The Cross Agony ended in death's gentle dominion, the cross now stands empty, washed in the lingering hues of anguish and release. The vertical timber rises verdant from the blood-soaked soil to blend with the crossbeam, then stretches upward toward the rainbow clouds and the pale rays of the shuttered sun. Evening falls, the crowds disperse, the mourning mother cradles her son's head then carries him to the sheltered cavern. Colours fade into night; all that remains is a simple wooden cross on top of a hill. Ellen Dooling Reynard Ellen Dooling Reynard spent her childhood on a cattle ranch in Jackson, Montana. Raised on myths and fairy tales, the sense of wonder has never left her. A one-time editor of Parabola Magazine, and co-editor of A Lively Oracle: A Centennial Celebration of P.L. Travers, Creator of Mary Poppins (Paul Brunton Philosophic Foundation, 1999), her poetry has been published by Lighten Up On Line, WestWard Quarterly, Inscape, The Writer's Club, Current Magazine, and will appear in the spring 2020 issue of Muddy River Poetry Review. She is now retired and lives in Nevada City, California where she continues to write fiction and poetry.
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Motherless It is a little past nine. A cold wind in the dark street. I ring the doorbell. The hall is lit by a lamp only, as it always is. I ring again, and again. The quick-ring method usually draws her attention from whatever film or magazine it is today. Last time I visited she had to shout over the blaring Motown classics CD I’d bought her for Christmas. I go round the side to look in the kitchen window. Some white plates catch the moonlight in the drying rack. The kitchen tap hangs a water-bead stalactite. Before leaving I decide to look again through the small pane on the front door into the hall. The phone is blinking with the number of messages waiting – three – beside the hairbrush on the table. Above the table a calendar says Bless This House. A blue-eyed angel with a trumpet declares this blessing from a cloud. Beside the calendar is a large mirror, bending light up the staircase. I half-expect to see her coming down, her hair up in the old style, vintage house-coat, slippers and all, emerging from a different era. Back in the car I spent another hour trying to reach her mobile. Half-way home I pulled over as she phoned me back. She’d been round at one of the neighbour’s houses. An old man. His cat had died. They were all there, the other neighbours, consoling him. It was the only thing he had left, she told me, "the only thing in the world." It seemed like a good time to mention my father. Driving home, I couldn’t settle on a radio station. I kept thinking about her tap not dripping and the sound of her voice, cold and crackly over the phone. In my father’s last days there was a swell of something in his eyes that wouldn’t give way. A fullness that must have been too much to bear. I pictured the old man whose cat had died. The neighbours all around him, patting his back and offering nonsense platitudes. I pictured him sitting there silently, not listening, nodding. The next day I finished work early and walked down the Kelvin Way Bridge. Flanking either side were statues of people from another time. They weren’t real people, they stood for things like Industry and Commerce. Peace was a woman with a spinning wheel looking down at her infant child. War, of course, was a man; grasping weapons in one hand and tucking a helmet with the other. Shirtless with a bandage round his head he was shouting some command or simply shouting in pain. The eastern-looking domes of the Kelvignrove Art Gallery and Museum rose from the tree-line to the west. As I entered the main hallway the last blasts of the organ cascaded off the grand walls and tiled floors. A scattered applause reached up to the old organist, who in turn gave a comedic bow to the dwindling crowd. I went wandering, passing the cracked pots and polished coins from Egypt. Upstairs I breezed through the Scottish art, stopping now and again to meet the gaze of the kilted gentry and wild stag. On my way back down to get a coffee I found myself in the middle of some sculptures. People, mostly women, leaning wistfully here and armlessly there in the all-white shroud of Plaster of Paris. A young boy of about ten years old pointed to an exposed breast and laughed, and I wondered if his was the age when the connection to their mother’s nurturing body is rewired for jokes and sexual fantasy. I stopped at the last one in the row and took in the details. A man seated on simple chair with his legs crossed. His trousers were unbuttoned below the knee, giving way to the smooth likeness of ribbed hose. I presumed he was a Victorian. His shoes were as comfortable as sculpture could suggest, but it might have been the playful dangle of his foot that gave the impression of comfort. If only it were possible to take in those features in isolation. You might then take him for a man of leisure – perhaps settling down to read a book or take part in some light conversation. But his face, and the infant child in his arms, told a different story. With his left arm around the body