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Dear Readers and Writers, Here are my selections for the Jane Burn challenge! There were many submissions and I wish I could have included them all. As I read many of them, the theme of women, witches, hares, and magic was strong (like a spell being spoken or brewed). I couldn’t help but think of the song Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves by Eurythmics. It was empowering! But I also chose work that went slant-wise and made me see Jane’s piece in a different way. That’s the beauty of ekphrastic writing – interpretation, translation, revelation. Thanks to all the poets and writers that submitted. It was a journey down a fantastic rabbit hole reading all the pieces! Xoxo, Tricia Marcella Cimera  Self-Portrait As One Of The Hare Witches, by Jane Burn (England) contemporary 兔年 (Rabbit Year) This is a year of hungry ghosts-- They chew through hours & walls & my father’s patience. But I am my mother’s child; Spirits are descending around me As the hares converge. Trees tremble with anticipation & moonlit rivers whisper in rapture At our earthly procession. Everyday, there is less we are willing to lose. Audrey Lin Audrey Lin 林妍希 (they/she/he) is a queer high school student interested in transnational literature, art, and film. They are based in Los Angeles via the Bay Area and Shanghai. Their work can be found or is forthcoming in Depth Cues Magazine, Beaver Magazine, Eunoia Review, and the lickety~split. Twitter: @audramatically. ** Hare’s to You my lovelies long sensuous ears long tresses draped over your fur, I ride aback, your muscles tense under my arms. We are connected, charmed, witch to hare, as one we hide, burrow underground - clever, not to be found human lest they judge us, kill. Spirit will protect, we dare at night ride in silence over-ground flight, kept safe, practice ancient lore in making more of us, abide in secret, we must survive. Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson loves writing Ekphrastic poems, as well as many other forms, has written poetry since her teens. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on two poetry boards, been a guest editor and submits poetry to many journals. Her poetry appears in Tiger Moth, Misfit, Blue Heron Review and Ekphrastic Review, among others. ** Heavens Hare witches’ passion, to live naked and freely, to rule the heavens. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Once Upon a Hare Planet when we were young and internet-innocent, there was hardly anyone around, let alone a man to call a rock, never mind a lover… Adam was still in a soul-searching hangover. One day the younger two of us went to fetch some chewing grass, but it took us ages to hunt in these endless sandy hills. When we returned to our abode it was already moonless night. and we couldn’t spot our sister for a long, so we called out loud piercing the dim eve. No answer. Echoing. E-e-ve! Eve of what ? - dawned a spooky thought. Her voice followed like that of a hover under some tick cover and scared the hell of out of us; then we discerned a panting shoving bundle and then, alas, we realized – it was the forbidden knot – Eve under Adam – that damn gross first biblical vagabond! O, how we were shocked, how we were hurt! We grasped, Eve, using her natural dim skills, had kept from our eyes the only apple on the only tree, and once we were gone, she shared it with him knowing perfect well its libidinous spell! Without a second thought - she – the eldest, the wisest - trespassed our vow “never to put on this-so-low-a-crown”. We came when its poison was spilling out, obliterating any benefit of a doubt. Our guttural yell thundered as a cursing spell that echoed and hit the whole planetary pit, but all it did was suck the thrill and pollute our chaste free will. Rage turned into fury. We hurried our hares in a gallop to catch the trespassers on the spot. We devised emergency plan on the run: my sister would grab Eve by the hair and pull just one piece from the core – enough to end her energy flow; I will aim at his now released alpha wave and with fate’s net trap him as a captive; then, we would devise a shared move ahead. Time was ticking, they were about to disappear with their hare; sister was slowing the chase. I was figuring my last chance – a slant attack – when I saw the bottomless interstellar abyss, and in order to avoid the hazard, I had to open my secret wings and fly away with him to planet earth; the only consolation – it was the spot, where the apple tree grew in abundance and there were no restrictions to grasp and speak its parlance. Such an interplanetary vision, for a hare woman, was the magic’s crown; I was milliseconds from the top prize, when I remembered that it was, the very last charm in a hare’s palm, and that was too high a price to pay. I frantically tried to sway away, but to no avail – the cosmic acceleration was so stalwart it couldn’t alter the trajectory of my leap, but splashed me straight unto the target’s hip... Needless to say, we live happily ever after: he – the apple orchard’s master, I – keeping out of disaster. P.S. One thing to make sense – an earthly life span equals a day of our simulation existence. p.s. still no news from my sisters. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA, has studied and taught linguistics and culture at universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval art for the British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems feature frequently on The Ekphrastic Review, its Challenges, Poetrywivenhoe, and the anthology Caged Blossoms, among others. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is Europe Edzioni publication, 2021. ** Up and Away Beyond the Dark. Note: this story alludes to attempted child mistreatment. Olive dreamed frequently of rabbits. Hares to be exact, with their long, velvet ears and twitching, curious snouts. In some of her dreams, she rode the hares, going from one to the other as they benevolently tolerated her on their backs. In all of her dreams, Olive was naked. In her waking hours being naked was to be avoided as nothing else made Olive feel so vulnerable, so not in control of her own life. So like the skinned rabbits she’d seen hanging from a hook in the local butcher’s window. Olive saw her life in black and white. She didn’t see the yellow of the sun or the pinks and violets of the flowers in her mother’s garden, the bright reds and blues of the lorikeets on the fence, or the green-grey colour of her own eyes. Olive would scribble black boxes with her ballpoint pen instead of doing her homework. She would fill the boxes with leaves and swirls and sometimes names. If anyone was looking, they would not recognise the names because Olive wrote them in a language only known to her and to the hares. The hares kept her secrets. When they felt her soft hands clutching their fur they knew it was time to take Olive far away into a place where her skin became hers to gift to the breeze and the fresh, cool air knowing they would caress her gently and keep her safe. Olive was always safe with the hares and the breeze and the air. They didn’t come to her with the sour, breathy, whispers of her mother’s boyfriends. They didn’t tug at her clothes like a wild tornado. They didn’t clutch at her long, black hair as she rolled under the bed and away to safety into the dust and dark. One day, Olive knew the hares would take her away forever. The time would soon come when she would keep her eyes closed and lock the door to the rising dawn behind her. The key she would toss into the shadowy remnants of the night and she and the hares would ride away bathed in all the colours of the rainbow she had never seen. In her secret language and for the last time, Olive would scream the names, one by one, and the hares would use their heavy paws to trample them, into the dirt of forgotten memories. