Death to Us for Ydessa Hendeles Squealing, we fall metal captures our essence. Brass bears witness, cold bars lacking substance. We exist culled; caulescent. Ellen Chang-Richardson Ellen Chang-Richardson is an emerging Canadian poet and editor of Taiwanese/Cambodian-Chinese descent. Winner of the 2019 Vallum Award for Poetry, her poems have appeared in Ricepaper, Hart House Review, Bywords.ca, Cypress Press and more. Her debut chapbook Unlucky Fours is now available with Anstruther Press. Ellen is the founder of Little Birds Poetry - a series of editing workshops based in Ottawa & Toronto. Find her on Twitter @ehjchang or at www.ehjchang.com.
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Drawers, Slips, and Slits “Keep them shut,” they (or rather, I) say. For it is best that mercury is kept at bay, in a chest of buried treasures—of pleasures. Winding down from crown to sacral bone, sacred in double-helix mimesis, is a grander form of pregnant drawers with little slips, like a cascading waterfall, ending at the hips. In them are tickets to Narnia, Neverland, and Nevermind, To fantasies of the future and abandoned pasts behind. In another is a muffled moan, a frozen bark in the icy wilderness of neglected dreams and haggardly hopes that still press-- So, confess? Roula Maria Dib Dr. Roula-Maria Dib has a PhD from the University of Leeds in the UK. She is an Assistant Professor of English, the founder and editor-in-chief of Indelible, at the American University in Dubai. She is also a creative writer and literary researcher. Her research interests lie at the interstices of psychoanalysis, mythology, modernism, and gender studies, which involve frequent forays into Jungian psychology, interdisciplinary works on the literary and visual arts, and the bridge between modernist literature and science. Her poems, essays, and articles have appeared in numerous journals. She has authored a book, Jungian Metaphor in Modernist Literature (Routledge, 2020). Her hobbies include reading, traveling, photography, writing, and cooking. 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 The Domino Players by Horace Pippin. Deadline is May 29, 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 PIPPIN 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 29, 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! Special Showcase: The Ultimate Ekphrastic Challenge, Maumee Valley Country Day School, Toledo, Ohio5/14/2020 Over a series of weeks, students at Maumee Valley Country Day School in Toledo, Ohio took part in The Ultimate Ekphrastic Challenge. This creative challenge involved daily poetry prompts exploring various poetic techniques and forms in response to works of art on exhibit at the Toledo Museum of Art (and some others.) Here are their poems. Hunted Watching like the hunter once did, Cold convenience, cutting the light of candle, High above the horizon, hoping not to be heard, Like a child watching to steal candy from a bowl. Cece M. Cece M. is a teenage poet from Genoa, Ohio. Her haiku and artwork were recently published in Skipping Stones, an international print magazine. ** Hunt High up in the trees, Perched and animal, Small and weak, Hiding from him, Him who is stronger, Him who is faster, Him who is bigger, But even he, He who is stronger, He who is faster, Has someone who puts him up a tree too, Who makes him afraid, Shiver in fear, And if he's stronger, And faster, And bigger, Are you smarter? Do you have to be fast to get away? Do you have to be strong to fight? One mans’ prey is another mans’ predator. Amaya G. Fly Away Running ragged through the vast valley of unseen leers Forget the fear, fly far from the fathom of fun, Fly, Fly, Fly, Fly fast as time runs on a clock. Towards the truth of trust, Far from the vast valley of unseen leers. Cece M. Universe Endlessly drifting, further into the night I’m just going in circles The lucent moon up in the sky The heart of the stars The major planets, feeling the heat of the sun The forgotten planets, once belonging in a world under the sun The smoky layer of mist If only I could, I would ask you Katheleeya C. Katheleeya C. is a teenage poet from Toledo, Ohio. Her haiku and artwork were recently published in Skipping Stones, an international print magazine. ** The Seventh Month Chaos seething through a melting skeleton. The frame of fate melts in wake, of a sword. And a woman. Cloth draping over her. It can’t disguise the evil or darkness seeping like blood from a wound. Her aura melting through fabrics of fate and time. Face, contorted into a hollow grimace of triumph. Blade shining bright with dim and shallow light as the world collapses into gray. Aiden S. Aiden S. is a teenage poet from Bowling Green, Ohio. He is an accomplished artist with a keen eye for manga. ** She Why must she cover her shoulders Why must she have long hair Why must she wear makeup Why must she wear heels Why can’t she smile and wave Why can’t she walk by herself past seven at night Why can’t she like who she wants to like Why doesn’t her opinion matter as much? Why doesn’t her wants come first? Why doesn’t she matter as much? Johnna R. ** She She is not alone, as she sits among the rocks She is not fearful, as the leaves make a ‘crunch!’ behind her She is not powerless, as she drags along She is not discouraged, while her mind continues to wander She is not weak, though her journey is tough She is not meaningless, because her goal means the world She is risking everything She is ready She is willing She is determined She is strong And she is brave Brynn C. ** Always I’m a mess. I’m a mess because my thoughts are always, Always running, always Spiraling around in swirls I’m a mess because now, and always Everything I think about Spirals all the way back to you, always I’m a mess, because even the simplest things You say to me Make me crumple in on myself. I’m a mess, because of you, And because my thoughts won’t stop spiraling around you, Always. Jessica S. A Call to Be Adventurous 2020, The Age of Technology. Of YouTube and social media and staying indoors. The internet is great, but try something new. Go outside, there's fun to be had. I’m telling you, begging you, roam the outdoors like you roam cyberspace. You’ll be much more fulfilled and happy. This I promise. Go out and explore the great unknown The ocean, the rivers, the brooks and the streams. They are all waiting for you. Get out of the house, go take a walk. You won’t be disappointed. This I promise. Go on hikes, on bike paths, and trails. Go to the park and try to spot deer. Build a treehouse, a snow castle, or a wooden fortress. Get outside, the possibilities are endless. This I promise. Jack B. Jack B. is a teenage poet from Whitehouse, Ohio. His haiku and artwork were recently published in Skipping Stones, an international print magazine. ** As I Reach for the Stars Take me to the stars, oh take me-- To the outer world, The flowers bloom as I spring and, The wind urges me to go Let’s lose ourselves tonight Dancing away in the sky, We don’t have to worry about life, let’s-- Just forget about it all We don’t have to reach for Mars Or the Moon, for that matter, Just beyond the clouds and into the stars-- That’s good enough for you and me We can celebrate And dance away And pray that this night’ll stay, Leave behind the gravitation of things, Leave behind those clattering chains We don’t need such impossible things That keep us to the ground So come, let’s spread our wings and take off Straight into the night, Those expectations we’ll just doff The sunset sky, oh please be mine Karen C. We I am not afraid of the Coronavirus I am not over the age of 65 I don’t have a compromised immune system I am not personally affected by it But “we” are We need to be worried about it We have elderly citizens We have citizens with weakened immune systems We, as a community, are affected by it So we need to stop worrying about ourselves And start focusing on the community around us Izek R. ** When You Look Up When you look up at the night sky, You will see a river of stars, Shining, twinkling. When you look up at that night sky, You will see the stars fall out like raindrops, Drip, drop, drip, drop. When you look up at the night sky, You will see the ones you love the most, Sending stars your way, Sending hope. Lyra Q. Seasons My back presses against the fence My fingers work to twirl the dandelions into a small braid I stare across the fence The fence that divides The dead winter grass The lush summer field The autumn leaf- covered ground And me The flowers underneath me The millions of flowers Stare And I stare back I leave the dandelion crown In the leaves For my friend Abby B. ** Abuelito Dear Abuelo, You support me through anything and everything The thunder of your claps shaking hands with my confidence. Driving hours to see a game Lifting my head for me when I want to hang it in shame Telling me I’m beautiful- When I want to be down on myself Saying “Mija be proud of yourself and you’re not for a shelf” Overbearing and mean to others But soft and caring with me When I don’t know where to go or lose my faith You call me