 Shifting Frames, by Jane Barnard (USA). 2018. Click image for artist site. Shifting Frames
The frames slowly shift liquid glass flows through galaxies of new art form June Paul This poem and painting combination was first presented at the Portage Center for the Arts in 2018. June Paul has been a closet poet for years. Encouraged by local writers and artists to begin submitting works, she's been published in The Poet by Day, Blue Heron Review, Haikuniverse and Last Day Poems (Your Daily Poems). She is in the process of compiling a chapbook for publication.
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 Piazza San Marco, by Giovanni Antonio Canaletto (Italy). 1720s. Saudade I want to open my heart wide as a Venetian plaza let living air weave through the stony arches of my foundation caress the columns of consciousness I want to feel a mountain behind me in the distance, know that each breath is an echo that there is blue behind the blue that the tattered flags wave without wind I want to sit here all day and feel the shadow of the steeple inflate and retreat over the warm cobblestone, unmasking silent centuries within me I want to feel seventeenth century oblivion, know nothing but sky and depth and Italian symmetry I want to remember that passion blurs the boundaries of time like the clouds above into the mess of matter in our desperate beating chests Tristan Franz Tristan Franz is a teacher, traveler and writer from Brooklyn, NY. His poetry has appeared in several small online literary magazines, which is good, because he probably couldn't handle being famous.  Dead Father, by Alice Neel (USA). 1946 In Death In the opened casket, my father lies pressed against the golden silk. To his left, lilies are gathered in line, their bright faces gaze at his. A rose anchors his bony hands in perfect position. His stern face, even in death, scrutinizes the arrangement of his funeral. Diana Torres Diana Torres is a Lecturer at Lehman College. She writes poetry and short stories, and currently resides in New York with her dog, Cherry.  The Conjurer, by Heironymus Bosch and/or his workshop, (Netherlands) 1502. Eyes on the Pearl Eyes on the pearl- the prize shown first is the one you cannot win. Curse the magic of a charlatan when you reckon misdirection opened your throat for croakers, your purse for the accomplice. It’s avarice that brings beasts to table, & worth the owl’s wisdom, to stay hidden. Eyes on the pearl, his cups & balls, her thin necklace, all float towards a false caress, but a grain of regret digs in & grows to insight, the queen’s gem bids all her subjects to chorus, eyes on the pearl. Max Heinegg Max Heinegg is a high school English teacher who lives in Medford, MA. He is a Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee whose poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, Tar River Poetry, December Magazine, The Journal of American Poetry, and Crab Creek Review, among others. He is also a singer-songwriter whose records can be heard at www.maxheinegg.com  Rainy Night at Etaples, by William Edouard Scott (USA). 1912. Here are the results of the Rainy Night at Etaples ekphrastic writing challenge. Thank you to everyone who writes in response to the writing prompts. If you don't know already, every other Friday, The Ekphrastic Review posts a visual art prompt for you to respond to with poetry or prose. The alternate weeks, we post a selection of results. We are very excited that in the year ahead, we will be having some guest editors for some of the challenges! This is going to bring different flavours to the table, as well as spread the word about the challenges and ekphrastic writing to a wider audience. The Ekphrastic Review *** All My Rains I Warm rain in the Caribbean, giant bathtub abruptly turned over by a tropical giant. Rain that hurts. Rain that washes away topsoil, flattening crab claw, golden trumpet and scorpion orchid, leaving the waxrose gasping for air, fills all dents in the hotel patios. Tennis courts become square lakes of reddish, sandy mud. Every passing car’s a drencher. Take off your sandals. Let your feet transmit the moment when a god created water and land. A stifling thirty-eight degrees in the shade, sabotaged for a brief, exulted moment, soon reclaims its protagonism. II A dry spell on the Castilian plateau. Earth crust breaks like freshly baked bread. All greens from spring and early summer dusted ashen by hot winds. The sky turns a metallic grey, eucalyptus whisper urgent messages to the poplars who bow in acquiescence. Fat drops explode on the patio roof, cut through the pines, leave welts on the soil. Soon the rains break. Petrichor from wounded earth. III Squishing from the soggy wooden terrace to the overflowing frog pond. Grasses bend under the weight of the constant drizzle of an English summer. Brushing past the dripping hollyhock, it shakes its droplets onto my hair. Peony’s heads hang low and heavy, the song thrush shelters in the blackthorn. The shed’s rusted door hinges whine. From my poisonous-orange slicker dried earth from last year is washing off. Into sudden silence the song thrush trills an acknowledgement of a forgotten afternoon sun. IV A small fishing village in the north of France. Night and rain fall on roofs and streets, boots slip through pools growing in importance between broken asphalt and smooth cobble stones, the old buildings hiding behind curtains of cold water. We were caught by surprise on the way back to the hotel, and the painter saw us that night: a couple of lonely figures hesitating where street lights seemed to transform puddles into lakes. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of Tangents, a poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the Goodreads monthly competition, a further poetry collection (From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949 : A Child’s Journey) has been published by Aldrich Press in May 2016, and her latest collection (Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back) has been published (January 2018) by Kelsay Books. *** Struggle It’s hard to know what happens above your own head when it pours so hard your face is obscured by an umbrella’s black points shaking in wind. The rain-wet street pools around your feet. If you were to look back you’d see more than your fears piling up in painted facades. Buildings heaped with thick strokes a palette knife clearly made. What are you rushing to? Is your basement flooded? Are you sick? What about the child next to you; is it past their bedtime? You can hear the horse’s hooves splash. Lamplight reflections slick the rippling puddle’s surface. Interiors glow gold within windows, but the white houses are gray, sodden with blue-tinged weight. Has there ever been sun? Will the soaked paint of your skirts ever dry? Jessica Purdy Jessica Purdy has lived in New England all her life. Having majored in both English and Studio Art at UNH, she feels drawn to the visual in both art and poetry. She has worked as an art teacher and a writing teacher. Currently, she teaches Poetry Workshops at Southern New Hampshire University. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. In 2015, she was a featured reader at the Abroad Writers’ Conference in Dublin, Ireland. Her poems have appeared in many journals, including The Light Ekphrastic, The Wild Word, isacoustic, Nixes Mate Review, Silver Birch Press Beach and Pool Memories Series and their Nancy Drew Anthology, Local Nomad, Bluestem Magazine, The Telephone Game, The Tower Journal, and The Cafe Review, among others. Her chapbook, Learning the Names, was published in 2015 by Finishing Line Press. Her book STARLAND was published in 2017 by Nixes Mate Books. Her latest book, Sleep in a Strange House, has just been released in October 2018, also with Nixes Mate Books. *** Ancestry Under my skin, a little blue scene in the blood —a piece of me stands under a painting sky beside my black horse cooling now that I’ve arrived at the square. A peace in me stands the painting sky that daubs the ruts with reminiscences. Now that I’ve arrived at the square in a lamp lit night of viridian and marine that daubs the ruts with reminiscences, I turn to gaze at topaz windowpanes in a lamp lit night of viridian and marine drenched with fallen clouds. I turn to gaze at topaz windowpanes, my house now made of nighttime chrysoprase. Drenched with fallen clouds, I feel the weight of my late return. My house now made of nighttime chrysoprase beside my black horse cooling, I feel the weight of my late return under my skin; a little blue scene in the blood. Amy Holman Amy Holman is the author of Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window (Somondoco Press, 2010) and four chapbooks, including the prizewinning Wait For Me, I’m Gone (Dream Horse Press, 2005). Recent poems have been accepted at concis, Gargoyle, and The Westchester Review. She is currently at work on a collection of poems and watercolours. *** Two The night was so wet, I yearned to drown in it. Like a city under the sea, liquid light flowed off facades like a silk nightgown sliding off a shimmering mermaid, her naked scales an alchemy of sapphires, emeralds and topaz. I exhaled jewels of longing into the drenched night air, imagined a dark door opening, a silvery woman beckoning, a warm hearth glowing inside where her silent invitation led. But the child. Mine tonight. So into the chilly room and into dry clothing and into the warm bed with him and for me, cold consolation of whisky, gold in a grown-up glass. Greta Bolger Greta Bolger is a poet and visual artist living the good life in a little village in NW Michigan called Benzonia. Her writing has been published in several online and print journals, including Eclectica, Silver Birch Press, Literary Bohemian, Mom Egg, and Sea & Sky. Her poems have also been recognized in the Interboard Poetry Competition many times. http://webdelsol.com *** Got the Blues got the blues got the blues got the blue time blues got the shape got the form got the feel got the tone got the time got the pitch got the shade got the lock got the key got the sign got the scene got the bent got the pose got the woe got the way got the say gotta say gotta say gotta say Picasso knew and he blew it straight, yeah baby he showed