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives in Lake Tabourie, NSW, by the sea. In this beautiful environment, she writes poetry and has recently dabbled in flash fiction. Linda is completing her Degree in Creative Writing at Curtin University and enjoys seeing her work published in various literary spaces. She is a recent Pushcart Nominee thanks to The Ekphrastic Review. ** WIld are the Winds WIld are the winds, and our hares sister, we will ride and ride towards the truth. Even if darkness bribes us with stars and the twinings of our nakedness. Sumptuousness of darkness reveals the true beauty of our bodies The spells we use were found among the stones, written in riddles. Revolve in air–each incantation makes us lighter. We will ride and dance all night long, until the spell has formed and our enemies are struck down with the lightening of our glory. Martin Rieser Martin Rieser is both a poet and visual artist. His interactive installations based on his poetry have been shown around the world, including Understanding Echo shown in Japan 2002, Hosts Bath Abbey 2006, Secret Door Invideo Milan 2006, The Street RMIT Gallery Melbourne 2008/ISEA Belfast 2009, Secret Garden, Phoenix Square 2012/Taipei 2013 and RUR at Glyndebourne in 2014 for REFRAME at the University of Sussex. He has developed mobile artworks using interactive text and image for Leicester, London and Athens and exhibited the Third Woman Interactive film in Vienna, Xian and New York. He runs the Stanza poetry group in Bristol. Published: Poetry Review, Write to be Counted, The Unpredicted Spring 2020, Magma 74, Morphrog 22; Poetry kit; Primers Volume 3, Artlyst Anthology 2020. Alchemist’s Spoon 2022, Shortlisted: Frosted Fire 2019 /2022, Charles Causeley Prize 2020; Wolves Poetry Prize 2023, runner up Norman Nicholson 2020,; Winner of the Hastings Poetry Competition 2021. ** Harefield's Wild Sisterhood We must have made quite the spectacle, setting off to Maccy D's in my ancient black Volvo, out of the gate at the front of HWS. That's Harefield Women's Shelter to you. I'd been there eighteen months. I loved it. The name was perfect. There really was a big field and we'd see the hares, well, haring around for want of a better description, out of the side windows. There were five of us in my car. We'd all gravitated to the Shelter from London. Aiofe and Jelena were like two halves of the same soul, with their pale oval faces and long wavy dark hair. Inseparable. I called them the Selkie Sisters. They'd be having Filet-O-Fish, of course. Never ate meat. Although you'd take them as true sisters they'd ended up in the same place by different routes. We never asked each others' stories. One look into their dark eyes told you they'd both been through more than enough. And in the back with them, elbows flying, was Adeola. Every time she walked to the shops kids chased after her chanting “Voodoo! Voodoo!” She just laughed her big, rich laugh and shouted back "Better watch out else I'll put a spell on you!" She was singing - really belting it out - in the back seat, headphones on, shoulder-rolling. "We are family! I got all my sisters and me!" In the passenger seat up front was Maggie. Quiet, middle aged, salt and pepper mousy hair worn long hanging around her face. It hid the scars that way. She'd had her jaw broken three times. Last but not least, me, Kathleen. House mother of sorts. First amongst equals. Head of the coven, as some would have it but I just ignore that sort of nonsense. I caught this wee boy once outside the Shelter. Brazen. By the fence. Wee eejit. It was clearly marked as anti graffiti paint. It never stops them trying. I remember grabbing the can off him just as he was about to start spraying. He ran off shouting, "Witch! Witch!" Which is what you get called if you are a group of women living together on the edge of town, even if the house's not a rickety wee cottage, just some ugly 1950s pebble-dashed sprawling carbuncle. And then there was the old lady. She never told anyone her name. Names have power. Somewhere I'd heard rumours it was something like Keziah Maria. I liked that. It had poetry. Her eyes were beautiful, too. A golden amber-brown. Deep, like pools. I could tell she'd seen a few things in her time. She lived in an old caravan in the big field. Pretty much off grid. No electricity. She foraged wood for a bonfire to cook. Water from the local stream. Got the news on a battery powered radio. She kept to herself, mainly, as did we. There was that one time, though, that had given me the shivers. I was just parking the Volvo by the road and saw fine, canny hare on the other side. I looked right at it and it seemed to close one of those big, liquid amber eyes, like it was winking at me. It was up on its haunches and then started to cross. This maniac in an Audi comes flying out of nowhere, never mind thirty limits, and clips one of the back legs. I rushed over to check if it was okay but it'd gone off into the undergrowth on its three good feet. The next day I saw Keziah Maria shuffling back from the stream with her water bucket. She was limping with her left leg. She must have sensed me looking over the fence at her because just that once she waved, and I swear she winked at me, exactly like that fine, canny hare had done. Emily Tee Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction. She's had pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review and for its challenges, and elsewhere online, and in print in some publications by Dreich, in Poetry Scotland and in several poetry anthologies. She was delighted to be nominated for Best Small Fictions 2023 by The Ekphrastic Review. She lives in England. ** March Hares They’re getting ready for the boxing matches where the winners will take all. Afterwards, they’ll stand still for a moment and sniff the air to check all is safe and then they’re ready to roll so climb on board feel the wind in your hair the witching hour has arrived at last and soon all will be transformed, renewed, remade as they spring forward in any shape they choose. It’s like magic. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** Self Portrait with Hare A wild ride through myths, a maelstrom of fur and glorious hair – women dreaming two by two, except for one, her familiar, the hare, is ready to slip out of her grasp sliding, sliding, head-first like a newborn through history’s dark alleys right into my grandfather’s cellar. Where, gutted, it dangles from an ordinary bit of string over a white enamel basin. A ferrous smell of blood, heavy and menstrual fills the room and clings to the shadowy congregation of objects on the shelves. My baited breath attends each drip as it hits the dark liquid, its agonized timing, and the sudden insight into how things end. Barbara Ponomareff Barbara Ponomareff lives in southern Ontario, Canada. By profession a child psychotherapist, she has been fortunate to be able to pursue her lifelong interest in literature, art and psychology since her retirement. The first of her two novellas, dealt with a possible life of the painter J.S. Chardin. Her short stories, memoirs and poetry have appeared in Descant, (EX)cite, Precipice and various other literary magazines and anthologies. She is an occasional painter of abstract acrylics and regularly contributes to the The Ekphrastic Review. ** To Jane Burn Regarding Self-Portrait As One Of The Hare Witches Which is witch -- the she or hare? Should I wonder? Does one dare? Are not most women unpossessed whose fertile loins become the test of strength to see as heaven sent the failings mortal to lament in journey destined to embrace the conscience sensed as womb of Grace? Is every woman chosen shape that soul may change as if a drape disguising devil's wicked beast as any creature large or least? Or...is haunting hare-witch story merely here as allegory thinly veiling will and wile latent as the feral guile of drove that braves the world to thrive on dreams they birth and keep alive? 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. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Leaps and Bounds After the museum Sarah and I had drinks. We impatiently waited for round two while the waiter was more attentive to other patrons, he probably assumed us women of a certain age were light drinkers and short tippers. After our second shot of Dewars, no water thanks I told Sarah that we would go north and join the Arctic hares that are way larger than cottontails. Even though too old to consider more litters, the hares and us would face the prevailing winds of old age. We’d thump, grunt, sniff while nibbling tender tips of woody plants. We would be free of the big city, fears of vulnerability and young bearded waiters. We would cover rocky ground in leaps and bounds while watching for weasels, foxes, wolves and gyrfalcons. The next morning, I woke to a headache filled with flashes, a dreamscape where pictures of ourselves astride the arctic hares were being painted by the Inuit. When I checked my purse for last night’s receipt I see that somehow, I had in fact done all right and tipped 20 %. Ursula McCabe Ursula McCabe lives in Oregon and keeps the ocean and forest close to her in skin and verse. Her work can be seen in Piker Press, Oregon Poetry Association’s Verseweavers #26, Bluebird Word, Academy of the Heart and Mind and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Samudra Manthan the first period arrived on the day of a solar eclipse birds becoming louder with dusk pouring my screams into my mother’s quiet corners the tiny sounds I made were the scampering feet of eclipsed dogs, whimpering light dropped into lush foliage tree tops embracing it as if to hide their nakedness the invisible curse of heavens starts from a dot, it spreads itself in concentric circles clockwise and anti-clockwise churning like the ocean that released all bitter venom gods drunk at the vessel of amrita the soma rose to its surface, Brahma counted 14 times then arrived his divine nymphs then arrived Jyeshta, the goddess of all living misfortune while the poison bled blue in Shiva’s throat Vishnu too is to blame, for he delegated his burden towards earth, trees, water, women since then, she carries in her womb, breath of a pomegranate since then, the earth quakes as a reminder of witches still hunted, rivulets still softly rushing an affliction still raw, dark, red Kashiana Singh Kashiana Singh (http://www.kashianasingh.com/) strives to embody the essence of her TEDx talk - Work as Worship into her everyday. Her chapbook Crushed Anthills from Yavanika Press in 2020 is a journey that unravels memory through 10 cities. Her latest full-length collection, Woman by the Door was released in Feb 2022 with Apprentice House Press. Kashiana lives in North Carolina and carries her various geopolitical homes within her poetry. Her poems have been published on Rattle, Poets Reading the News, North Dakota Qtrly, and Beltway Poetry, amongst others. ** Their Journey Home Soundlessly, within the ancient bracken forest, the Celtic stones roll like giants’ marbles, hushed by a quilt of silence. Above, a hovering blood red moon beckons, peeling back skin, to lay its wailing rawness on sinewy glades of light. Listen to it howl and call. Wind whips the weeping trees and bluebells chime an urgent rhythm. Hark the beat and rhyme! Time is ready to return to your hollow within the stars. Long kept captive in an earthly space, clods of soil heavy beneath your winged feet, you have waged your time below the bitter earth, bringing harvest fortune and riches of crops aplenty. Caoimhe, Caragh, and Bronagh follow the shining ribbon to the heavens. Be guided by the Women of the Oaks, braided with the moon, and entwined with the ocean’s mesmeric haul. Feel the magic and grace of the gentlewomen who steer your pathway home, joined with you through their veins and quiet touch, like a glove of gossamer web. Their hair, coils like springs of finest lace and sweeping silken mermaid’s strands drape long above the calling trees cheering your ascent. Listen to their whispered tones of pleasantries and prayers alike. Be not wild eyed at the baying dogs, or singing wolves that proudly slope and glide beneath their guardian fronds, their days of richness yet to be resolved. Melangell and her warriors will protect you from all harm. Now the soughing of the wind is the music carrying your flight, drawn yet beyond the blood red moon. A mantle of silent stars witness to the splendour as it flows. Farewell and safe journey home. Julie Rysdale For a lifetime, Julie taught English. She recently reflected that the students had been teaching her about writing too, so she is having another crack at it. She also paints, often exploring the relationship between humans and dogs. ** Self Portrait as one of the Hare Witches Which is woman, witch is hare? witch is woman which is hare? shape-shifting triskele of hares spinning into infinity tumbling caduceus limbs lengthening embracing a witch is hanged - a hare dies a hare is shot – a witch is wounded trickster whirling between worlds – concealed beneath Melangell ‘s cloak released from folds in Boudicca’s skirt, transformed by Ostara a sisterhood of women a leap of hares a leap of women a sisterhood of hares witch is woman which is hare? which is woman, witch is hare? Sue Mackrell Sue Mackrell lives in Leicestershire UK. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Loughborough University. She taught there and has facilitated writing workshops in a range of venues including universities, colleges, hospitals and day centres, art galleries and museums. Her work has appeared several times in The Ekphrastic Review and in a range of anthologies including Agenda (print and online supplements,) Fairacre Press, and Yaffle/Dragon Yaffle. ** Inside my room in the woods Shape me into A shifter Lift me From the couch I am cornered Motionless I listen But do not hear I cannot see through All that life Beaming into my room The trees wreathed By the wealth of sunlight Streaming through float glass Bewitch me Switch me on Shape me into senses Into suspicion Shape me like a shifter A searcher A sorcerer Then I will see with the deep eye Hear with the long ear Never pause But to follow my direction I dream of shifting through the looking glass Learning Becoming Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives east of the Ijssel, in Gelderland, The Netherlands. Six years ago she and her family moved there to a house in the woods. As a dreamy urban person, comfortable with the rhythm of the city, she experienced nature to be quite unnatural to her and seeks to connect with it ever since. In 2017 she wrote her dissertation Why this now? about the search for meaning in conversations with people with aphasia. She works on and off as a language therapist. She reads stories and poems of friends and sometimes writes herself. **  Kyla Guimaraes
Kyla Guimaraes is a young poet and writer. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming for the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, and Moss Puppy Magazine. She is an avid fan of knee-high-socks and always has a knock-knock joke available. ** Hare Witch Project In this hurried cavalry of witches riding hareback, down they go, down they go, woman clutching woman clutching rabbit, knowing it’s the moment for fruit-bearing madness, for chastity going south, the phallic ears insinuating onto bare arms and chins, the women, spooning, rocking into the ride. Their long hair astonishes-- gallops from their heads in whorls and woodland creekbeds deeply grooved and rutted, solid, experienced, battle-hardened hair that knows just what needs to be done. Janis Greve Janis Greve teaches literature at UMass Amherst, specializing in autobiography, disability studies, and service-learning. She has recently returned to writing poetry after many years, and is a special fan of ekphrastic poetry. She's published previously in such places as The Florida Review, New Delta Review, and North American Review, among other places. ** Becoming : self-portrait My head never associated my eyes with my body. Rather as sticky papers attached by accident to my face. Big green orbs people praised. If the eyes disappeared so would I. Do you see the direction of all the eyes as though they are many, I searching the eye, what they are flung to see? Do not let fear confuse you. It is forethought. If I did not have my eyes, I would not be : visible, loveable. To be as in transitive, needing a looker, not necessary for be, but I did not know that yet. Do you see how eyes steering from the top look out, look to attach when they could have looked in, how this can distort hearing. See the long stretch of her back body like a vortex but my ears heard only green orbs, ignored the tunnel: silent, deep behind the eyes, wide open for another language, potent lines of evasion. Hare eyes know her body like they know winter foraging, wild-like, delicious, see how they sense inner spillage because here is the messiness. Writing is like this. Words show up but I must whittle, shape silenced somas from my stomach wall, eruptions so she splits in two. Hare sees her shape shifting, eyes mirage, quiet as they look closer in. This is what she loves about it. My insides push against slimy protective viscera, the bile of lived experience me does not yet know, but senses. My body knows, and the heart, but the head must learn how eyes change. Hare is soft, steady. Pain is exotic. I have to be able to touch it. Writing goes there. Writing is my other body, an – other body. I pull away the one I live in, pick up a pen and there is writing