Nena- Mija- Or your little sun goddess And all feels right And I know I’m in a safe place So I knew I had to give thanks To my Abuelito Johnna R. ** Memories The vase of daisies Sitting on my side table Stares at me It’s eyes never leaving mine The thorns tell a story Of a young girl in a field The vase of daisies Sitting on my side table Becomes my friend People stare Their eyes never leaving my figure The daisies and I exchange stories Of memories fading away The vase of daisies Sitting on my side table Stop staring at me Her eyes dull Her petals fall Her thorns litter the ground She looks up one last time And utters a goodbye I stand shocked While my only friend Breaks to pieces Sarah E. ** Patience The old man waiting for the bus Like he waited for many other things in his life Like he waited for the bus many many years ago Like he waited for the bell to ring Like he waited for his crush to notice him Like he waited for his wife to say yes He has become a very patient man Over the years he has waited and waited But now he's just waiting for the bus Joss N. ** Bones Bones full of holes Dark as a cave Shadows become things Turn around And it is gone Hope it stays that way Shadows darkness Nothing but memory Cold hand Grabbing you Holding on tight But with time It lets go Phoebe S. ** Letter to Georges Seurat I wasn’t surprised, Georges, by the pet monkey in your portrait of Parisians sunning themselves on the Île de la Jatte on a Sunday afternoon, hint that one strolling woman was a prostitute. Nor was I shocked by how little movement you depicted as you stylized your subjects, or the way you covered horizontal brush strokes with thousands of tiny points of paint. But there, toward the back of the canvas where a man leans against a tree smoking a cigar, your visual jest jolted me. Tell me, please, just what inspired you to paint that man’s smoke morphing into a little white dog. And when the sun sank, did he take that wispy whelp home? Wilda Morris Wilda Morris, Workshop Chair of Poets and Patrons of Chicago and a past President of the Illinois State Poetry Society, has been published in numerous anthologies, webzines, and print publications, including The Ocotillo Review, Pangolin Review, Poetry Sky, Centrifugal Eye, and Journal of Modern Poetry. She has won awards for formal and free verse and haiku. Membership in the Art Institute of Chicago gives her access to many fine works of art. She was given the Founders’ Award by the National Federation of State Poetry Societies in 2019. Much of the work on her second poetry book, Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick (published in 2019), was written during a Writer’s Residency on Martha’s Vineyard. Her poetry blog at wildamorris.blogspot.com features a monthly poetry contest. Contemplating Bernini’s Sculpture of Apollo and Daphne Rome’s Borghese Gallery Just as she feels Apollo’s breath hot upon her nape, as he reaches for her dimpled breasts, Daphne’s toes root into earth, her fingers branch fractally, her tresses leaf into veined wings, and fine bark encases her chest. The planed vestments are unyielding and slick, as she begins her metamorphosis into a laurel tree. I once craved the same cabinetry. I never wanted these breasts, their tenderness. I wanted the simplicity of a flat chest. I wanted to skip across the playground without fear of falling into puberty, to outrun these twin threats, and – if I tripped – to be rescued by daddy. But they came anyway, sprouting from the tightly- made bed of firm flesh as blood dribbled between my legs. Curve followed curve, and I succumbed to the widening softness that would make my nights harder. Shadowed now by the dusk of settling memories, I circle the couple – never to be coupled. Appraising Daphne’s polished skin, its unbreached marble reflecting my sins, I reject what had been our shared ardor – to hide from worlds that would sculpt the impress of lips upon breasts. Better to welcome the wounding, no matter how deep the cut. Ellen Sazzman Ellen Sazzman has recently been published in Women’s Studies Quarterly, Sow’s Ear, Lilith, Beltway Quarterly, Southward, Dash, Miramar, Intima, Common Ground, and CALYX, among others. She has received an honourable mention in the 2019 Allen Ginsberg poetry contest, was shortlisted for the 2018 O’Donoghue Poetry Prize, was awarded first place in Poetica’s 2016 Anna Rosenberg poetry competition, and was one of six winners of the 2016 Moving Words poetry contest. She was also a 2012 Pushcart Prize nominee by Bloodroot Literary Magazine and a 2010 Split This