The responses for the Derrick Hickman ekphrastic writing challenge are up! Click here to read some great poetry and flash.
0 Comments
Summer Nights When we think of summer, we think of sun and long days in the warm weather. And then, there are summer nights. There is something magical and dream-like about a mid-summernight (just ask Shakespeare). Years ago, I was obsessed with an image where the artist changed the background from white to black before publication. This led me to write a whole series of poems on the difference night and day could make. One of these pieces appeared in The Ekphrastic Review here: Collaboration, by Jennifer Met. Thinking about this has inspired me to create not just one list of summer poems, but two—one for sunny day poems and one for night poems. The following poems featuring summer nights make us question what is seen and what is hidden, as well as the apparent joys of summer. Jennifer ** Litha, by Sheikha A. As the sun sets on the summer solstice, there is a magical energy where we can see that things are not always what they seem. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/litha-by-sheikha-a ** Woman by a Pool, by Alan Clark The author writes about his own painting, exploring what is hidden in silhouette. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/woman-by-a-pool-by-alan-clark ** Summer Fling, by Sara Eddy Who can’t help but fall in love with this personification of summer? https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/summer-fling-by-sara-eddy ** Winslow Homer Painting a Summer Night, by Joseph Stanton A poetic portrait illuminating the painting of a couple dancing in the summer moonlight. How can a painting of night use so much titanium white? How can a direct poem shed even more light? https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/winslow-homer-painting-a-summer-night-by-joseph-stanton ** Dream of a Summer Night, by Marjorie Stelmach A poem about a painting about the famous Mid-Summer's Night Dream play. Here, the characters with wide eyes are still asleep because how can they reconcile their “oh-so-different flesh?” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/dream-of-a-summer-night-by-marjorie-stelmach ** Picturesque, But Night, by Mark Danowsky A summer fair of pure Americana turns sinister with this poem’s closer examination. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/picturesque-but-night-by-mark-danowsky ** Fake Sun, by Anthony DiMatteo This poem is a mind-reader. The clues are all there in light, dark, and body language, but the poet eloquently puts it all together. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/fake-sun-by-anthony-dimatteo ** American Loggers, 1939, by Connie Super This poem perfectly captures the feeling of lingering light at the end of a long summer day of logging deep in the forest. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/american-loggers-1939-by-connie-super ** Under the Purple Sky, I Ask of You, by Courtney Justus While set in the summer, this atmospheric love poem features wool cardigans, indigo skies, German tattoos, burnt oak, and metal. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/under-the-purple-sky-i-ask-of-you-by-courtney-justus ** Blossoms in the Night (1918) by Paul Klee, by Ericka Ghersi (translated by Toshiya Kamei) A Spanish poem with English translation that explores every aspect of painting before finally bursting free from its frame. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/blossoms-in-the-night-1918-by-paul-klee-by-ericka-ghersi-translated-by-toshiya-kamei ** Jennifer Met lives in a small town in North Idaho. She is a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology, a finalist for Nimrod's Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and winner of the Jovanovich Award. Recent work is published in Cimarron Review, Nimrod, Ninth Letter, Superstition Review, and Zone 3, among other journals. She is the author of the microchapbook That Which Sunlight Chases (Origami Poems Project) and the chapbook Gallery Withheld (Glass Poetry Press). More at www.jennifermet.com. Call For Throwback Lists There are 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 features highlight 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 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 theekphrasticreview@gmail.com. Along with your picks, send a vintage photo of yourself too! The Truth of Delusions In a cavern in Dendera is an ancient cryptic carving. Sleek, svelte, bulbous at one end, a transparent coil holds a snake slivering in place. Are those contoured lines my arms spreading wide to embrace, to contain the bursting venom of the reality inside? Or is this carving an ancient filament meant to bestow light on dark? Rather than a snake, is it instead a delusion, the filament bursting, ready to explode and scorch all truth eternal? “Seek and ye shall find.” So we seek – but we do not find. All delusions bend the truth into a lie. They deny a reality that threatens us with the truth. But we cannot bear the truth. We will die. . Once again we have sought relief from reality by way of fantasy. Deluded, we falter, but still we seek the truth transcendent. Cynthia Pitman Cynthia Pitman, a retired Advanced Placement English teacher from Orlando, Florida, has been published in Ekphrastic Review, Scarlet Leaf, Vita Brevis, Pain and Renewal Anthology, Time Anthology, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem Contest finalist), Saw Palm (Pushcart Prize nominee, 2019), Amethyst Review, Adelaide, Right Hand Pointing, Red Fez (Story of the Week), and others. Her first poetry collection, The White Room, was published by Kelsay Books in 2020. Remains I ache to live as poets past could live, to “live gladly” in the presence of “the enormous invulnerable beauty of things.” I long to celebrate this great whale skeleton, this architecture of vertebrae graduated like cathedral columns or the thick-wound bass strings of a sunken harp, receding with the measured rhythm of an unsung hymn, sinking like a fallen tree into the earth, into the sea again, still