us the way Charles Rossiter Charles Rossiter, National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship Recipient, hosts the twice-monthly podcast series at www.PoetrySpokenHere.com. Recent books include the just-released Green Mountain Meditations and Winter Poems. He lives and writes in Bennington, VT. *** Impressions on a Rainy Night I arrived in Etaples carrying the weight of my race with my paint, hoping to blend with the cobalt-charged scene, palette alive with blue fusion. The small fishing port with soft fingers of light invited me in. Here I would fit, colony of colour- makers free from dark studios, shelter from wind blowing its prejudice over Chicago. My azure-oiled strokes applauded the rain, inspiring, incessant, as it swept along streets in tides of divergence, artistic style coursing through France. Into the frame dark, sketchy, I pencilled two figures rushing yet static, their voices like mine lost in the hiss the guttering, muttering foreboding of war, spray-can of hatred spattering boulevard, sliding off pavements lines and tones merging. Washed from canvas, shelter eroded I bled into background, back to my black-American root. Kate Young Kate Young lives in Kent with her husband and has been passionate about poetry and literature since childhood. After retiring, she has returned to writing and has had success with poems published in magazines. She is presently editing her work and writing new material, particularly in response to ekphrastic challenges. Alongside poetry, Kate enjoys art, dance and playing her growing collection of guitars and ukuleles! *** This The Start Of A Second Coming Le Touquet hôtels full Tourists and distant travellers Stella-Plage no better We made for Étaples-sur-Mer Walking late December the rain Horizontal Prevailing From the direction of Le Mont-Saint-Michel Along La Manche. Squelched through puddles Avoiding the deepest while Street lamp shards Danced chanson française Nobody else out Nobody to seek directions To Hôtel Souquet-Marteau Monument historique While not a 2 star in sight Nor humble gîtes. But at the corner of Rue des Remparts Next a bon ami bar A stable lay ahead With les ânes at peace Sheltering against foul weather Straw dry under cover Space for us at last la Mère Was imminent Due L’Enfant arriving on cue. When darkest cumuli parted Stars appeared Shepherds congregated With intellectuals of Montreuil Off in the east All present Gifted This was to be a long night But this the start of a Second Coming. Alun Robert Born in Scotland of Irish lineage, Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical verse achieving success in poetry competitions in Europe and America. He has featured in international literary magazines, anthologies and on the web. His ekphrastic poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and Nine Muses Poetry. *** Out in the Rain The town fathers (of course they’re fathers) must know that curbs encourage puddling, that street lamps offer more glare than safety. When rainfall blends grey and blue into the dark, most folks take cover in the yellow confines of their rooms. So a patient horse has the outdoors mostly to itself. But tonight a man and woman have stolen out to risk the rumor of a warm encounter at the corner. And a mother, trailed by her child, worries that she’ll lose the resolve to walk away from home. Jack Kristiansen Jack Kristiansen exists in the composition books and computer files of William Aarnes. Kristiansen’s poems have appeared in such places as FIELD, The Literary Review, Stone’s Throw Magazine, Main Street Rag, and The Ekphrastic Review. *** Two Years Before Events that happen every day are noted and recorded in diaries. Incidents are reported in newspapers. Photographers take pictures. It is continuous, these moments. Before the flood, then after. Before the riot, then after. For Etaples, a town in France, before was a rainy night depicted as an impression in marine colours by an artist two years before the start of World War I. Before the military hospital. Before the cemetery. There is such innocence in before, such optimism, because not knowing, we can hope. Zen Masters say, stay in the moment. This moment is a rainy night. I am in France. I am painting. And I am happy. Mary C. Rowin Mary C. Rowin's poetry has appeared in various publications as Panopoly, Stoneboat and Oakwood Literary Magazine. Recent awards include poetry prizes from The Nebraska Writers Guild and from Journal from the Heartland. Mary’s poem “Centering,” published in the Winter 2018 issue of Blue Heron Review, was nominated for the Pushcart Anthology. Mary lives with her husband in Middleton, Wisconsin. *** A Winter’s Night An inky-dark place pushes down on them from night’s bleak horizon They seek the limen which will welcome them-- Isolated, yet not alone, the two trudge through dark corridors burdened and bleary-eyed, weakened but sanguine Carole Mertz Carole Mertz, poet and essayist, enjoys the way The Ekphrastic Review helps her view sights with greater care. She has recent works at The Ekphrastic Review, Eclectica, Quill & Parchment, Front Porch Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, and elsewhere. She lives in Parma, OH. *** The Storm Within Umbrellas braced as futile shields reveal the force that nature wields where river lifted into cloud now loosed as rippled, falling shroud has washed against the window pane through which my eyes have sought in vain to see by softly haloed light the sharpness dulled by rain and night of structures whose defiant stance is mirrored more as shimmered dance in shallows out across the street where intermittent drops repeat their troubling echoes mocking gloom of silence that engulfs my room. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. *** Etaples Hue …at etaples I waited while the rain met my tears for convalescence your empty promises floated past my drowning feet into an ocean of blue your cry of pain sounded as false as the night-flies glow between glass my soul became globules of yellow orbs behind darkened dank windows our memories blurred into a hue of cobalt insignificance we fell into the cerulean pavement while snaking lamps gazed I asked for a hand perhaps one last look you dreamed away… Zac Thraves Zac Thraves is a writer and performer based in Kent. "I have written a couple of books, plays and poems; I am a storyteller and actor and I am in the process of trying to get an agent to help me in getting my latest book to a wider audience." *** Rainy Night The continuous rain flooded the freshly dug trench, washing away the loamy soil. The stench of the soldier’s infected wounds, as he was being carried in the stretcher, nauseated Emile Beaupre, who was hip deep in water, fearing that he would either drown or be shot in the head, never seeing Marietta and his unborn baby. He trained for trench warfare six months ago at Etaples. Emile practiced maneuvers, polished buttons, scrubbed pots and pans, scrubbed the floor, dug trenches, set up wire netting as a shelter for in coming hand grenades. His individuality was slipping away. Two years ago Emile was standing on the corner under a lamppost attempting to light the tip of Marietta’s cigarette, holding his hand over it, shielding it from the rain. The lights in her parent’s house flickered on, her father expecting his daughter home at a certain hour. He was spying on the Bohemian artist, who had no real future, no better than a busker. Her father cursed Emile accusing him of leading his virgin daughter down the path of debauchery, even though Emile had met Marietta at a Paris cabaret, introduced by a mutual friend, Henri Levesque, a writer who sat with the smart set at the literary and artist’s table. They smoked and drank and exchanged ribald jokes. Marietta joined in. When Germany declared war on France, advertising posters and recruiting stations sprang up everywhere - Enrolez-vous! Marietta’s father incessantly taunted Emile, calling him a momma’s boy and an effete - Emile holds a paintbrush, not a rifle. Her father was incensed that their relationship had lasted two years; he knew Emile’s reputation. Soon after, Marietta learned that she was pregnant and broke the news to Emile. Emile did the honourable thing and they had a private wedding ceremony with Henri as the best man. To prove to her father that he was a brave man, he walked into the recruiting station and enlisted. Corporeal Beaupre lay in a hospital bed. He awoke with his left hand bandaged. Screams and moans flooded the ward. An American and British flag were draped on the adjacent wall. An angelic nurse clad in white approached, holding an envelope. She smiled and handed it to him. He stared at it. “Would you like me to open it for you?” Emile shook his head, eyes still fixated on it. She left. Emile tore open the envelope with his teeth, shook out the folded letter which landed on his thigh. He read the letter, folded it up, and slid it back into the envelope. An American doctor pulled up a chair and sat by Emile. He introduced himself as Doctor Murphy from St. Louis. He had trained in Britain and was transferred to Etaples. “News from a girlfriend?” He pointed to the letter. “My wife gave birth to a baby boy.” “Congratulations, corporeal.” The doctor held Emile’s wrist, counting out the beats of his pulse. Dr. Murphy opened a folder. “I see here you listed your occupation as an artist.” “That’s correct.” “Are you right handed?” Emile nodded. “Lucky for you that it was your left hand.” “Yes, I’m very lucky.” Two military police officers approached the bed. Emile cradled Henri’s head in his lap as the rain and his tears commingled. An incoming grenade had blasted Henri’s legs off. His clothes were shredded, exposing his lacerated flesh. Emile retold Henri the same ribald jokes. Sitting in the trench, Emile recreated the cabaret scene - the sights, the smells, the gaiety - the day when Henri introduced his beautiful future wife to him. He said goodbye and with his two fingers, closed Henri’s eyes. Three days later, on a cold, clear night, when the stars were at their brightest, Emile had stuck his left hand above the parapet attracting German fire. The bullet had blown off three fingers, left a fourth a stubble. Matthew Hefferin Matthew Hefferin loves writing flash