Self Portrait (Alice Neel), by Ruth Bavetta “I’m drawing close. Tell me how to come ashore.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/self-portrait-alice-neel-by-ruth-bavetta ** To Possess the Desert, by Molly Nelson Regan “…an attempt to organize the entropy of the desert." https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/to-possess-the-desert-by-molly-nelson-regan ** Enter, by Shirley Glubka “while a confident cat walks the gray and subtle surface of things…” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/enter-by-shirley-glubka ** Les Mesdames du Sfat, by Ann Bar-Dov “…we have stepped through a hole into space where nothing is measured in clicks of a clock.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/les-mesdames-du-sfat-by-ann-bar-dov ** Casa Azuel, by Jane Frank “… my deer, my pack of dogs cavorting among pomegranate boughs…” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/la-casa-azul-by-jane-frank ** Prelude No. 4 in E minor, by Kate Young “It is the moment before stone hits lake.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/an-ekphrastic-christmas-selection ** Fathom, by Jay Jacoby “… to submerge, to immerse ourselves in prairies of wild celery and meadows of eelgrass…” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/learning-to-fathom-by-jay-jacoby ** Pieter Breughel’s The Harvesters’ August, by Joseph Stanton “His paused desires are the tight nutmeat in the shell of this moment.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/pieter-bruegels-the-harvesters-august-by-joseph-stanton ** Cadmium Sea, by Mary Lou Buschi “She lost her sight, her texture, her tone, her beginning, her middle, her end.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/ekphrastic-challenge-responses-barbara-danin ** Fin de la Jornada, by Marc Nieson “… the silhouette of tomorrow already on the horizon.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/ekphrastic-challenge-responses-emilio-boggio ** Re-reading these brief quotes, I realize that taken together they create another wonderous web of meaning and allusion, in fact, another “prompt”. Thank you for sharing your words, images, and yourself. Barbara Ponomareff is a poet, writer, retired psychotherapist, unpublished translator, as well as an occasional painter of abstract acrylics. She started collecting art postcards in her early teens in Germany and has never stopped looking. Barbara joined the The Ekphrastic Review community in 2018 and has contributed stories and poetry along the way. Call for Throwback Thursday selections!
Be a guest editor for a Throwback Thursday? Pick around 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!
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O’Keeffe’s Shell Abandoned white shell, life's remnant Cast upon the blood red mountains Reflects the yellow lemon sky Hidden under pearl grey shadows Ancient sea floor reveals treasures Abandoned white shell, life's remnant Spiral tunnel invites descent Punctuated by pink nipple The desert remembers the sea Cradles curling moon waves within Abandoned white shell, life's remnant Brings blood red flow down the mountain Dry earth under the egg yolk sky Bursting vermillion streaks delight The parched heart of the observer Abandoned white shell, life's remnant. Susan Bennett Susan Bennett is a ritualist and emerging poet. She has been leading women’s spirit circles in Northern Virginia for fifteen years. Her poem “In the Center Ring” will be published in Gargoyle Magazine, Spring 2021. She is a graduate of the University of California, San Diego. Suchiate River We think of rivers as peaceful flow, yet they become borders when geography and politics find unnatural agreements; south the watermark is poverty, riches for the plundering. This man muscles the boat tow along the rippling Suchiate, south of Mexico, international travelling on strung planks inflatable devices envisioned out of creative need. Women, men and children cross the river as do dogs, bundles, guns, drugs, fruit, vegetables, drinkable water in plastic bags. An open song throated by the waterman as he wades tugging a family on board muscles blown from the effort; beans, rice and tortillas fill his stomach as do hunger dreams. Daily he moves his thighs through water, tugging at his heart that lurches at every step, at every pull. His feet find the stones, the water finds his arms. Today not many want to cross when danger slithers serpent fears into the river’s murky waters. Claire Joysmith This poem first appeared in the book Écfrasis, published by the Tijuana Cultural Center. Claire Joysmith is a poet, writer, translator, and former academic, now retired, fascinated by poetry and ekphrasic poetry; she