The finalists from the Women Artists ekphrastic writing contest have been announced!
Read their works by clicking here, or on the image above.
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The Lactation of St. Bernard His mouth hangs open in round anticipation. This is how he prays: O Mary, your blood is milk. My dreams are drenched in doves. They coo, white froth on their beaks. They coo and become liquid. Is this not how the Holy One vanished inside you? Is your Son not made of the same pearly broth, halo of cream? I too am your son. The saint stamps his feet like a little boy. Impatient, as if only yesterday he suckled his own mother. All this begging, what can a nursing Madonna do but yield? His balding head, pallid skin, could be mistaken for a newborn’s. And his bleached and hooded habit could be a muslin cloth. With one arm she holds her infant, while she places two fingers on her areola, squeezes—squirts. A lengthy stream of milk beams flawless into the saint’s wide mouth. Truly, a mother never had such range. Geula Geurts Geula Geurts is a Dutch born poet and essayist living in Jerusalem. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Pleiades, The Penn Review, Salamander, Juked, Raleigh Review, Radar Poetry, CALYX, and Blood Orange Review, among others. Her lyric essay 'The Beginnings of Fire' was named a runner-up in CutBank's 2020 chapbook competition and is forthcoming with CutBank Books in Spring 2021. Her first full-length poetry manuscript Tiny Bones Glowing was selected as the first runner-up in the 2020 Red Hen Press Benjamin Saltman Award. Her mini chapbook Like Any Good Daughter was published by Platypus Press. She is a graduate of the Shaindy Rudoff Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Bar Ilan University, and works as a literary agent at the Deborah Harris Agency. The ekphrastic writing responses are up! Click on image to read selected entries on this painting.
She Calls Me She calls my name with her hair, going up towards the jealous sky; belly, keeping the temptation sharp; wide hips, making the perfect infinity sign; legs, rooting in the fertile soil and arms, twisting in various directions as a young bamboo. She calls my name and I see how the letters disappear into her soft as pudding belly button. In the shape of a tornado, heat flares from the sole of my feet to the crown of the head, leaving nothing in its path. She calls me. I find myself mesmerized by her belly button, realizing how the self-control of a civilisation begins to melt as honey in a tea. My clothes follow it shortly afterwards as they restrict the movement of the heart, breaching out from my chest like an alien in the famous movie. I can sense it crawling in my stomach, around the lungs, kicking bowls and torturing kidneys. As in the fire-warden class, I roll from one side to the other, but it helps little. She continues to peel me off. The thing inside begins to scratch my bones with its sharp nails. Her belly button is so close that I can see the colour of my eyes. And in it, the whole universe with galaxies, planets, stars, black holes and the unknown. I can recognize myself in my mother’s womb. I put two fingers deep in my throat, wishing to keep myself together. Convulsions begin to appear and play, I take a hand of soil and clean my throat, allowing it to sink deep, to fertilise my organs and reply to her call. Mantas Stockus Mantas Stockus is a Malta-based Lithuanian. He has an MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature and Criticism from the University of Malta. Mantas is particularly interested in thought-provoking writing and haiku poetry. Maligne Lake, Jasper National Park I wonder, Lawren, if you saw an arctic lake in place of Jasper – your stark planes conjure the high north’s desolate, snow-striped peaks mirrored in near-frozen seas your vision overlays my recollection of Jasper Park in autumn shades dressed in trembling gold aspen and blue spruce stretching skywards Maligne Lake then belied its name — your portrayal — dark bars on its shores the only hint of forest all else bleak, barren, unending winter — challenges faith in spring’s return were you beset by demons of despair to expose such troubling beauty in shades of mostly grey? I reach my hand to yours, offer warmth, comfort, solace for your death-bound view Adrienne Stevenson Adrienne Stevenson is a retired forensic scientist living in Ottawa, Ontario. Her poetry has been published in Bywords, Constellate Literary Journal, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Uproar, Quills, Scarlet Leaf Review, Blood & Bourbon, The Wire's Dream, The Literary Nest, The Poet-On the Road, Byline and several chapbook anthologies. Twitter @ajs4t On Sunday afternoon, we had our second Sunday Session, a new series where we get together online to discuss art, and write together.