wearing textured ravelings of skin, revealing kinship, in its mighty decomposition, with our own furred bodies. We late poets are so confused by all this misplaced splendor –a spring-like February day, a lone monarch. These whale bones on the beach stir fears about warming seas, starving pods, disorienting underwater explosions. “We are fools,” Jeffers believed, “If we refuse the inhuman beauty, to chase our own minds and make …abstractions, Which are meaner and easier–” A century later, we are called to perhaps an even harder balancing act than his, the soul-lacerating pain of owning the destruction we have wrought while at the same time holding and loving what is still so beautiful. Deborah Bachels Schmidt Quotes are from Robinson Jeffers’ “Nova” and a draft of “The Ocean’s Tribute.” This poem was first published on the HQ Gallery website. Deborah Bachels Schmidt has a chapbook, Stumbling Into Grace, forthcoming from Orchard Street Press. Other publication credits include Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, The Ekphrastic Review, The Lyric, and The Poeming Pigeon. A Pushcart nominee, she was recently awarded first prize in the Sonnet category at the Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition. House with Illuminated Windows We stand in a room too large And carpeted in red, all too many of us. Interstitial, the space expends. Alone, We tend to our mourning. The tender one has run outside, attempts To scream her grief back to the wind: The rainstorm is coming. Bending pines, Apportioning clouds For which we have no space left. Inside, my sisters mourn the passing Of their sister. Every face devoid of Meaning. No-one on the deathbed. Or outside. She is not in the stones. She is not in the trees. Not in the house, Harbour. Tonight, the silence of the sea Appears intentional. Lorelei Bacht Lorelei Bacht is a European writer living in Asia with her family. When she is not carrying little children around or trying to develop their appreciation for modern art, she can be found in the garden, befriending orb weavers and millipedes. She once edited and published poetry, under a different name. Her current work can be found and/or is forthcoming in Open Door Poetry Magazine, Visitant, The Wondrous Real and Quail Bell. She can also be found on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer Diskobolos All right, now I have to ask you to lift your arm up again. —Okay.… How much longer? It won’t be as long this time. —It can’t be. Lift your hand back up, please. Thanks… —Shit. Please stand up and get back in the position. —I can’t, man. I’m paying you to do a job. —I quit. You don’t need to pay me no more. “No more”! If you quit now, all this time is wasted. Who’s going to pay me? —I guess I could give you some of the money back. I don’t want the fucking money back! I want you to pose! —Don’t matter what you want, man. I can’t no more…. You try it. You could never have done this on your best day. That’s right, and no one would have wanted my fat self even then. And you’ll never be a sculptor. Now please get up so I don’t have to talk to your father. —He don’t know I’m doing this. He’d be ashamed. So that’s how it is? And I suppose he doesn’t know what you’re spending the money on, either? —Think you’re so fucking smart. I was young too, once, my boy. What’s her name? —It’s not a girl. It’s my friends… we shoot dice… Whatever. Though I must say you’d be better off with a girl… or maybe not, come to think of it. —Remembering something? Never mind. Just be careful about your friends if any of them win too much. —I just lose too much. Be careful about that, too.… Has it been long enough? —I can stand up…. Want me to clean where I sat on your nice pedestal? The slave will take care of it. Just get back into the pose. —Ah, shit! How’s this? Arm a little higher, please. Excellent. I’m going as fast as I can. Gerald Friedman Gerald Friedman grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, and now teaches physics at Santa Fe Community College in New Mexico. He has published a little in physics and more in poetry in various journals. Wonderland two companion photographs in black and white we took turns standing in profile before the bright blossoming magnolia tree in central park with the reflecting pool fuzzy and out of focus down the hill both bearded and my hair longish yours shorter just coming out of chemo but the twinkle was there a sparkle from the unknowable working its way free we’d just come from the alice in wonderland statue mad hatter in tableaux with the rabbit and prim child in the victorian apron you laughing as I made you sit in her lap but that picture didn’t come out no only the two of us staring into the distance as if we could see the future like peering down a rabbit hole where mathematical algorithms relativism space time coordinates could fix us forever still in that eternity of our own space explain the lost moments spent on the couch letting poisons drip into your blood like swarming statues broken from their pedestals at the metropolitan slowly dissolving like ozymandias in the desert all the ancients crumbling into whirlwinds of dust as Alice and alice and the rabbit and alice and the statue and alice stumbles before me into that blacked hole of a photograph and I hear your laughter again as you throw stones at the tiny ships sailing on the reflecting pool tsunamis swamping the delicate wooden boats controlled by strings from ancient mariners who patrolled the shoreline like gods from olympus until driven to holy madness they pursued us bloody invective strengthening their limbs till we splashed across the pool and up the slope to stand breathless beneath the flowers falling like pink rain into our upended mouths not sensing from the photo that our feet were soaked and a cheshire cat was grinning Thomas Belton