and his right hand cupping a leg, he pressed the little girl against him, nestling her into his neck scarf. His face leaned down towards her head, connecting permanently with her hair. Little ringlets behind her ears curled onto her shoulder and one of her arms hung down to the floor. My eye traced a line down to her little empty hand. A break in the unity of their embrace. Their faces matched with expressions as blank as their clothes, as fixed as the chair they perched on, which was fixed to a concrete base, on yet another plinth with the word etched in, Motherless. Downstairs I watched the steam float on the surface of my coffee. Thinking more about the man and girl I realised this was my first experience in one of these galleries where I didn’t have to feign interest. The details kept setting down like dust. The cut of the man’s eyes: deeper than the girl’s as though suggesting his deeper sense of loss. The girl’s feet, I remembered, were bare. I had neglected to check the name of the sculptor, but I was sure there had to be something driving the subject: some level of experience. I wondered if maybe the artist had seen this man one day, or if it was a self-portrait. I found myself hoping it wasn’t the latter. Whether imagined or lived, this moment of loss survived. Two sets of eyes looking into an empty space for something missing, not seeing the people drifting by and growing (mercifully) old. My coffee was still too hot. When I got home I tried to explain to Charlotte what I’d seen but in hearing the words in my head before saying them I felt myself shrink. Instead of describing the sculpture I mentioned this painting of an old Scottish codger with a hard stare. "The famous one," I said. "Was it the Macnab?" she said. "I can’t remember. I think he had a dog." "That’s not the Macnab then." We ate dinner and unfolded on the couch for an hour or so. There was no expectation in the air. When we went to bed a little earlier than usual she was warm, loving. She kissed me on my lips, on my nose, and my forehead: tracing a line up my face from passion to comfort. I closed my eyes and felt her hand on my forehead, as if checking for a fever. In bed I listened to her pages turn a while before the light went out. As my eyes adjusted to the dark room my mind wandered back to the museum. A black tile here, a white one there. Soon the tiles filled my mind and I crawled a purgatory’s length to the sculpture, now the only piece on show and the size of a mountain. I began the climb up from the base to the leg of the chair to the man’s suspended foot, and from there up the leg towards his megalithic fingers. Looking up to the cavernous eyes I felt a flutter of vertigo. I opened my mouth to speak but instead I focus on Charlotte’s deep breathing. In the morning she would forgive me for being cowardly with my mother. She was never one for vocalising anyone’s faults but her own. Sometimes, as I walk past her in the hall or watch her read, I imagine that her soul is growing deeper, stretching out to accommodate a heavy sadness. A burden that only a void can create. A void that has a shape, though I am too afraid to name it. Craig Lamont Craig Lamont is an academic and writer working at the University of Glasgow, carrying out research for the new scholarly editions of the Works of Robert Burns (Oxford) and the Works of Allan Ramsay (Edinburgh). Besides Scottish Literature, Craig's research specialism is cultural memory. His monograph, The Cultural Memory of Georgian Glasgow will be published early 2021. Before working in the eighteenth century Craig completed a Masters in Creative Writing (University of Strathclyde) and worked at an independent publishing house, Cargo. Craig writes short stories mostly, some of them published in Scottish journals and magazines over the past ten years. Van Gogh’s Bed Saint-Paul Asylum, Saint-Rémy The irises have gone. Blue petals ripped by the mistral. Swept over the vineyards. The golden blur of the rolling fields. The lavender is also gone. Dry stalks like origami, the shade of Parker ink. Inside your room the tourists pause, mobiles in hand. This is no time for selfies or dinner plans. They circle your bed, saucer-eyed in disbelief. ‘To think his paintings go for a million bucks!’ The stage whispers are loud. Don’t let them disturb your sleep. Your bed is a pauper’s bed-sagging mattress. Rusty metal frame, too narrow and small for your thrashing limbs. And your big head - a honeycomb of bones and headaches and visions too. Swirly trees, shooting stars, the purple mole on a young woman’s clavicle. You prefer to keep them to yourself. You lay this head down each night, turning towards the square window through which flutters the cobalt handkerchief of the sky. Reshma Ruia This poem was first published in Reshma's book, A Dinner Party in the Home Counties (Skylark Publications.) Reshma Ruia: "I am an author and poet based in Manchester. My first novel, Something Black in the Lentil Soup, was described in the Sunday Times as ‘a gem of straight-faced comedy.’ My second novel manuscript, A Mouthful of Silence, was shortlisted for the 2014 SI Leeds Literary Prize. My short stories and poems have appeared in various British and International anthologies and magazines and commissioned for BBC Radio 4. My debut collection of poetry, A Dinner Party in the Home Counties, won the 2019 Debut Word Masala Award. I am the co-founder of The Whole Kahani-a writers’ collective of British South Asian writers. Born in India and brought up in Italy, my writing portrays the inherent preoccupations of those who possess a multiple sense of belonging." Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrastic! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Woman Holding a Balance, by Johannes Vermeer. Deadline is May 1, 2020. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. Have fun. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include VERMEER WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your poem. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight, May 1, 2020. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! Just Being with Anthea Hamilton’s The Squash A vision with a gourd head was dancing in the halls of empire made from sugar Wearing a white ruffled poet’s blouse and golden bell bottoms, floating on the terrazzo, itself a mouth a giant dry shower The man I met in the elevator asks me, “Is this art?” It was at least a test of endurance Eight hours per day is an invitation to something not known until it’s over Was this for us? How were we supposed to receive it? From our corner we watched camera phones flattening like capturing butterflies #thesquash #antheahamilton #tatebritain #London The figure took me elsewhere Languid, The Squash came over and slid down I offered them water but they wanted to touch index fingers with the man I met in the elevator Was he now my friend? I watched as they gazed and touched and fell into each other at this tea party play party “This is art,” the man said Our cheeks were full of heart, our eyes pooling together, our heads grew The next day I trekked from Willesden Junction to see The Squash again The rest of London was working men eating cake in public Was this Squash the same Squash? This Squash wore a different outfit: a striped black leather and black suede gourd head, a black leather shirt with balloon-like epaulets, black and white striped high-waisted leggings, a badger Freddie Mercury This Squash sauntered past the paparazzi, towards me and slid down again I tried to hand The Squash water but they just wanted to hold my hand Their black elbow length leather gloves mingled with my flesh We did that we held hands for a long time at first I was nervous It was the first hand I held like that in over a year, maybe ever I looked over and into their black mesh eyes, trying for through The Squash took their gourd head off and became a boy of sorts with creamy skin and orange hair He started talking to me He told me he was the same Squash as yesterday Wasn’t yesterday amazing? Someone with a camera came over and took a picture He was The Squash for many days and today was his last He was going to some part of England that has a beach, did he say Cornwall? I gave him the stone I kept in my pocket Rub this anytime you’re stressed The Squash labours in revelry and possibility The possibility to grow beyond your prescription To push your vines past your plot To leave your prison after you enter it Sailor Holladay Sailor Holladay is a high school teacher, writer, and textile artist living in Oregon on unceded Kalapuya land. Sailor was a LAMBDA Fellow in 2012 and holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Mills College. Chagall's Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers There is something about Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers, Something about the Eiffel Tower peeking through the window. There's something about the je ne sais quoi that lingers. Dressed to the nines, Chagall's a model for dandies and swingers, From the pink rose in his lapel to the foppish pink tie that's tied into a bow. There is something about Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers. His seven curving fingers float. "Mit alle zibn finger!" One for every colour of the (Roy G. Biv) rainbow. There's something about the je ne sais quoi that lingers. I've read thousands of words about the bringers Of culture from villages where moody cows grow. There is something about Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers. If Marc wasn't a painter, he'd be one of those singers Who juggles while singing of impossible woe. There's something about the je ne sais quoi that lingers. I hear church bells ringing off the canvas (real ding-dong-dingers!) Of the painting on his easel that he's painting so.... There is something about Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers. There's something about the je ne sais quoi that lingers. Peggy Landsman Peggy Landsman is the author of a poetry chapbook, To-wit To-woo (Foothills Publishing). Her work has been published in many literary journals and anthologies, including The Muse Strikes Back (Story Line Press), Breathe: 101 Contemporary Odes (C&R Press), Nasty Women Poets (Lost Horse Press), SWWIM Every Day, The Ekphrastic Review, and Mezzo Cammin. A full-length collection of her poetry