body, peculiar but delightful. Warm. At some point I must put me back but hare knows inchoate places, fluid eyes, conduits. Her-body wonders if those are for her, if she is for her, if her body is hers, should she take it? My lived in body cannot cry, but her eyes amaze at all the other body can do. She brings tears to my eyes, left behind by the other, not caught in transition when hare and her-body meet eye to I. See how her face shifts and her skin holds even as it lets her go what if my body unspools from pain and shame, if only words bubble to the top, round like the biggest eye, what if I become : paradox, vocabulary for a void, still motion because there is so much to be seen here in the eyes that have no projections, only directions for flying my body! Grace for sweet pores, the soft fur of you, for becoming not more nor less than a feral poem, foggy with coven’s breath, shadowy green. Thomasin LaMay Thomasin LaMay is a happy writer of many things. She has taught music and women's studies at Goucher College, Baltimore, and currently tutors kids with trauma in the Penn North community, where poetry has become an essential tool. She’s published in academic journals, edited a book titled Musical Voices of Early Modern Women: Many -headed melodies, and her first published poems appeared just this fall in Trimble Literary Journal. She’s recently become part of a poetry writing class with Yellow Arrow Press, led by Ann Quinn and centered in Baltimore but with a national group of writers. She lives in Baltimore city with about 500 books, 50 plants, a dog, two cats, and fantastic neighbors. ** Dreamscape from the Rabbit Hutch Sometimes I dream myself hare because my religion put hot wax on my legs and pulled. The incense clings between fur and bone like packing peanuts to glass. I want my body to unravel. I want to find the center stitch and tug. I open myself like a magic-eye poster like a hundred thunderstorms under the gums. Don’t you see the only way out is to build another body? The truth is: I can’t unwrap the verses from your thighs anymore. I molt them myself. The best way to make a new life is to palpate the belly. I become whole when light hits me like a question mark when rain marches hoof-prints in my chest. I only want what I can’t have: ankle into ankle, womb into womb. I can be rum-soaked, I can be ruby-eyed, I can twitch and twitch until Cadbury Cream comes leaking out eyes, sweet tears for the start of the world, the new place where I’ll store my whiskers. Mouth gurgles water and brome to keep the heart turning. O, the things bones can do when they crack! O, the way teeth can sing like claws! Alena Coleman Alena Coleman is a poet from New Harmony, IN. She is a recent graduate of the University of Notre Dame, where she majored in English and Spanish. As an undergraduate, her work appeared in Zeniada, Asterism, and Laurel Moon, among others. Her work is forthcoming in Sky Island Journal and Notre Dame Magazine. For the next year, she will be teaching and researching in Uruguay as a Fulbright Scholar. ** Sun Moon Hand Eye Circle Snake We grow wings, awaiting the return of the sun, as branches and leaves dance patterns over the moon. Ethereal roots weave themselves through our hands and become imprinted inside our eyes-- alert to the gaps in the circle, we lie still, shimmering like coiled snakes. We shed our skins, discarding them like snakes, and bask in splendor, naked beneath the sun. We turn our insides out, become the circle-- shapeshifting, orbed, secrets following the moon through the thousand doors of the cosmic eye, the lines on the palm of the soothsayer’s hand. We stand just out of reach, beyond time’s hand, in the whispering wake of the snakes. The sky trembles as we gather into the Devil’s Eye, rearrange the seasons by summoning the sun to darkness. Who can contain the moon? The hares alone see everything, complete the circle. Whirling us in surprise, the circle weaves a web of lines into every hand, a talisman of light reflecting the moon. It collects our beginnings and endings. The snake trades paths with the afterimage of the sun, pursuing the geography of the Evil Eye. Our spirits walk on the edge of the hare’s eye, while hidden crows echo across the circle, trying to catch the light, stealing fire from the sun. The landscape breaks apart, a wheel without a hand, consumed by the changing riddles of the snake. We call earth magic by chanting the names of the moon. Our hares are like ships that sail the moon, shining in the iris of an ancient eye. We feast on desire like dreamsnakes, bending layers of souls into a spiraled circle. Crow approaches and takes each open hand, extending its wings to carry us far away from the sun. Reawakening the moon, we reverse the circle, crossing the hare’s eye with the left hand. The snake casts its invisible shadow through the sun. Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig was born in the Year of the Rabbit, and keeps track of the moon from the window in her apartment in NYC. ** Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit We wish you well, if you should see us Riding rabbit, rabbit, rabbit away from the old, into a new month We ride for change in our mundane lives singing rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. These fine hares take us to magic, show us herbs and flowers for healing, rabbit rabbit, rabbit. We would heal you as well but you call us witches, and we must escape into a time and place-rabbit, rabbit, rabbit from your thoughts of black and white ways. We share earth’s gray powers you’ve forgotten, so you fear us-- rabbit rabbit, rabbit because you do not understand. We carry love’s wisdom as we ride-- Rabbit, rabbit ,rabbit. Let the new month bring love to all. Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. With the coming of spring she is on the lookout for bunnies (we do not have hares in this part of the state of North Carolina) who may be visiting or even nesting in her backyard. Her latest chapbook, Feathers on Stone, (from Main Street Rag) contains many ekphrastic poems, a genre she loves. ** The Hare Witches We shucked our clothes Like husks Shed hair clips, sandals, Wedding rings All that was left Was the flesh of us Our jet hair running like rivers Tumbling like witches capes Down our backs. We used our sorcery To get the hares to fly. They welcomed us on their backs, Straddling the rough pelts They took us Naked and hopeful Across the river Through the woods To our own country Where like a rookery We lived in nests and squawked Till darkness Being of the darkness ourselves. Lucie Payne Lucie is a retired librarian who loves writing, walking and singing around the Vale of the White Horse. ** The Winter Hare Under the haze of a winter sky when nothing howls or hunts, the wild hare rests between the roots of an ancient oak. Slowly she sinks into the hush of her silver fur, waiting for the moonrise when she turns into her other self. Not the crone fabled on the tongue of gossips; but the young snow queen vibrant and vulnerable -- before she becomes the woman who glitters in the sheer glamour of ice, sharpening her heart on frosted spires that balance the whirling flame of the northern lights. Now as the moon rises high over the hill, the animal shifts from rabbit to girl who glides through the garden in her ermined drift, a sprig of baby's breath in her hair, a pendant of mistletoe around her neck. Indulging in the solitude of a windless night, she wanders toward the wall where ivy sprawls over cobbled stone Her hand slides across the leafless vines -- as if she were playing the strings of a dulcimer. The strains of Lady Greensleeves echo through her mind; and she imagines a castle warmed with tapestries and tea candles, cloved - oranges floating in a bowl of cider and lentils thrown among the hearthside flames for gazing into the future, for learning of her first lover. Soon a morning dove lands on her shoulder; and she pivots toward the bird stroking his pale body,, wanting to pluck one of his plumes and a write prayer request, hanging it on a rag tree in the distance, Yet, she knows such petitions for immortal beings to turn human -- are rarely granted. And by the dove's plaintive coo, she knows this moment of magical peace is fragile, fleeting as the twilight when one shape becomes another or the flicker of light in her fingernails. Her dowry of opals ignited by the solstice moon. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: The Copperfield Review, Silver Blade Magazine, The Poetry Salzburg Review, Eye To The Telescope and The Orchards Journal. Her most recent work will be forthcoming in Carmina Magazine and Polu Texni later this year. ** Temptress Beware the hare witch Standing upright in moonlight her stare both challenge and invitation daring you to come run with her into the wild night where the rules of law don’t reach and the ordinary fades into dark where the world shines quick as liquid silver beneath the rising moon promising delicious freedom when you trade the prison of your old skin for something rough and wilder something too clever to be caught and tamed running with her in crazy zigzags to confuse pursuit laughing as you trace your names in heady exaltation across the midnight chase Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work appears in many anthologies and journals, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, and recent issues of Verse Virtual, 3rd Wednesday, Blue Heron Review. Earth’s Daughters, Gyroscope, and Caustic Frolic. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. ** Blind Date She said she’d be wearing rabbits' fur (which already puts me off) but turns out it’s her actual body fur fuzzy over arms face neck and I wonder where else so I undress her with my eyes. And she sees what I am doing. Scowls. With whiskers! Wow! Then she softens, twitches her pink nose. She’s already ordered an espresso for me, says I figured you for the espresso type. She’s nibbling a plate of carrots. You’re not a trapper are you? she asks. No, I say, but once I was trapped in a bad relationship. She cocks a big ear. Probably bad for her, too, she sniffs. Touché, I say. I started as a Playboy bunny, she says. Now I’m a hare witch. She studies me like a leaf of lettuce. So you’d better treat me nice. Her overbite—those teeth could slice. I cast spells, she says. I’m already in yours, I say. Welcome, she says. I could leave. Really, I could. Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book of poetry is Random Saints. ** Hare Sisters We are the lasses grass-birthing at midnight, smack in the heart of vast fields; our bodies heaving and yelping at the full moon. We are the lasses born with our eyes wide open: left all day in our depressions to fend for ourselves, we gather for succour at sunset. We are the lasses stargazing in hoar frost; our ears primed for each crack and rustle in the beech wood; for the leaf-creep of the dog-fox. We are the lasses, who stand aloof in stubble, naked and shivering as the air strokes our skin, through snow, gales, ice, through fog. We are the lasses, who sprint across rutted tracks; past copses, past gorse, past meadows, past hedgerows; far from crowds; free from the stench of men. We are the lasses who flip raving with each rise of sap, with the rise of the Crow Moon: over the dales we will fly, kiss-chasing bucks; leaping fresh furrows, as we race the breeze to spring up slopes as we box for the bloodline. Dorothy Burrows Based in the UK, Dorothy Burrows enjoys writing poems, flash fiction and short plays. Her poetry has been published in various print and online journals, including The Ekphrastic Review. When she is walking on local downland, she sometimes catches a glimpse of a distant hare. ** On a goodbye day I part the curtain For a shy horizon Distant pink- Remnant coffee's fainting scent. Instead Half a moon glints Amid black lines Of bare branches Bending over the light rain Held by a few blooms Fallen- Coming together of world and the dream. Aren't they afraid The hares flying by the wind Blowing out of witches hair Collecting grief? Turning real the bunnies That lay by baby girls Probing fairies, red lips and Becoming a queen. The day shall rise nevertheless As the witches fly wayward Over the mountains Dropping grief- Seeding hope on the meadows For one last time. In regret, in pain The hares turn into bunnies again. A single star hide the dignity of dead. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru.
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 Untitled, home landscape, by George Washington Carver (USA) exact date not known, probably late 1880s or 1890s Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 Untitled, by George Washington Carver. Deadline is March 3, 2023. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. 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. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.
Send your work to [email protected]. 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 CARVER 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 piece. 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 EST, March 3, 2023. 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. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Winter Chaos, Blizzard, by Marsden Hartley (USA) 1909 Opening Letter and Selections for Marsden Hartley’s Winter Chaos, Blizzard Dear Writers, When the challenge features artists who are long gone from this world, I find it a shame they’re unable to read The Ekphrastic Review. The incredible variety of responses never ceases to amaze me. Please know that I’ve loved reading every poem and story. Choosing from among them is a task done with great sensitivity. I hope you enjoy this eclectic collection: a mixture of serious, conversational, reflective, mystical—as well as whimsical, incorporating folk tales and sayings, even touching on love. Warmest regards during this season of true winter chaos, Sandi Stromberg Editor, The Ekphrastic Review ** The Lesser of Two Evils I have to ask you Marsden, where the mountain went. Its bulk has been obliterated by your brushstrokes betraying your penchant for the mayhem of snow and ice and the stripping of the leaves from defenseless trees. The blue confuses me, and Marsden, what’s the pink I see? My first thought: there are two lost girls, their cheeks flushed from the slap of things unseen, their limbs flailing against this whirling, swirling mess and if this is what I’ll find in Maine, I might rethink the timing of my trip. Don’t get me wrong, Marsden, I like the chill of winter weather and the wild commotion of a storm, especially if I’m inside with rum and milk. I’d be happy just to buy your art and hang it on my wall. Then I wouldn’t need to come to Maine at all. What was that? The price is what? On second thoughts, just book my seat. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman lives in Lake Tabourie, NSW, by the sea. In this beautiful environment, she writes poetry and has recently dabbled in flash fiction. She is completing her degree in Creative Writing at Curtin University and enjoys seeing her work published in various literary spaces. She is a recent Pushcart Nominee thanks to The Ekphrastic Review. ** Cold Front Oh, you’ve never been through one of these, have you? Some advice (because I still remember my first one too): take a deep breath. Breathing is about to get a whole lot harder. First things first, keep something warm against your chest – no, not just over your shirt, against your skin – you’ve gotta safeguard the exposure, the tender stitch and rough patch-job and every other part of you that hurts easily, because that’s where the cold comes in. That’s where the howling comes in. You hear that sound, like a freight train? Like a pack of wolves? It takes a blizzard raging in your ears to understand how something with no voice can howl, how something with no teeth can bite – listen to me, this is siege warfare, and the wind and the cold and the wet and that dreadful noise will tear through your skin, they will tear through the mud and your blood and your bones, and they will not stop until they have ripped the breath from your lungs – listen to me, this is not the kind of storm you can fight, but we can keep it from tearing you apart at the seams, so just tuck that scarf under your sweater, would you? Next step, gather everything you love around you, and let the warm weight of it quiet your shaking hands, your chattering teeth – I know, I know, the world outside is spinning, yes, dizzying, yes, I hear the tornado siren too – but trust me, spiraling in the other direction will not stop the house shaking or your stomach churning, and there is no virtue in nausea. There is no virtue in hyperventilation. There is no virtue in running towards the whiteout – here, sit with me. Sit with me and count your heartbeat. Hold it in your mouth, warm and out of the wind. Remember, everything in this room loves you. Everything in this room will keep you grounded, warm