no one Beside the junk and heaps of riffled slag. Then you come in here slowly as if no one Knew you, he—pretending to be a poet-- Watches the sun die out in the curtains. You, listing, with eyes wrung out of sight, Wake to find I pour you more absinthe. 2. Under your hovering bangs, a crooked stare Hangs and drifts over your last good blouse. It is your face that holds the corpse of a star, A weak chinned light, that at first glance Seems about to know, but upon a second look Shows a constellation of bludgeoned grace. Your pupils do not watch the emptying room Nor study your glass’s green roil to white. They do not read or see or presume. Stubbed out, they wince at absinthe’s light: Two black thumb prints on an empty carafe. I have watched hands fumble to open all night And watched them fumble to close, and laughed, As miners’ wives do before husbands’ cenotaphs. 3. I talk to you for hours until I am ashamed. There is an utter failure in staring a long time. You have taught me this. I look away, And look back again. Nothing of yours is mine, And everything. Your shoe’s frilly tasseled lace, Your blouse the colour of offal, hat supine. To have you now would be to claim a grave, And yet I’d have that grave, and not be honest And work to keep you drunk and keep you late. So when he looks away, I charge your glass. You do not turn. You do not even look. You say nothing. Your lips as still as a gash. I empty out these emerald dregs in love, And call you back to me with wormwood. Andrew D. Miller Andrew D. Miller is an American-born poet in Denmark, where he studied for his PhD in ekphrastic writing and photography. His poems have been widely published, in The Massachussett's Review, Ekphrasis, Iron Horse, Shenandoah, Spoon River Reivew, Laurel Review, Hunger Mountain, Rattle, New Orleans Review and more. He has been nominated for the Pushcart four times in total, three from Ekphrasis Magazine. On My Way to Children's Art Class Heading again to disappointment — again my colours will be flat, no life will leap from paper. Suddenly stopped not knowing why I face a rabbi’s portrait. Not much to see — black, stark black sinking away from white prayer shawl, aging beard, warmer shadowed skin. No clear colour distracts. Angular, awkward hands lie in wait. From within — a phosphorescent glow. His eyes urge me on send me on my way. Somehow now I can continue on — open your eyes, use what you see what you know, bring forth only what you are. Ann Floreen Niedringhaus Poems by Ann Floreen Niedringhaus, Saint Paul, MN, have appeared in numerous journals, such as Plainsong, Sojourners, The Coe Review, Rattle, Calyx, Albatross; and in anthologies such as, Country Doctor Revisited (Kent State University Press), Bound Together: Like the Grasses (Clover Valley Press, 2013). Her two poetry chapbooks are: Life Suspended (Poetry Harbor, 2003) and Parallel to the Horizon (Pudding House Publications, 2007). Bound Together, the second anthology of poems by Ann’s 20+ year long writing group, won the 2013 Northeastern MN Poetry Book Award while Ann was living in Duluth, MN, before her move to Saint Paul. A retired Social Worker/Nurse, Ann volunteers as a writing coach for the Wilder Foundation Youth Leadership Initiative and offers occasional writing workshops. Captive This is my river, she lisped, the blood flow from the wine glass to my swollen lip. It runs deeper than rib or bone. It's my repair and moving home. Ravens came to drink her tears. She knew that nothing could stem their thirst. Do stay awhile, she whispered, I'll dance a song for you. We'll drink together the winter through and keep good company. The moon was a glimmer in the stem of her glass, her look tender as an open wound. Scott Elder This poem was first published in Orbis Quarterly International Journal. Scott Elder’s poems have been appeared in numerous magazines including The New Welsh Review, Southword (forthcoming), Orbis, The Moth, Poetry Salzburg, Cyphers, Cake, Nimrod International, The Antigonish Review, The French Literary Review, Crannog and The Journal. He was a runner-up in the Troubadour International Poetry Prize 2016 and among the winners of The Guernsey International Poetry Competition 2018 and Southport Writer’s Circle Competition 2017. His work has been highly commended in the Bristol Poetry Prize 2018, Poetry on the Lake International Competition 2018, Buzzwords Poetry Competition 2018, the Segora Poetry Competition 2015 the Brian Dempsey Memorial Competition 2017, and shortlisted in both the Fish Poetry Prize 2017 and the Plough Prize 2016 and 2017. His debut pamphlet, 'Breaking Away' 2015 was published by Poetry Salzburg and a first collection 'Part of the Dark' 2017 was published by Dempsey & Windle. Poetry sites: https://www.scottelder.co.uk/ Editor's Note: Thank you to everyone who participated in this ekphrastic writing challenge. And thank you to Omar Odeh for the opportunity to be inspired by his wonderfully evocative artwork! If you aren't already aware, know that The Ekphrastic Review has two visual art prompts every month. Every other Friday there is a new prompt, and on the Fridays in between, a selection of submissions are posted. We are grateful to everyone who looks, likes, writes, submits, shares, and reads. Together we are creating an amazing body of ekphrastic writing and an amazing body of readers so the writing talents get the audience they should. Thank you. Lorette Night Watch At 3:00 a.m., two eyes stare in my window, floating impossibly high above the ground. Your own reflection, I tell myself without believing – one pupil open wide to gather the light, the other a pinprick. Night, the thief of colour, plunders peace, smothers the calming melody of birds and white noise of traffic, signals the mind’s stray mutterings to move in. Ideas I’ve hidden even from myself skitter across the page, trying to escape surveillance. Tomorrow I’ll discover a message in a mysterious hand left on my desk. I jump at a yowl – a neighbour’s cat in the alley – but the eyes peering in never blink. Alarie Tennille Alarie’s latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. ** Wisdom--Women, Cats We two women, regal unflappable sleek handsome beauties so like our friend Bastet revered by ancient Egyptians beloved by us. She comes to us across time, across the boards pointing us to the blue above. So, we will discern your meaning, open our eyes to your thoughts-- come to us, receive our homage our care, such is way of wise women and wise cats. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta loves to play with words on page and on stage. Her work includes poems just up or forthcoming on Writing in a Woman's Voice, Visual Verse and others. She loves to walk the beach, read, and cook for family and friends. ** Two Women With Cat My sister reminds me about the cat that we took to the New Jersey suburb of Philadelphia, who didn’t want to live there and traveled 75 miles back to the house on the bay. We found her in the spring when we returned to open up the house, turn on the water drained. She had lived the winter in the cellar. After months in the suburb, I agreed with her choice. She had tangled with another animal, survived. Her throat was torn and she could hardly speak. What I imagine a woman in a burqa feels, what an artist senses trying to paint women sheltered when we would prefer chance to security, prefer a life lived to safety, prefer to be a black cat scorned and left behind to fend on its own, prefer the sliver of a crescent moon to a full at epigee. Kyle Laws Kyle Laws is based out of the Arts Alliance Studios Community in Pueblo, CO where she directs Line/Circle: Women Poets in Performance. Her collections include Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press), and Wildwood (Lummox Press). Ride the Pink Horse is forthcoming from Spartan Press in 2019. With six nominations for a Pushcart Prize, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., and Canada. She is the editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. ** Familiar This frowning front door foreshadows the fake smiles hovering behind it. The monsters within-- initially hospitable, but the black cat hesitates. She would not be back if not for the regular, fatty gourmet goulash. A few undeserved kicks worth it for a full belly, a corner to cower in nightly. In daylight, she scouts unsupervised, shrieking playgrounds-- an affectionate lure twining around children's legs with her hypnotic purr. Wide-eyes cannot resist the dusky invitation to follow-- so close to bedtime—down the street. Arriving at a frowning front door. Jordan Trethewey Jordan Trethewey is a writer and editor living in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada. His work has been featured in many online and print publications, and has been translated in Vietnamese and Farsi. To see more of his work go to: https://jordantretheweywriter.wordpress.com ** (and the devil too) Kerfe Roig
Kerfe Roig likes to play with colour words and form. You can follow along on the blog she does with her friend Nina, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ ** Cauldron of Waves I am wrapped in darkness and this darkness acts as my double. No shadows, no incongruent tones - simply a weird remoteness which puffs up around me and makes me doubt myself. It could have been in Mykonos, before the sunrise, looking out into the sea, into the obscure cauldron of waves. Was it truly me then - or is this moment a nocturnal layer of my memory? And yes – the houses were all painted white, here and there a trace of blue. As the sun went up, I remember the cat gingerly treading on the painted roof. Irina Moga Romanian-born Irina Moga is a member The Writers’ Union of Canada (TWUC); she previously published two books in Romanian. Her poetry has appeared in literary magazines such as Canadian Literature, carte-blanche, dandelion, Rockhurst Review and The Chaffin Journal. ** Darkness, heavy with with lines by Iraqi-American poet, Dunya Mikhail The poet wrote, Cinderella left her slipper in Iraq. I would borrow this line and so many others, but I have never been in her skin, never written words punished by exile. I wasn’t painted by Omar Odeh. The eyes muddied with sorrow are not mine. They do not grace my face. I never wore the veil, lined my eyes in kohl. I wasn’t the one to lose a country. My memory cannot smell the river, the lily, the fish. My mind cannot understand the keyhole, the eyebrow, the cat. My honesty cannot borrow another poet’s words to describe my response to this artist’s painting. And yet, I feel vibrations from his art/ her lines. They swirl inside me, wanting release, voice. Have I not felt loneliness like an inverted hollow? Have I not been estranged? Have I not looked into darkness, heavy with loss, then chosen to grow on new soil? Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is enjoying the ekphrastic challenges presented by The Ekphrastic Review, with poems accepted in response to Joseph Cornell and Jean-Michel Basquiat’s art. She also loves gathering poets’ work into anthologies. She co-edited Echoes of the Cordillera (ekphrastic poems, Museum of the Big Bend, 2018) and Untameable City: Poems on the Nature of Houston (Mutabilis Press, 2015). Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, read on PBS during the April 2017 “Voices and Verses,” and published in multiple small journals and anthologies. She has been a juried poet ten times in the Houston Poetry Fest. Her translations of Dutch poetry were published in the United States and Luxembourg. ** Women Kept too long in the closet With the rags and brooms, Like punished children Learning to obey, We see each other Know the shape Of every bruise And broken promise, The taste of longing Swallowed with our bread The sour air we breathe Beneath our veils-- We whisper and hiss, Polishing our smiles Until they shine Like hungry moons, Like scythes, Like scimitars- Sharp enough to cut us out Of these strict margins And let us walk, In rags and tatters, Into the open air. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a former nurse who has always been a writer. She has had work in many on line and print journals, and an electronic chapbook, "Things I Was Told Not to Think About," available as a free download from Praxis Magazine online. |
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