Rock finalist. Sai no Kawara he’s known by the shimmer, the clatter of six rings on his ruby staff. a warning to disperse the demons surrounding travelers too young to undertake the voyage across the rocky river—away from the light of their growing, of yellow futures. he sees them, stranded on the shore like thousands of sun-stroked starfish. stillborns. abortions. the shaken. the suddenly unexplained. these innocents, miscarried from their rest, erect stone towers to atone for the pain their absence built upon parents and almost siblings. but he won’t leave them comfortless, will not certify to Bodhi until all hells are harrowed, all young souls are saved. wrapped in his red cloak, he suffers the little children to come onto him, to take his hand, and be spirited away in faith they shall see the kingdom. MEH MEH is Matthew E. Henry, a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated poet. His works are appearing or forthcoming in various publications, including The Ekphrastic Review, Bryant Literary Review, Ploughshares, Poetry East, The Radical Teacher, Rhino, Spillway, Tahoma Literary Review and 3Elements Literary Review. The author of Teaching While Black (Main Street Rag, 2020), MEH is an educator who received his MFA from Seattle Pacific University, Be an Ekphrastic angel.... Please take a moment today to share an Ekphrastic Review poem, story, or writer with a wider audience! If you enjoy ekphrastic literature, do our writers a solid by helping to spread the word about this journal and their wonderful work. One of the most important things you can do for writers is help them find more readers. Being read is the greatest reward for writers. Do a search for your favourite past posts or choose something you love at random from our archives or recent posts. Click on the post title to get the link and share it with a note on your social media! Thank you to those devoted readers and writers who do this every day. Let's see how many shares we can get today! Send more ekphrastic love out into the world! Fragonard’s The Swing This slip of a girl, pushed by a priest, shows froth of skirt and meringue of thigh-- to the famished eye, a lover’s feast. How she rustles through time in flight so oblivious in frivolous tulle to the gathering gloom from that dizzy height. How could she foresee the twisting rope, the gleaming guillotine and blood-soaked boot? Flung off, her shoe will never drop. Dan MacIsaac Dan MacIsaac, a trial lawyer, served for ten years as a director on the Environmental Law Centre board at the University of Victoria. In 2017, Brick Books published his collection of poetry, Cries from the Ark. His poetry, fiction and verse translations have been published in a wide variety of literary magazines, including Stand, The Malahat Review, Arc, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poetry has received awards including the Foley Prize from America Magazine. Dan MacIsaac’s work has been short-listed for the Walrus Poetry Prize and the CBC Short Story Prize. His website, which includes links to his poetry published in online journals, is www.danmacisaac.com. Edgar Allan Poe He would recall Virginia —his child bride—years into their marriage gazing at him like a gosling sighting her first moon…. When that first small drop of blood quivered on her lower lip-- her fingers trembling out another note on the piano Edgar had taught her how to play-- Edgar withheld the truth, saying “It’s only a ruptured capillary.” He had tutored his wife as well on geometry and astronomy, the two together following the slow movements of stars as if they too had all the time in the world, for Virginia to grow up. For years her health would re-bloom for weeks only to fail once more, like a short spring. His hands jittery, his grief as raw as any whiskey, he stroked her hair, limp with sweat. He nursed her day and night, and became a candle on a small table, a vigilant, faltering flame-- blood spotting Virginia's white bed cover. Recalling his mother’s early death-- while Virginia’s fingers grasped his in those last hours-- Edgar knew what he had tried to ignore for years... those he loved would always let go, leaving him behind Bob Bradshaw Bob Bradshaw is recently retired, and living in California. He is a big fan of the Rolling Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. Bob's work can be found in many publications on the net, including Apple Valley Review, Eclectica, Loch Raven Review, Peacock Journal and Pedestal Magazine, among others. |
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