and out of the wind. Here is my hand. Remember, the eye of the storm is not watching you. Here is my hand. Here is the needle. Let me teach you how to thread the eye. Let me teach you about seams, and sutures, and mattress stitching. Let me teach you how to install storm windows in your ribs, and where to store the shatterproof glass. Here is my hand. Take it, or don’t. Your choice. And remember, the next time there’s a storm passing through your head: don’t chase it. Kimberly Hall Kimberly Hall (she/her) received her master’s degree in behavioral science from the University of Houston-Clear Lake. Her poetry has appeared in online publications such as First Flight and Sappho’s Torque, as well as in several ekphrastic poetry anthologies. She still gets the idiomatic butterflies whenever anyone mentions that where she can hear it. ** This Too Will Pass When the snow shrouds The shivering shoulder of leaves, And the bodies of trees arch Under the touch of frosty winds, When the milk of morning’s warmth Turns into evening’s ice, And the present wheezes into time’s Wintery blue loneliness, When the orange scent of laughter Turns into the moan of a dull memory, And bone-white mingled with cold blue Is all you can see, Remain calm, breathe and listen Every snowflake that falls, tells you, this too will pass. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines such as The Ekphrastic Review, Soul-Lit, The Sunlight Press, Atlas+Alice, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Mothers Always Write, Tiger Moth Review and elsewhere. Her microchaps A Single Moment and Purple - have been published by Origami Poems Project. She is also a two-time winner of Wilda Morris's Poetry Challenge. Stone, Cold It’s a painting, Winter Chaos, Blizzard but it’s a portrait of airborne shades of apatite and blue kyanite, verging into lapis lazuli. Dumortierite needles suspended in cold quartz as sodalite is tossed skyward. Amid the dappled blues; brown striations, green inclusions, and purple waves lend imperfect intention to the pent vitality of this mineral snow storm in progress, suspended since 1909. Something grasping wants this image cut, faceted, polished and buffed. The piece of art is a setting in itself, but it’s a raw gem, without its true place. As yet unmade, it’s a cabochon of a picture, bezeled but too flat, unilluminated. It’s a static but constant unfinished jewel, stuck midstorm, awaiting its lapidist to take its measure and release the latent power of its icy shifting light. Rebecca Dempsey Rebecca Dempsey is a writer in Naarm / Melbourne, Australia. Her recent work is featured in The Primer, Unstamatic, and Triggerfish Critical Review. Rebecca can be found at WritingBec.com. ** Marsden Hartley's Mysticism "On February 8th and 9th, 1909, a major snowstorm enveloped the area with blizzard conditions...removal on rails was primitive at best...many areas were para- lyzed for some time." Computer information for winter, 1909 "We'll have the sun now... The shiver of an ash leaf and of pine makes the music for a day's determining even sea gulls love the shape of roses ere day closes." Confidence, Marsden Hartley "...like so many single looking elements, when they seem the most playful, it is then that they are most dangerous.' Indian Point, Marsden Hartley The Christmas Blizzard in New York could not disguise his messages from Green Acres a first canvas with a silvery fish swimming among roses the ocean a palette of night -- the Mason boys drowning -- the lobster fishermen with sunburned skin that began to resemble the reddish-brown flesh of native Americans in the same way Mt. St. Victoire became a place of Indian magic -- a mountain anywhere, in Maine or New Mexico, or in France when he followed the footsteps of Cezanne and painted his own interpretation of the world... So it was understandable that the child who stood before his canvas of a blizzard her small hands holding a paper with instructions as to how to make a snow glob would say "It is so blue!" to no one in particular her personal opinion that Marsden Hartley's Blizzard looked like a field of bluebonnets; meaning, to her, that the seasons could reverse themselves, that nature has a life and movement all its own so she would not put people in her snow globe a spring landscape that could be transformed by -- as the directions said -- 1 to 2 teaspoons of glitter. How like real snow the shining flakes would be! How blue a cloud-free sky, the background! She was tempted to add an old man, like a father or a grandfather, holding up a mirror -- its reflection, double snow, or double bluebonnets -- springtime or wintertime like Hartley's canvas on the wall of a museum where (she read) the bluebonnet field was named Blizzard. She liked the artist who confused the ice with flowers; how blue paint could swish on the tip of his paint brush like a wish so she'd know the winter storms were over as she sat at a little table in her grandmother's bedroom, working on her globe beneath a photocopied print of a Blue Girl in its dime store white frame, trimmed with just enough gold to make it look as expensive as a picture for sale in the museum's book store where she'd made her choice, and counted out the coins in her allowance to buy the snow globe. When she added the glitter -- the beauty of snow -- and imagined looking out into a moment where nothing was certain -- where turmoil equaled chaos -- why she was alone unless dreams could change the hours... Could love fill her heart with a blizzard of flowers? Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston where it was her good fortune to study poetry for a Master's Degree in The Creative Writing Department of The University of Houston. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationship of art to poetry and life. Selected multiple times by The Ekphrastic Challenge, she has found that art and writing poetry can be a mystical experience, as in one of her early poems -- "Quantum Physics, Emily & Einstein" -- a personal pathway from reality into the imagination facilitated by the use of ekphrastics. It was at Green Acres that Marsden Hartley began to delve into the philosophical study of mysticism. A first canvas created there, of fish with roses, caught the attention of Alfred Steiglitz who arranged a one-man show for Hartley at his 291 Gallery in New York City. ** A Blizzard of Static on the Line I remember the snow globe, how you'd pick it up, shake it and the flakes would tumble and swirl. You were mesmerised by the novelty I imagine all those tiny crystals, the feathery snowflakes formed, each one's separate, unique beauty Communication now between us is full of static. White noise - that's what they call it I think of those tiny particles tumbling, swirling, clogging up the channels like chaotic butterflies Nature's patterns are unpredictable. Storms can rise, drop, cease in seconds. I hold onto that hope Emily Tee Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction. She's had pieces published online in The Ekphrastic Review and for its challenges, and elsewhere, and in print in some publications by Dreich as well as several poetry anthologies. She lives in England. ** Growing As a young woman, I turned my nose up at the male artists Alfred Stieglitz supported, happy to promote Georgia O’Keeffe as the best artist he ever took under his wing, the only one he married, the only one he dared to document every detail of her body that made the body of work I want most to wander through. Now, as an older woman, I know enough about artists to admire Arthur Dove’s clever nature collages, John Marin’s dedication to Maine’s rocky shores, Charles Demuth’s moving, unconventional portraits, and Hartley’s coded colors for his lovers’ homage and for this—his swirling scene of white and blue dancing around that fine line between what we think we see and what the artist invites us to see. I’m old enough to say Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Blue is my favourite colour, too. Barbara Tyler As a life-long visual artist, Barbara Tyler began writing poetry after turning 50. Since then, her writing has appeared in Rat’s Ass Review, Poetica Review, and Concho River Review, as well as shortlisted for Ireland’s Fish Anthology poetry prize. More of her poetry and art can be experienced by visiting her website at https://www.btylerfineart.com. ** Restraint On the day that I saw snow fall outside my window For the first time in my life I did not go out. I stayed in. I told myself that it was