 Carousel, by Olexandr Murashko (Ukraine) 1906 This time more than ever, I wanted to post every response. Thank you to each and every one of you who shared your heart and soul on this painting. We had so many wonderful submissions. Thank you all for being part of this tradition and braving your words. With the heavy heart we are caring for the world right now, this matters more than ever. It was incredibly hard to choose, and each of these gorgeous works below means something equally precious was left out. Please know your words matter here. love, Lorette Pampushky Dreams (five monokus) i. Joy isn’t a twirling, round, giggling wind gone love struck. Its reuniting. Peace. ii. Distant visages dare touch selvage of my face. Go back invaders. iii. Sisters, mothers, daughters hold giggling hands. Shoved to cry, hands shut up. iv. Horses don't neigh naughty anymore. Heck, horses have been banished. v. Ponytails, scarfs, hats courtesy in Pampushky dreams. Sleep is awake. Anita Nahal * pampushky: A traditional Ukrainian dessert, a kind of donut filled with jam or chocolate Anita Nahal is an Indian American poet, flash fictionist, children’s writer, and professor. She has three books of poetry, one of flash fiction, four for children and four edited anthologies to her credit. Her third poetry book, What’s wrong with us Kali women? (Kelsay, 0221) has been prescribed as compulsory reading in an elective course on Multicultural Society in the Department of Interdisciplinary Social Sciences at Utrecht University, The Netherlands. It has also been nominated by Cyril Dabydeen, celebrated Guyanese Indian Canadian & Ottawa poet laureate emeritus & novelist as his choice for the best poetry book for 2021 for British, Ars Notoria. Anita teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. She is the daughter of Sahitya Akademi award winning Indian novelist, Chaman Nahal and educationist, Sudarshna Nahal. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal ** Letná Women Crowds wait in line for a Letná carousal twizzle as drums, cymbals & xylophones accentuate Wurlitzer steam whistle organs; shrill notes & percussion slice through twilight gloom, calliope transmitting carnival sounds down city streets, along country roads. Looping circus music attracts calico women; sisters three, twins wrap heads in golden scarves like sunburst Madonnas while the third virgin crown’s draped in a navy-blue burqa; collective downcast eyes project reticence & modesty feigning an indifferent awareness to onlooking admirers. Winds catch embroidered edges of cashmere pashminas worn by the feminine doppelgängers; the triad all delight cantering upon the roundabout tornado like children, anticipating the platform’s slow, steady, gyrating gallop-- gears thrusting wooden mounts toward heaven & earth. Hand carved horses painted vibrant primary colors prance in circles, withers pieced by bronze poles the sisters grasp & before riding sidesaddle aboard black stallions, skirts cascade over equine barrels & haunches, a sight as delicate & haunting as revolving music box figurines. Sterling Warner An award-winning Washington-based author, poet, and educator, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Trouvaille Review, Shot Glass Journal, Danse Macabre, Ekphrastic Review, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, and Flytraps: Poems (2022)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Currently, Warner writes, participates in “virtual” poetry readings, and enjoys retirement in Washington. ** In Kyiv ‘round and ‘round the sisters on the carousel up and down smiling until the earth shakes the horses fall the bloodied flee or fight Joanne Corey Joanne Corey re-discovered her childhood love of writing poetry in her fifties. She currently lives in Vestal, New York, where she participates with the Binghamton Poetry Project, Broome County Arts Council, and Grapevine Poets. With the Boiler House Poets Collective, she has completed an (almost) annual residency week at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art in North Adams since 2015. She invites you to visit her eclectic blog at topofjcsmind.wordpress.com. ** Triolet for Kyiv The carousel goes round and round when the circus comes to Kyiv. Great crowds raise a mighty sound, the carousel goes round and round, and in that vortex awe abounds, on the great and fateful day in Kyiv. The carousel goes round and round when the circus comes to Kyiv. Brian O'Sullivan Brian O'Sullivan teaches rhetoric and English literature in southern Maryland. His work has been published in One Art, The Galway Review, and Every Day Fiction, and The Ekphrastic Review through a couple of previous challenges. ** Merry-Go-Round I