is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. She lives in South Florida where she swims in the warm Atlantic Ocean every chance she gets. https://peggylandsman.wordpress.com/ What Is the Remedy? Air charged with electricity lightning absorbed in the space between oaks and cedars and pines on Fulling Mill Road after the movie They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Atlantic City in the Depression where for a cash prize couples dance all night and day and into the next until they drop like a pine split in two. When lightning finds its way to the steering column of the Cadillac convertible first it has to pass through my hands illuminated like a neon sign along the boardwalk where I work evenings engraving jewelry in a careful cursive at a stand lit by floodlights on either side so I am used to this as I am used to the curves on the old thoroughfare that hides a mill that once fulled sheep lightning that finally brings it down because I search for years along the sandy trails for what I focused on until I could right myself on the road stop seeing nothing but flayed stars through trees. 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 Ride the Pink Horse (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019), Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing, 2018), This Town: Poems of Correspondence with Jared Smith (Liquid Light Press, 2017), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press, 2015), and Wildwood (Lummox Press, 2014). With eight nominations for a Pushcart Prize, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Germany. She is the editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Thoughts on Abandoned Books There is a warm pool of books within which to wade one’s mind up to the knees or as deep as one might please. They appear to have been tossed together like tinder at the feet of Joan of Arc, the feet of witches and heretics burned throughout the ages. They present a hazardous situation, attempting to climb this literary scree could send one sliding backward down the mountainside of ideology. Or they could be leaves, these books, raked into a pile on a chilly autumn day, children jumping into them before they are set aflame, wafting as smoke into the sky. My inner librarian wants to gather them like stray livestock, corral them alphabetically, each within an appropriate category then walk away, satisfied. The abandoned books have bled their words into the air, content evaporated into atmosphere, desiccated blank page carcasses left behind for a frustrated bibliophage. Eventually the lost words will rain down on us in a new order in some uncertain future where words might yet be allowed to carry untrammeled truth. M.J. Arcangelini M.J. Arcangelini was born 1952 in western Pennsylvania. He has resided in northern California since 1979. He began writing poetry at age 11, stories in his teens and memoirs in his late 40s. His work has been published in a lot of little magazines, small newspapers and anthologies. He is the author of several poetry collections. Arcangelini maintains an occasional blog of poetry and prose at https://joearky.wordpress.com/ Oranges and Cherries The daily privilege of choice was known by me when moving house. Painted in oils, Dutch vessels fish, but evening drab, dirt fog the murk, vast unattractive sea scape spread. I chose the black-framed Dudley print cherry basket, vase, oranges. No cash value attached at all, but print hangs from the wall at home. Behind us, sixty years ago, I trace the bookshelves - upstairs now - tobacco jar, a bowl, a bell, and from the twenties picture rail hook the framed orange, cheap heirloom, but family tradition grew. In snaps, black and white, first colour, the fruit seemed always edible. I wonder who acquired and when; did they find the peel, pips and pith so realistic, palate won. I look at artist's other work, the still-life items re-arranged, pot boilers, but each richly juiced. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites, including The Ekphrastic Review; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines & Vita Brevis Anthology. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ Death of God and Iambic Pentameter No one wants to talk about God these days of fear and oppression, or walk in the garden of iambic pentameter or put God and poetry together in the same sentence. What a drag a life sentence without God or meter, but life with fear because fear feels real, when all else fails to rouse the great passions. All that’s left after fear is gone is God, the universe, iambic pentameter, what we’re talking about is the smile of a woman, what is she smiling about? Is it even a smile? Maybe a half smile. She’s in Paris in the rain in an impressionist painting, maybe she’s smiling at you and me, looking far away and aghast at a future where there is no God or iambic pentameter. Lee Stockdale Lee Stockdale lives in Asheville where he labors over the octopus tentacles of Forgiveness, his second novel. He holds an MFA from Queens University, Charlotte, NC, and a BA from the University of Washington, Seattle. |
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