has previously published, together with visual artist José Díaz, the volume Écfrasis, published by the Tijuana Cultural Center (CECUT), Mexico. She was born in Mexico City, currently lives in the Yucatán, and has worked for many years on border-related issues, specifically the Mexico-U.S. border as well as the less visible Mexico-Guatemala border (the Suchiate River). She has published poetry throughout the Americas, in both English and Spanish, as well as three poetry books: Silencio de azules and Bacalar: Esbozos de agua y tinta (both forthcoming in English translation), and Écfrasis (partially bilingual). The Quayside, Newcastle upon Tyne Did she call out to them? There behind the curtain – she has opened the casement window and is standing wrapped in shadow above the lighted street. They look up towards her, caught in conversation, feet chilling on the damp cobbles. The quayside shines behind them: buildings, rail tracks, river, bridge opalescent and dark pearl like the colours of a psalm: wings of dove covered with silver its pinions of green gold. Do you remember the dove cot we came across in the Vale, the shimmer of slate and feathery grasses? We couldn’t find the doves. You put your hand on my back to draw me close afraid that I might fly away. Anne Symons After a career teaching deaf children and adults Anne Symons began writing poetry in retirement. Her work has been published in Orbis, Obsessed with Pipework, The Ekphrastic Review, Agenda, Poetry Salzburg Review and The Atlanta Review. She is currently studying for an MA in Writing Poetry with Newcastle University and the Poetry School, London. Time = XYZn for Frida Kahlo, Lorette Luzajic & Sukaina Fatima after Does Anybody Really Know What Time It is? by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada), 2020 C.E. I. They say, a cat has nine lives! But merely keeping an eye on a cat’s life doesn’t equate to telling the time. II. She is definitely like a cat. She has a mind of her own —one of a kind! She has a frame of her own —one of a kind! The wheel of time keeps rotating her back and forth in life. But her revolutions cannot be contained by the hands of time. I wonder though, what time/life she is currently at? III. This yarn-ball of time, it’s her favourite pet. With the needles of memories, she sews mammoth statues of love and hope— chanting: Viva La Liberty! IV. And she ponders: what if I were the clock; the time itself; had > 24 digits to circumnavigate the worlds of AMs and PMs; had > 26 letters to juggle with in the twine-ball of symbols & signs; had > 60 revolutions to place a bet at the gambling-table called life? Saad Ali This piece will be included in Saad Ali's upcoming book of poetry this year. Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an existential philosopher-poet. Ali has authored four books of poetry i.e. Ephemeral Echoes (AuthorHouse, 2018), Metamorphoses: Poetic Discourses (AuthorHouse, 2019), Ekphrases: Book One (AuthorHouse, 2020), and Prose Poems: Βιβλίο Άλφα (AuthorHouse, 2020). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Consultant and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com. Don’t Fall in Love with Sisyphus He sweats. Muscles taut. Pushing/worrying/heaving/grunting /yearning/suffering/crying out for “Mercy!” The heavy hard imperfect rough rock Up Up Up Up Finally Agonizingly Triumphantly Reaching the scorching summit; Only to witness it rolling down rolling down Down the hill of life laughing at him, knowing it is a relentless meaningless struggle. But if you do fall in love with Sisyphus, There exist momentary flashes of insight; That your mere existence has changed others’ lives for the better. Smiles/connections/intimacies/mending/melding of souls. Crying out, “My Love!” There is no meaning in life. Only the experience of living. Pushing/worrying/heaving/grunting /yearning/suffering/crying out for “Mercy!” Incessantly struggling to reach the heights only to begin again and again and again... And when that overthinking brain-boulder of yours reaches the summit of your suffering, You’ll throw back your head laughing loudly in joyful reverence and awe, As it rolls down the mountain to the depths always. Waiting. For you. As only a lover can. And will. Sisyphus demands a larger rock. Maybe you should fall in love with Sisyphus. Lisa Molina This poem first appeared in Overthink Zine. While not bingeing on her new favourite writer’s works, Lisa Molina can be found writing, educating students with special needs, singing, playing the piano, petting her cat, or marvelling at nature with her family. Formerly a high school English/theatre teacher, and Associate Publisher of Austin Family Magazine, she now lives in