fiction and short stories. He is currently writing a book of ekphrastic prose poems based on his photographs. *** William Edouard Scott Paints Northern France and Haiti Figures of a woman and child in the flooded street, umbrella against the wind, scene all black and blue except for the yellow of light from gas lamps and their reflection in pools that in Haiti would be streaked with diesel gasoline as we splashed through in a Jeep after evening prayer behind the school once a prison on Independence Square. Before the downpour, I sat on a balcony in a cane captain’s chair above where the first African freedom was declared sixty years before end of the American Civil War, Haiti, where women carry bundles on their head to market and men rest with machine guns sheltered by awnings against the sun. 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. 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. *** Le Temps Perdu Strange to think of such a night as paradise, even in memory. A piercing, cold rain moved in – not uncommon for a fishing village – just one more reason to leave. My wet shawl shuddered, my numb feet shuffled on. Swinging wide to avoid the corner puddle – almost home, almost home – I stopped. The swirling water shimmered under the lamp post as though posing for Monsieur Monet. Glancing up, I saw the daffodil windows of home, glowing like a light house. Was Maman expecting a guest? As I reached for the handle, the door swung in. I swooned in the warm fragrance of coq au vin. Maman wrapped me in a blanket by the fire, rubbed my feet dry. Did I even thank her? All day long I’d been daydreaming of life in Paris. Pourquoi? On that night, before the Great War, Étaples was perfect. Now no place feels like home. 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. *** Remembering Etaples I slipped from tangled sheets To stand naked at the window Looking down at a night Turned watery blue in the rain Yellow lamp light blurred green Reflections in the street I was young then in Etaples-sur-Mer My days were heady with turpentine Standing naked at the window I saw the tableau before me Waver and sway As if beneath the sea And from the watery depths Emerged two dark shadows An elderly man and a small boy Standing as if apart Their heads bent to the rain I felt your arms Go around my waist You coaxed me back to bed How I regret leaving Those two dark figures Alone in the street In Etaples-sur-Mer I don't even remember your name Elizabeth Gauffreau Elizabeth Gauffreau holds a BA in English/Writing from Old Dominion University and an MA in English/Fiction Writing from the University of New Hampshire. She is currently the Director of Writing and Communication Programs at Granite State College in Concord, New Hampshire. She has published fiction and poetry in Foliate Oak, Serving House Journal, Soundings East, Hospital Drive, Blueline, Evening Street Review, and Adelaide Literary Review, among others, as well as several themed anthologies. Her novel Telling Sonny has just been released by Adelaide Books. Learn more about her work at http://lizgauffreau.com. *** A Periodical Journey The subtle brightness of the light shown through the dark, unstormy night of steady rain, chilled summer air, with hardly any people there who might traverse by light of day the street on which the town hall lay. One woman with her child in hand endured the cold by harsh demand of drunken spouse returning late, whose temperament would not abate till Sunday noon, or later yet, so leave they must, though tired and wet. Although the way was damp and dark she knew the route well—through the park, across the square, the bakery shop where in the daytime she would stop meant they were almost half-way there; the comfort of her sister’s care. They’d pass the coach beside the lamp where cabby made his evening camp, awaiting those who’d pay their way and help him keep his debts at bay. He knew them well and touched his cap-- they had no fare to break his nap. A lonely gendarme came in view and smiled at them, although he knew they wouldn’t stop tonight to talk-- the weather forced a swifter walk-- but he would watch for one more block until they turned beneath the clock. Her sister, wakened where she couched, gave warm embrace to both and vouched she’d care for them, just as before, and on their next trip to her door. They knew her husband, loved and dear, was like this just twelve times a year. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers writing light verse with traditional metre and rhyme filled with whimsy and humour. First published in The First Literary Review-East in November 2016, his poems are also in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with a herd of cats and dogs underfoot. *** Romancing Blue Sheen imbues buildings, soaks sidewalks, lifts teal, bathes beside turquoise, steeps within steel. Bristles splash aqua, sip lapis, drip white, scumble the surface, where pools collect light. Cerulean builds columns, frames windows, forms shape, caresses the canvas as technique brushes place. The effets de soir* romance the piece, play with impression and reflective release. Oils surrender in painterly dance, a rainy night, à la plein air, in Étaples, France. Jeannie E. Roberts *effets de soir (French) is an impressionistic technique, meaning the effects of evening. Jeannie E. Roberts lives in an inspiring setting near Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, where she writes, draws and paints, and often photographs her natural surroundings. She has authored four poetry collections including the most recent The Wingspan of Things (Dancing Girl Press, 2017). Her second children's book, Rhyme the Roost! A Collection of Poems and Paintings for Children, is forthcoming from Daffydowndilly Press, an imprint of Kelsay Books. She is Poetry Editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. *** I Do This On Rainy Nights It amuses me, the way glossy cobblestones distort glistening reflections in lamplight. A wizened mother, perhaps thirty years old, ushers her child home late from the sitter's. Twelve-hour laundress routine seen in soggy scuttle and stoop. Both become horizontal smudges on a painter's slate palette. Les Gendarmes will find him. A pattern will be established-- he is neither first, nor last-- a profile created. I preserve my souvenirs in formaldehyde Petri dishes. They will wonder what sort of person removes eyelids from victims. What is the perpetrator telling us? Their eyes are open in that final moment-- my face the last image scored on stunned retinas-- they understood their role in the cosmic experiment, selflessly offered-up their pieces to a puzzle master’s expert hands. 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 ** It’s 4 am and I’m wearing a blue raincoat (after Leonard Cohen) It’s 4 in the morning, almost December-- each day I return to you hoping you’re better, New York is a hospital, dying and living, machines full of numbers, the music of beeping-- Do you dream of your house with its ceilings and stairs? Are you living inside it now, making unseen repairs? As your past comes by full of stories and tears, what you gave what you feared-- all the things left unsaid… drowning in the unsaid-- Now each day is the first and the last and the always, no masks to uncover, disguise what the time plays-- We come and we stay and we go meeting only ourselves, spending fortunes and throwing them away like wishes in wells-- You hand us no thoughts and your eyes gaze beyond, skipping dreams through the air like stones on a pond-- I see you there still breathing harshly with pain, what abides, what remains-- will we waken or sleep? to release or to keep-- Oh what can I tell you, what can I tell you, what can I possibly say? All the sorrows forgiven, lost tomorrows now riven, our lives intersected and frayed… All is circling round to the centre of you-- you can be who you need to be now without fearing the truth-- And thanks for the gifts that you didn’t intend-- thread to bind and to mend—lives I didn’t expect-- And the years collapse spilling stories and tears, nothing left now to fear-- all the words disappear… Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blog with her friend Nina: methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ and see more of her work on her website: http://kerferoig.com/  Oriental Poppies, by Georgia O'Keeffe (USA). 1929. Oriental Poppies
for my mother Lit matches struck in the dark, road-flares burning, these poppies smolder by the bird bath where we brought my mother’s ashes when her life wicked out. Each flower is splotched with black, night at the heart of burning day. Light shines through the petals, translucent as skin. At the end, her bones shone through, the skeleton wanting to dance. The poppies’ orange tango, a wild fandango with the wind. Nothing in English rhymes with this color, not porridge, not ordinary, not original. We only have one mother. Reach for a blossom, twirl it in your fingers, a dancer on an unlit stage. Every gardener knows about loss: thinning, pruning, the appetite of rabbits, how frost waits in the wings, sharpening his shears. Barbara Crooker This poem first appeared in Barbara Crooker's book Gold (Poiema Books). Barbara Crooker is the author of nine books of poetry; Les Fauves is the most recent. Her work has appeared in many anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature, Commonwealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, The Poetry of Presence and Nasty Women: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. www.barbaracrooker.com  Unlimited, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada). 2018. Click image for artist site. Unlimited
There they were blooming boldly in the middle of the city streets neon lights flashing in the midnight sun and it was 1981. June Paul June Paul has been a closet poet for years. Encouraged by local writers and artists to begin submitting works, she's been published in The Poet by Day, Blue Heron Review, Haikuniverse and Last Day Poems (Your Daily Poems). She is in the process of compiling a chapbook for publication.  Tyne Cot Cemetery, by Alun Robert (Scotland). Contemporary. Light at the End of the Century