want to take this moment of fancy to reach your feet, and moan at dusk there are freedoms in this world I taste, and try, and tarnish my soul with, dictations of land and prudent ties may not influence me a velvet curtain backs me in smooth sessions my eyes squirt to watch you smiling back at me, I want ride horses, twirl in the air, adorn florets of youth I want to laugh with you you see, I want to take you on a merry-go-round, of life a haughty affair with laughter, even a love story Yukti Narang Yukti Narang is a variegated creative writer, poet and performing artist who finds magic in tales, music, art and characters as an avid reader and cinephile, loves creating characters out of thin air, and making stories out of narratives simple and bizarre. Writing culturally rich stories with fascinating twists from history, mythology, and beyond are the works of her art. She wishes to become a versatile storyteller in all her chosen formats. She is in the process of getting her first novel published traditionally, and has multiple pieces of poetry and short fiction sent to anthologies and magazines internationally. Yukti creates screenplays and theatre plays, and is working towards the literary world and cinema. She is the sanctioned writer of two art galleries in India. ** The Spring Fair in Babyntsi, Ukraine That glorious April day Elena wore the embroidered shawl my mother had made many years before, straining her eyesight through the winter ahead of my own springtime sixteenth birthday. Her big sister Marta kept one protective arm on Elena, the other on her own scarf as the wooden horses galloped up and down and the stiff wind grabbed at it. Marta was a new moon within the folds of that dark dress next to Elena's dawning sunlight in her fresh white petticoated skirt that was crisp, clean and sharp as the brittle breeze. The Babyntsi Spring Fair was being held next to the corn fields with hedgerows abuzz with bee hum and birdsong but the seductive strains of carnival music floated across everything. A time of unfurling after winter's long, rigid embrace. The picture is burned in my mind, my two girls there on the cusp of adult life, Elena especially. She was so captivated by the playful childishness of the carousel, yet awakening to what it meant to be a young woman. A few more springs would pass quickly and soon both girls would be married to local farmers, and become mothers nurturing their own shy dark-haired, laughing-eyed daughters. Before long it would be Elena's turn to pass on that hand-made shawl, our own special Ukrainian family tradition. Spring sighs with promise cheeks and lips bloom like flowers last girlhood flourish Emily Tee Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she's started writing poetry. She has had several pieces published in response to The Ekphrastic Review challenges and has some poems appearing in print later this year with other publications. She lives in a semi-rural part of England. ** On Seeing Carousel, a painting by Olexandr Murashko Put war aside and for one moment consider the joy of riding a carousel. Children love horses, play becoming the rider, trotting along parks’ bridle paths. Back then, my father took us to a nearby constabulary, showed my sister and me the police horses, let us feed them carrots or a bag of oats. Fear gave way to wonder – such big mouths, whiskered lips, and the sleek mass of their bodies. If I could not ride along their slung backs, I could go around on the carousel, child-of-an-equestrian on a painted wooden mount, up and down, up, and down, for as long as the hurdy-gurdy sounds would last. Each ride back then cost a dime and my mother watched and waited, then we took the bus back home. One Sunday the neighbor’s children were in the park, too. They had walked all the way there and had but one go, all they could afford. I considered myself both lucky and shamed, not unlike my feelings now as I sit here clean, untouched, safe, thousands of miles from Ukraine, where its people bravely are hanging on to their horses, the rides of their lives and the world’s. Up and down, up and down. Ronnie Hess Ronnie Hess is an essayist and poet who lives in Madison, WI. She has written six poetry chapbooks and two culinary travel guides. Her latest book, Tripping the Light Ekphrastic, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. ** Sisters Nina Sofiya, dreamer, yet so observant of our guardian’s biddings-- Nina Sofiya, wise one, they all say: you don’t even raise your eyes to look across the crowd or catch the spark that strikes from some young soldier passing us, who doffs his cap and smiles, beguiles…. You’re tranquil on the rise, the dip of your magical horse, our guardian’s