Austin, Texas, where earned a BFA at the University of Texas. Her poetry can be seen in The Ekphrastic Review, Beyond Words Magazine, Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, Trouvaille Review, The Tiny Seed, and The Poet Magazine Christmas Anthology, 2020, with new poems soon to be published in Peeking Cat, Silver Birch Literary Bog, and Amethyst Review. Proserpine There is freedom in Summer, in blue heaven Slurpees and al fresco dining. My lover throws the sheet from his body and the sun stripes his legs like bright stockings. Sometimes we open the window and the breeze is jasmine in the morning, burning citronella candles in the evening. One time he suggested we go to Bath in June to prolong our season; drink champagne with chilli mussels and look out over rooftops from an apartment with a turquoise door. But I promised to spend winter with someone else, drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows, burrowing beneath the king size doona. When blossom starts to creep across branches, a book arrives in the mail with six pomegranate seeds pressed between the pages. P.R.B. (Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood) I wish I had been painted by Millais. Maybe not as Ophelia in a tepid bath. Perhaps as Lady Macbeth. Or Titania. Or Portia. I used to make you sit on a little wooden stool and pretend you were painting me. Stroke after stroke rasping against the canvas. I would unravel my strawberry plaits and stare at you. Sherry eyes. Corsage at my neck. Picking up the small crumbs of wedding cake and passing them through my gold ring. Nine times. But you still didn’t get the hint. And so I am suspended in that moment. Forever bridesmaid. I can’t be Effie to your Ruskin. So blot out the canvas with grey. Euphemia’s hagiography turns on a wheel and a bear, but I can’t be your martyr. Writhing in my skin, I call out to Rossetti to paint me. I make you call me Guggums and cling to wild heartsease. We both know the laudanum comes later. So you paint me. Regina Cordium. Hooded lids. Heart shaped pendant. There are two still babies in the shadows. One within and one without. Broken hearted, I become your posthumous Beatrice. Dig me up Dante! Exhume me. Consume me. Shift the soil between us and gather me in your arms. Chase your journal of poems around my coffin with your fingertips as you hold me. Let me hear your mew of pleasure when you have it. At last. My copper hair fills the empty space. But the worm’s hole in your journal eats away at your heart. Beata Beatrix If you elegize me, do it slowly. Don’t write a pantoum one evening over a chicken curry. Or a villanelle on the train between suburban stations. Take your time, compose a prose poem longhand in a notebook with a fountain pen. Buy an inkwell and fill it with pink ink. Let it stain your writing fingers. Set aside a few nights each month to put in commas and take out adjectives. Picture me in every metonym and alliteration; imagine us inhabiting the spaces between words. When it’s finished, don’t publish it. Make a bonfire and watch the paper catch and burn—the letters taking off like hundreds of fireflies in the starless night. The Blue Bower At Hotel Granvia, a skinny Santa Claus in a blue fur suit rings a bell to announce the roast beef is being carved. You take up a naked plate while I wait for the cheesy happiness at the bottom of a seafood doria. I’m post-martini and you’ve had three glasses of wine. Salarymen fuelled by bottomless tokkuri of saké are cheering as the Christmas tree casts a pattern of turquoise light over the buffet. You nudge a silver orgel, from the Imperial Palace, across the table. When I open the lid, it plays Happy Birthday and blue Santa brings me a slice of strawberry shortcake on a heart-shaped plate. I take the cherry blossom from inside the music box and one of its tiny petals comes to rest beside my dessert spoon; a pink dot like a full stop. A Sea Spell We share a triangular hotel room during stage three lockdown. Champagne bottles line the kitchen wall and every evening before bed I pull on your tshirt and sneak down the corridor to put oyster shells and fish bones down the rubbish chute. I wedge the door open with my notebook. At night, we hook my computer to the television and watch old movies. You tell me I look like Glynis Johns in Miranda and I revel in crimpy hair and, at breakfast, sardines on toast. For ten days, the bed is our ocean. On the last morning, as we walk along the beach, I throw my half-eaten Danish to a waiting seagull. Cassandra Atherton Cassandra Atherton is an Australian prose poet and leading scholar of prose poetry. Her prose poems are widely anthologized and have been translated into Korean, Japanese