I sense you in the shards Of November twilight Cascading across from Ypres Another day set to rest When I feel your monologue In dulcet tones Proffering your gratitude To we lions led by donkeys For our bravery, for our courage In an ecstasy of fighting Though horror of laying down lives By me and my comrades From all over the Empire Across many oceans To the futility of the Great War A conflict bellicose Too obscure, too confusing To mortals like us Enlisted and conscripted Carried into heinous conflict To a war to end all wars Battles to be remembered, for We were due home by Christmas If not before I believe you when you cry Of the carnage, the travesty As we lie here in front of you Near twelve thousand young men Taken on Passchendaele ridge Now next cottages of Tyne A microcosm of the millions Gone well before our time Yet I no longer smell cordite No longer ingest mustard agent No longer feel pain, then You must have achieved peace In our time In your time too When cruelty to brothers, to sisters Has been eradicated Vanquished from our globe Though your shake of the head In despair, in realisation Suggests that the folly Of the Great War has been lost On politicians of power Those embers of great men As I wander through your psyche To domains I don’t know Where conflict is constant In life beyond horizons To mortals like us While I wonder if you’re my descendent And if not Why you care With history casting shadows Over years following on For a century has passed And your friends were our foes Then I sense your departure After November twilight In the direction of Ypres And another site ticked. Dedicated to the brave sons of the British Commonwealth taken during the Great War of 1914-18 and buried at Tyne Cot Cemetery in Flanders Alun Robert Born in Scotland of Irish lineage, Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical verse achieving success in poetry competitions in Europe and North America. His poems have featured in international literary magazines, anthologies and on the web. He is particularly inspired by ekphrastic challenges.  The Song of the Lark, by Jules Breton (France). 1884. The Song of the Lark Ascending
One day I found you: on another day Bill Murray did too. My head was shaved at the time. It was cold; Chicago in April. I just wanted to sit inside. So I rolled my metallically frozen Chicago-Bean-of-a-head into the Chicago Art Institute. The Impressionists were well courted: I moved as a shy planet orbiting quietly away from the parasouled social centre. I spun rightrightright- until I was pulled into a small square of Space. I didn’t see you at first. I saw pink- no I felt pink- no not pink- pinkorangered radiated into my skin. You were there barefoot and singing the world into being. I wondered why Bill Murray came to you: he has money to burn to fuel his own pinkorangered sun to keep him warm from Chicago winters. But maybe both of our baldish heads, were cold in the dark Chicago April and just wanted the wide soft palm of a star-and-lark song to warm us, to re-centre our lonely orbit. ginny schneider Ginny M. Schneider is a human person living in a beigey suburb in Southern California with zero cats, but 6 roommates (which is comparable). She is trying to live out the West Coast Millennial dream by having a podcast and hoping her part time job pays her rent. Not to be romanticized, the state she loves remains on fire.  Solitude, by Edward Hopper (USA). 1944. Solitude
Along a country road he stopped to paint it, where the road runs through tall grass, yellowed by late summer, toward a cod-belly sky flushed with marine light. The road is empty as our short journey between crib and coffin. The neon shadow of American loneliness reaches even here. And it’s 1944. There’s a war on, though far away. Though far away, there’s a war. On the right, a steep roofed, no-nonsense white cottage lacks any sign of life. Three gaunt evergreens stand between the cottage and the road. A fourth stands apart from the rest. The tall grass is undisturbed around the cottage. There are countless places we hurry past which catch our attention for a breath-span. And then the scene is gone forever. But it was here someone said: This is the place. And built a white cottage. Was it a man alone or with a family? Why did he or they move away -- too much solitude or did the tide of war take him? Would we have the inner resources to hold out here? We can’t answer. We don’t have to. We’re mere voyeurs playing the what-if game, flicking our cape at a bull with no horn. We who are always passing by on the way to elsewhere. Because we can. Mike Dillon Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a small town on Puget Sound northwest of Seattle. He is the author of four books of poetry and three books of haiku. Several of his haiku were included in Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years, from W.W. Norton (2013). Departures, a book of poetry and prose about the forced removal of Bainbridge Island’s Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor will be published by Unsolicited Press in April 2019. |
The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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