too late to do anything Though it really wasn’t as late as it could have been. And the restless thing in me In the place where a heart should be It started beating wildly Against its cage. I could tell you everything about this But I know I don’t have to. I think that you might have A wild thing for a heart too I see its indentations all the time On the careful words you choose. Our restless wild things If we let them loose I think they’d eat the whole world They would eat us too. That’s why I keep mine Carefully caged And hidden from the light. That’s why I write these words down But never say them to you. That’s why after waiting my whole life On the day that I saw snow fall outside my window For the first time I did not go out. I stayed in. And I reached out my hand And closed all the blinds. Amrita V. Nair Amrita V. Nair is a writer and researcher from India, who now lives in Canada. Her poetry has appeared in Kitaab, The Nervous Breakdown, and Indian Literature and was included in the Bloomsbury Anthology of Great Indian Poems. Website: www.amritanair.com ** between the lines the exact location of the beginning is lost, much like the approximate location of now so much remains interpolated, transformed by the many manifestations of water and wind fire and ice came after—fluid, unruled and unruly-- teeming with what was never there the intersections shifted, multiplied by too many exes and whys-- drifting, tangled and overexposed you say a path once existed here-- you had a map—names, numbers, a compass pointing home Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig lives and makes art in New York City, where the first recorded snow of the 2022-2023 season appeared on February 1. ** Vortex Weather wasn’t always like this forever winds bouncing off the mountains blizzards bringing the chaos of flailing and falling leaf heavy boughs, their trunks lying still broken or uprooted and the gush and rush of wild, wild water spiralling in chaotic cascades. I had thought that here we were sheltered by the mountains but now we’re in the centre of an angry vortex under the still blue sky, it’s a whirling blue vortex in this dervish of a blizzard. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** In Northern Woods In the startling blizzard—the gnomes step out stealthily through the turbulent icy forest, spying on the good northern folk, as children quake in their homes. Brother hugs sister but cannot say the words, ‘Don’t be afraid, it’ll be all right.’ The gnomes with evil intent in their eyes, peer from behind the thrashing pines, the trees threaten as if brandishing swords. Mesmerized by all the staring eyes they see, the children take on masks of bravery when father enters the room. The wind howls, the rafters quiver, and father tells them the creek will rise. Then, then we’ll run to the river, and float on our raft to a safer place. “No father, no never! for the gnomes will grab us and have us for dinner!” But father shook his children and pushed them hard to the boat. And all the howling we hear in every storm every year since is the voice of the children calling their remonstrance. “Father, father, we won’t have a chance.” And father and children perished in the howl and the wind and the sheer. Carole Mertz Carole Mertz is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee. Her poem “That this Blue Exists…” will be read and discussed on an Ohio Center for the Book podcast, February, 2023. Carole’s work in ekphrasis has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Quill and Parchment, Adanna, and her book Color and Line. The gnomes came out in Hartley’s painting following Carole’s recent cataract surgery. ** When The White Blizzard Hits When out on the tundra north of the tree line in Arctic Quebec when the white blizzard hits, my Inuit students tell me it's bad luck to say I'm dying to see a polar bear When out on the tundra north of the tree line in Arctic Quebec when the white blizzard hits, my Inuit students tell me it's good luck if someone in your party runs slower than you do When out on the tundra north of the tree line in Arctic Quebec when the white blizzard hits, I tell my Inuit students if I die out here on the tundra no one gets an A And we all howl into the wind. Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith divides her time between Gotland Island out in the middle of the Baltic Sea with her grandchildren; and an off-the-grid cabin in the Laurentian Hills of Quebec; and a walk-up flat in Montreal (where currently it's a bone-chilling -42 degrees on this February afternoon!). She taught in the Faculty of Education, McGill University, for 25 years, teaching academic and creative writing both on campus and in First Nations and Inuit communities throughout Quebec and Cape Breton. She leads a peripatetic, blessed life, often with her husband of some 40-odd years. Their happiness resides in their prenuptial agreement: Separate as to Reality! ** Firewood The weather is ominous with heavy snow and blustering winds pounding against my face. I cannot see in front of me, my feet are freezing, and my hands are numb. I should have listened to my wife and not ventured into the forest searching for firewood. In my mind, I see Clara fretting with worry, pacing the floors, her dress brushing against the ground, looking for something to occupy her mind. If I make it back, I will be returning empty handed, but that is the least of my worries. The snow is rising faster, and it is harder to walk in knee-deep drifts. I keep going even though my legs ache, and brace for an arduous journey. Ahead I see a small shack. Shelter. When I get there, it is abandoned except for a turned over chair and kitchen table. After righting the chair with my tired hands, I sit and check my sack for food. Clara is an angel. A large loaf of bread and a block of cheese awaits my watering mouth. It is icy cold, but my stomach does not mind. After I eat, I lay my head down, shivering. I feel myself drifting into slumber and just as I am about to fall asleep, I hear a loud collapse. The roof has caved in and a pile of snow sits in the middle of the room. It is not safe to stay any longer. I lift my fatigued body from the chair and make my way into the forest, positive this is my last venture for firewood. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** ocean claims forest A blizzard in a pine forest is just excuse for Ocean and Forest to meet. sea spray stings and winter weather withers the scent of pine penetrates the senses Ocean and Forest combine and are one trees become masts and the sea claims them, from sea to shining sea, this America of ours–but the Ocean cannot be claimed. a ship’s mast rises out of the forest floor and an oak grows from the foaming waves: storms rip through forests, winds unify and stir the ocean to strife and destruction the mind combines the storms of both and makes itself a sailing ship that once was pine. Maureen Martin Maureen Martin is a senior at Hillsdale College studying English and Theatre. Her passions include yelling at period dramas for their historical inaccuracies, working on multiple theatrical projects simultaneously, and having a bookshelf of a To Be Read pile. ** Tanka Foreign butterflies Wreaked havoc, caused a blizzard With just their wing beats Unfathomable power Chaos masked by great beauty Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a writer and visual artist living in Madison, Wisconsin. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals spanning five continents, and it won a Merit Award from Arts for All Wisconsin in both 2021 and 2022. Additionally, one of her poems was choreographed and performed by a local dance troupe, and she had an ekphrastic creative nonfiction piece featured in the Chazen Museum of Art’s Companion Species exhibit. Among other venues, her poetry has recently been published or is forthcoming in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, and many more. ** Chaos For millennia, somewhere on Earth, there has always been a powerful Weather event taking place. Afterwards, some suffer, and some thrive. After a wildfire, Digger Pine seeds in Northern California germinate, And the monsoon floods in Southeast Asia nurture the rice fields. The people there know it is Shiva, the god of destruction, Bringing one life cycle to an end and beginning a new one. In the Polynesian islands, when a volcano erupts, the people chant About the fire goddess, Pele, creating a new island from flaming lava. In a few thousand, or perhaps million years, the lava transforms into a rain forest, Covered with ulu trees, mangoes, and seed-scattering birds. Myths and legends evolved from these Earth-changing occurrences, And humans still carry the memories deep in their hearts. In 1909, a blizzard hit the northern states all the way to Maine, piling Up more than twenty inches of snow in a single day. More than a hundred years have passed since this massive snowfall, so No one is left on Earth who experienced it and may have sung a ballad about “The Blizzard of ’09,” but an artist from Maine painted the scene. Marsden Hartley seems to be our only witness to the big storm of 1909. From a high perspective, his painting looks down through eerie blue light Onto adjoining forested hills, the tall balsam firs, the beeches and the white pines Already heavy with snow. In the nexus between the mountains, there may be a river, Impressionistically suggested by dabs of pinkish purple and green in the lower regions Of the hills. If there are farms in this valley, we are too far away to see them. Marsden titled his painting, Winter Chaos, Blizzard. To the people living in nearby towns, It must have seemed chaotic indeed, as no doubt the telegraph lines fell over in the The icy winds, and snow piled up on the railroad tracks. Even the horses pulling Wagons and sleighs couldn’t get through snow drifts that deep. But to the farmers, invisible in the deep valley, and the remnant of the Wabanaki, Still living in this northern wilderness after eleven thousand years, There was no chaos. This blizzard was simply winter. The Wabanaki had already packed their birch bark canoes with teepees, snowshoes and warm Bever pelts, and paddled away from their coastal fishing grounds, up the river, The pinkish spot in the painting, to the area of green vegetation at higher elevation, Better for hunting moose. From this vantage point, the Wabanaki observed the storm Approaching, calculated the winds, and pitched their oval teepees, where they would Remain, warm and safe with their dogs, their children and plenty of moose jerky. The farmers, whose ancestors arrived generations ago as settlers from France and England, Piled the back porch with split logs in the autumn and filled the cellar with potatoes, oats, Apples and dried cod. As the blizzard howled outside, inside, by the flickering hearth, the Family, the children wrapped in quilts and seated on hand-hewn stools, gathered in the dim Candlelight around their patriarch who, in his spectacles, read from the only book in their Home, the story of Noah and the Flood. Will new stories, new legends, new ballads and chants emerge, Now that winter has disappeared along with the other seasons, Now that Polar bears drown in warm arctic waters, random hurricanes, cyclones, tornados and Even earthquakes strike weekly in unexpected places, Rivers of rushing water roar through the sky, Entire species disappear daily, and Chaos has become our new truth? Rose Anna Higashi Rose Anna Higashi is a retired professor of English Literature, Japanese Literature, Poetry and Creative Writing. Recently, her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, America Media, Poets Online, The Avocet, The Agape Review, The Catholic Poetry Room and The Scarlet Dragonfly Journal. Many of her lyric poems and haiku can be found in her blog, “Tea and Travels,” which appears monthly on her website, myteaplanner.com, co-authored with her niece, Kathleen Pedulla. Rose Anna lives in rural Hawaii with her husband Wayne. ** Things I Know about Driving in Snow In Montana with long-lonely heart I approach slowly expect freeze on the bridge but before the span hidden ice not playing nice has my Honda skating so I steer into the slide pump the brakes and stop edge of the canyon Behind me a USPS trailer truck heavy, not nimble Even in a blizzard some events you can foresee headlights through a veil of swirling flakes so I bail from the car face-first into a snowbank just before US mail slips like a giant hockey puck plowing through the Honda down toward the river so cold unforgiving The cab submerges Silence, snow falling in sheets and a woman appears clawing up the embankment spitting curses ejected halfway down fractured arm but she can climb Long blue-black ponytail white parka eagle with broken wing Says her name is Sacajawea Jones and she knows her way around says she’s gonna sue somebody’s ass off and then go home to Louisiana where it’s warm and purchase land down there Already on the black ice I’m in love Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book of poetry is Random Saints. ** Renewal Look it in the eye Even a Hurricane runs Out of wind and rain Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, artist, literary essayist, and fiction writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in several journals and magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Universe, The Light Ekphrastic and Natural Awakenings, Atlanta, among others. Blessings and virtual hugs to all writers!  Self-Portrait As One Of The Hare Witches, by Jane Burn (England) contemporary The Ekphrastic Review is delighted to have Tricia Cimera Whitworth as our challenge editor this time. She has chosen a remarkable artwork by Jane Burn. Tricia is now part of our editorial staff, contributing to the journal in various ways. She has been a poetry judge here in the past, and a longtime regular contributor. We couldn't be happier! ** Dear Readers: I chose Self Portrait As One Of The Hare Witches by English artist and poet Jane Burn because rabbits/hares have been an integral part of my life. I had rabbits growing up, the main one being a big, black silver-tipped rabbit named Clover in my teenage years. He would run madly in the backyard, leaping around, and then imperiously tear bushes or flowers aside that were in his way. Watership Down by Richard Adams is one of my favorite books (my Clover was named after one of his characters). For a time my family lived in Milan, Italy and it was common to see rabbits hanging from hooks in the butcher shop windows, with their beautiful fur still attached. I live in St. Charles, Illinois now and my yard is a bit overrun with cavorting grey rabbits. They just seem to follow me. Also, 2023 is the Year of the Rabbit in China. Jane Burn is quite an amazing artist and poet out of England. This particular piece is so alive, so fluid! There is intensity and movement in the relationship between the women and hares (or are they the same creature: ‘shapeshifters’, as Jane calls them.). I am so curious as to what the responses will be, as is Jane. There are no wrong answers. Run, jump, and play – as all rabbits do – with this challenge. Tricia Marcella Cimera ** A note from the artist, Jane Burn:" My artwork is meant as a celebration and a commentary upon the power of women and the complexity of our relationships - or needs, our ways of supporting one another, our connections to nature and myth. I have written a collection based on women and the historic idea of hare-witch shapeshifting and this was very much in my mind at the time I produced this piece - the influence really shaped this work. I placed myself in this work, although the figures are stylised. It made me feel more anonymous. It made me feel integral to such an incredible network." Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working 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 Self-Portrait As One Of The Hare Witches, by Jane Burn. Deadline is February 17, 2023. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. 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. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. 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 BURN 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 piece. 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 EST, February 17, 2023. 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. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly. ** Tricia Marcella Cimera is a Midwestern Poet with a worldview. Her poems have appeared in various diverse journals online and in print. She has been a contributor to The Ekphrastic Review for several years and has learned to interpret art differently, more deeply because of the impact that ekphrastic seeing and writing has had on her. She lives, writes, despairs, and tries to hope in America. A cedar Poetry Box called The Fox Poetry Box is mounted on a post in her front yard. |
Challenges
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