Thomas Belton is an author with extensive publications in fiction, poetry, non-fiction, magazine feature writing, science writing, and journalism. His professional memoir, “Protecting New Jersey’s Environment: From Cancer Alley to the New Garden State (Rutgers University Press)” was awarded “Best Book in Science Writing for the General Public” by the New Jersey Council for the Humanities. See: https://www.rutgersuniversitypress.org/protecting-new-jerseys-environment/9780813548876 He is a widely published writer of short stories and poetry and has won numerous prestigious awards. He is also a frequent Op-Ed writer for the New York Times, The Baltimore Sun, and The Philadelphia Inquirer. Our very first ekphrastic Sunday session was incredible. This past Sunday, we had our first online art talk and writing session. We had a great turnout, and did some outstanding creative writing together, looking at work by Flemish painter Jan Van Eyck, Indigenous Canadian painter Norval Morrisseau, American abstract expressionism by Arshile Gorky, Mexican folk art, and paintings of place by Manuel Amado, John Singer Sargent, and Kim Dorland. It was a great discussion and generated some wonderful poetry and stories. We got some great feedback from participants about timing for the writing exercises, and other pointers, so the next sessions will be even better. Our vision for these sessions is to have a regular drop in for interactive discussions about visual art and generative writing exercises. I want to share the many ways that art inspires me and help lead you on a journey of discovery through art. The selected paintings will always be varied in style and origin, and include familiar and unexpected selections. I will give some background for each artwork or artist and show you some ways you can engage with art to deepen and expand your poetry and stories. Those who want to share their process, their thoughts, or what they have written have the opportunity to do so. I can't thank you enough for coming and being part of this ekphrastic community as it grows. The next workshop is on July 11 and then on August 15. Join us! Wink for Nicolina Ciaranello and Robert Ciaranello My grandmother’s face comes into focus in the mirror above the sink, in the slowly fading shower mist. She winks at me, then stares and smiles. I gasp, step back, lean forward again. The last time I saw my grandmother, more than 55 years ago, I was sixteen, and she was dead. She appeared at my bedside that night to say goodbye, her touch electric and full of love. When she faded, I roused my parents, who said nightmare. But no, she had departed. She created a meteor of love in my life and left behind a barren crater. I remember the smells of manicotti, lasagna and pizza baking, the tastes of honey balls, the cookies she called “gloves” because she molded them over her wide thick hands. I loved her “surprise cookies” with hidden treats. Sometimes, even a quarter would be tucked inside. Beans climbed poles in a garden where mica sparkled in the soil. She heated my morning cereal with coffee and always had a safe lap and tight warm hugs. When I last saw my brother, he told me I looked more like my grandmother every day. I snapped, “that’s not a compliment,” then flushed with shame, as if, despite my love, I’d betrayed her. Apparently, with that wink, that gleam of eye, that subtle smile, she forgives me. But she’s gone again, and it’s only me, looking back at myself from my grandmother’s face. Mary Stebbins Taitt This poem was written in response to Portrait of an Old Woman, by Graham Brindley, not to the image shown above. Mary Stebbins Taitt lives in Detroit and has an MFA in Creative Writing in poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts where she also did a postgraduate semester, which included a Poet’s Trip to Slovenia with the poet Richard Jackson. Her poem, "A Jungle of Light," was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She was chosen for McSweeney’s Poets Picking Poets. The Stone Carver Laments I am not now nor ever was a carver of wish fulfillment. I am a manufacturer of beauty and it is not my responsibility to make sure the beauty is kind. I grew up in the forest, by a small pool of gathered stream water pressed against a tall cliff of bright and varied coloured stone. Over time a cave weaved itself into the cliff. It was a dark opening within a wall of many colours and it lured me inside. I grew up in that cave. Yes, I went back to a house each night, but I became a man in that cave amidst the walls of stones of many colours. I studied how the stones were designed, how the colours joined into a mist of oblivion. I learned how the fibres were woven and when my childhood was over and it was time to be married I insisted on designing my wife's dress. She was a loquacious girl filled with a spirit she shared generously with me and she was grateful for my help with such an arduous task as designing a wedding dress. I wove the fabric from powdered stone and new silk and placed unbroken stones deep beneath the collar. I placed them there, the stones that had brought me to this place, to help me know how to cherish the event. It was after the dress had been slipped over my love's assembled body that the stones decided it was time to again make become the centre of my attention. All the assembled stones grew and stood up from her collar until my wife's face was contained within a wall of pink and lavender stones. I held her for our kiss and as our lips met she remained before me although she had vanished. As the stones feathered her soft skin away I knew she was part of a contained beauty I had designed and she could no longer see beyond the beauty's edge. This is also, I hope you understand, when I learned stones are traitorous things, born from the earth to laugh at our short transit, though I still go to the cave to visit my wife grown mute and deaf within the wide, fluorescent ribbons of forever. John Riley John Riley has published poetry and fiction in Smokelong Quarterly, Connotation Press, Fiction Daily, The Molotov Cocktail, Dead Mule, St. Anne's Review, Better Than Starbucks, and numerous other anthologies and journals both online and in print. He has also written over thirty books of nonfiction for young readers and continues his work in educational publishing |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
April 2024
|