and Chinese. Cassandra’s most recent books of prose poetry are Leftovers (2020) and Fugitive Letters (2020). She is currently working on a book of prose poetry on the atomic bomb with funding from the Australia Council. Cassandra co-wrote Prose Poetry: An Introduction (Princeton, UP: 2020) and co-edited The Anthology of Australian Prose Poetry (Melbourne UP: 2020) with Paul Hetherington. She is a commissioning editor for Westerly magazine and Professor of Writing and Literature in Melbourne, Australia. Morning Light: a Counselor On 4-South Speaks 1. No, I don’t think the woman in this solitary painting by Edward Hopper has just lost her baby. She gazes out her window, as if she knew cold sunlight is her only child. Perhaps, the trip she plans to take to her brook, a sunless meadow, is one she won’t return from. A choice like seven extra months to live, but no sun. She sings no gauzy arias, faces down the fish-back clouds out her bright window. Her aches and obligations—no regrets for trips she never took to East Hyannis, for lids of Mason jars that came unscrewed, for dot.com doctors in their crimson RAV4’s. Her Noels have always been for strangers, distant kin who’ve come to learn as she has, how to love, if not themselves, then stone arches, certain wells that never were empty. Her white slip elicits no longing but this wish to know how tomorrow’s guardians may bless her as yet unravaged face. 2. As the woman leans toward her window, knees drawn up on her bed, I recall last night’s dream. My reclusive sister got married at 4-South She had been a patient there; she knew the charge nurse, Dee. We don’t know my sister’s diagnosis. There was a wedding cake, a plaque on a wall, a book. I called my sister Chloe. Had she read my poems, knew why I changed her name? We hugged. I missed you, I said; I know, she said. I turned our embrace to a sideways hug. She was getting married to my old friend’s brother. This must have happened when we were young, or will happen when our quarantine of flesh is done. I knew how I would end my book when this is over. 3. Sunlight on one corner of my laptop, gray dust in swatches on my window pane. We say wind lifts fir branches. G-d’s in the details, not the devil, said my sister. Maybe things, at least some things are meant to be, Beshmert, the word in Hebrew. When a brown-tailed deer pauses by our goat shed, I picture Chloe, how she lived years in her Travelodge near I-5, so she could make quick getaways from chickadees too chatty, crows too scornful, streets too black; certain German Shepherds in disguise. Yes, this world’s a disguise-- terrifying, beautiful, true. Richard Widerkehr Richard Widerkehr: "My new book, At The Grace Cafe, is now available from Main Street Rag Press. Recent poems appear in Open: A Journal of Arts & Letters, Door Is A Jar, Off The Coast, and The Atlanta Review." Checkered Floor That Thanksgiving I sorted twenty-five years of marriage, laid the photos in piles, labeled them according to place. The nuclear fallout was unexpected. I avoided the table, learned to walk around it, looking away from our faces, the seventeen nests I’d built. The twigs and wattle of townhouses, apartments, the London flat, the wing of a manor house. Finally, a detached, single-family home where none of the pieces fit, like this photo of a torn photo of a room. Its floor of checkered tiles—alternating black and white—though a divorce is never without some gray. The splintered walls shorn, wallpaper stripped, baseboards whose joints no longer meet. Why do I want to lift the photo from the frame and take it home? Even if I place the pieces where I used to think they belonged, the edges will always be jagged. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize as well as for a 2020 Best of the Net. Her poetry currently appears or is upcoming in The Ocotillo Review, San Pedro River Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, Still the Waves Beat, Texas Poetry Calendar 2021, Purifying Wind, Snapdragon, and Brabant Cultureel (The Netherlands). As the editor of two poetry anthologies, she has been honoured to feature the work of other poets. Leah Gose is a photographic artist and educator. She is an Associate Professor of Photography and Chair of the Harvey School of Visual Arts at Midwestern State University in Wichita Falls, TX. She holds a B.A. in photography from the University of Colorado and an M.F.A. in photography from Texas Woman’s University. Her work seeks to challenge the viewers relationship to their own perception, and ask questions of the reliability of memory. Her work has been exhibited in various venues both nationally and internationally. |
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