It was a wonderful opportunity to meet each other, discover stories in art history, and start or create new poems and small stories. This week we looked behind the scenes at Van Gogh's favourite artist, Jean Francois Millet, and how Salvador Dali became obsessed with his painting, The Angelus. ˆWe also looked closer at a painting from our Women Artists ebook of prompts, and dissected the contents of a massive collage painting by African-American artist Raymond Saunders. Our next workshop is scheduled for August 15. Join us! love, Lorette Object after Meret Oppenheim opening; the soft fur hidden incisors catch at her lips her thighs my errant desire is an itch in the pupils is hoping so look, as I drag my teeth along the rim of her jaw her quivering form on my fingers divulging and panting those damp crescent moons against and into my werewolf heart sharp punctuated breaths of our hides in a wild unrefined wetness I press up against her all fangs and fur all raw uncertain we make tea in the old tin kitchen I’m itching to get out of my skin and back into hers she sips aromatic infusions watches my claws as they grip the translucent porcelain pelt I follow her scent through an empty house on the bedside table a pair of silver scissors she tries to excise me with all the slivers of culture I don’t understand untamed, I scratch for meaning you tore me she tells me and from the split she bleeds our kinship penetrates the cotton drop by drop but I bruise without breaking appearance my late transformation, the gift of her hands lifting to drink Lydia Trethewey Lydia Trethewey is an artist and writer from Perth, Western Australia. She is currently undertaking a PhD in poetry at Curtin University, exploring experiences of nascent queerness through expanded forms of ekphrasis. She works as a sessional academic teaching art history and theory at Curtin University, where she also received her PhD in fine art. She has exhibited her art in Australia, China and Spain. Her poetry has been published in Australia and the United States. Collapse into Spaces She sees the whites as the same in the morning but by nightfall they are bone and cream. The eyes are drawn to the black: a vacuum of space separating the sets of equal threes framed. In a mirror reflecting back are sides of the cobalt scarf flanking her neck and running down her shoulders. The two even ends collect at the center slowly constricting the tube that takes the air in and down. The days swell then collapse into spaces-- the constant pain of motherhood unpunctuated and linear as it races and stretches toward the daffodil sun. And I can still see the sudden red flush of her cheeks when your scream came through the back window and sent her running from the house and into the adjacent field for you. Brian Muriel Brian Muriel is a high school English teacher in Naperville, Illinois where he lives with his wife and young sons. His work has appeared in Big Whoopie Deal and is forthcoming in La Piccioletta Barca, Prometheus Dreaming, and The Magnolia Review. Sharks Scammers often work in twos, one to distract, the other to pick a man’s pocket or pull the purse strap from a woman’s shoulder. Create a diversion by dropping a box of blueberries that roll like marbles across the sidewalk and no one notices the hand pulling a zoom lens, cellphone, laptop or iPad from a backpack. A partner can provide a get-away car or a house in which to hide. Or can serve as a guide, showing the scammer a shortcut through seamy streets or alleyways. Caravaggio’s fresh-faced youth in dark red velvet and white lace collar concentrates on his cards, not suspecting the rogue behind him signals what he sees there to the scoundrel who stands, ready to run if caught, gazing at the gullible aristocrat, gaging the likelihood he will catch on to the swindle. The dupe has no idea his competitor is a con with marked cards tucked into his belt behind his back. The credulous young man thinks he can salvage the silver coins he lost in their Backgammon game. You’ll find that pair of rapscallions even today, reading the eyes of the oblivious, offering deals too good to be true on the streets of Los Angeles, London, Toronto, Tikrit. They devise deceits, sell knock-offs or fake drugs, cheat at pool or poker, pretend to be destitute, while other crooks sit at computers or phones, bilking believers into giving out their bank account numbers to rescue a bogus grandchild or accept a lottery payout. They target vets or students needing loans, or tell seniors with dementia they’ll be jailed if they don’t send money for overdue taxes. Others stack the deck in the National League, the Olympics and the Tour de France with performance-enhancing drugs. No, it’s not just Rome in the 1600s. The ne’er-do-well, knave, and scoundrel are at work around the world in every era, hoodwinking the innocent, the hopeful, the desperate. Wilda Morris Wilda Morris, Workshop Chair, Poets and Patrons of Chicago and past President, Illinois State Poetry Society, has published over 650 poems in anthologies, webzines, and print publications. She has won awards for formal and free verse and haiku, including the 2019 Founders’ Award from the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. Her second poetry book, Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick was published by Kelsay Books in 2019. Her poetry blog at wildamorris.blogspot.com features a monthly contest for poets. Our first writing session last month was amazing, and this Sunday it's going to be even better!
Join us for some ekphrastic writing exercises together online. We'll chat about some paintings, write from them, share if moved to do so, and meet each other in the virtual world. Sunday July 11 2 pm EST-4 pm $30 CAD |
The Ekphrastic Review
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