wishes ringing, still, in your ears: If you must go to the fair, be modest. Wrap your shawls about you. No raucous crying out. Nothing unseemly—no loud laughter. Remember who you are. Above all, remember who your father is. Nina Sofiya, comely, quiet one: you dwell long before the ikon in your nightly prayers while I, Anichka Verna, am mutinous: restless as a spring wind (twisting curling rags into my hair) and careless, now, if my shawl flies free as we ride these waves of giddy joy—ecstatic: breath pent, eyes wide, drinking in the wheel, the whirl of colours-- never before in a fairground to see starred lights or hear the hurdy-gurdy churning faster, faster, making music in my feet: music that would have me up and off this horse’s back-- to dance and dance the whole night long in crocuses and daffodils: tight in my truelove’s arms. I am spring. I am woman. Lizzie Ballagher Ballagher has travelled widely and lived for years in different countries, an experience that has seasoned her poetry, though she is also glad now to be writing and blogging at home in the UK again: https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** The Never-Ending Merry-Go-Round Mother held our hands as we walked up the hill to the never-ending merry-go-round. I wore a yellow dress which covered my bruised knees. I also brought a coloring book. Mother liked to say, we should bring something to do, in case there’s nothing to do. My little brother, David, who was only six, brought nothing. The merry-go-round had blue and white stripes and a wooden flag on top. A blind man, chewing on straw, stood at the edge of the grass. He was old and his skin was like a worn tire. On the panel next to him was a red button. "It starts off slow?" asked David for the hundredth time. "Yes," said Mother. "It's not really never ending," I said. "Otherwise it wouldn't be stopped now." The sky had wispy clouds and smoke came from the farmland to the west. Mother released our hands. She appeared light enough to fly. She turned away. “I tried," she said. “You sure did," said the blind man. Mother reached into her purse. She dropped two quarters into his cup and the man reached inside and felt them. “Okay, now,” he said. "You let me know when you’re ready.” She lifted my brother up first, setting him on a brown unicorn with a chipped saddle. "You hold on tight." She handed him a paper bag. "Don't let go no matter what." He started to whimper. Mother lifted me onto a black mare with stars on its saddle. I rolled my coloring book and slid it under my leg. She lifted my hands, kissed them, and pushed them onto the pole. She was crying. "Mother?" "Shhh. Don't talk." She handed me a paper bag with my crisp bar and milk. Then she hurried to the edge of the never-ending merry-go-round and gracefully stepped off. "You ready?" asked the blind man. Mother took a few steps before turning to watch. "Miss?" said the blind man. "Yes. I’m ready.” The music started slowly but then sped up. The horses creaked and bobbed up and down and we started to turn. We weren’t going fast, but David shut his eyes. Every time we went around, I looked for my mother. When I found her, I kept my eye on her for as long as possible. She was thin and beautiful. I tried to count how many times we went around before she was gone. It was more than twenty, I know that for sure. Mark S Bailen Mark S Bailen: "I have an MFA from the University of Arizona. I have published in Fantasy, Nature, and Little Blue Marble. I have also written and illustrated an award winning children’s book titled, Earf. My website is fakemountain.com." ** Young Muse She knows the carousel will burn. Everything does. And so, her gaze - pitiless, a field of winter wheat trampled by rough tread heedless of the power in a root. When the horseman comes, imbalance in his hands, her shoulders will relax. She’ll steal his steed and ride black Famine out, humming habit common as a fairground tune. Bellows pump across the perforated book, country music, lonesome, orphaned flute. For now, her shawl drifts, grass-like, patient as the blade. She is cornsilk, tassel, pollen in a martial trough of wind. Carrie Heimer Carrie Heimer writes and teaches in Fairbanks, Alaska. Her work has appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Comstock Review, Rock & Sling, Relief, and The Windhover. Her poetry collections are available on her website: www.poetryissalt.com. ** Student Days in Kyiv Rekindled A troika of souvenirs graces my dining table. Two Ukrainian dolls scarved shawled their embroidered blouses red green nestle against a silvery samovar I carried home boxed and strapped across my chest when I left Kyiv. The golden city of cupolas, catacombs, monk’s bones. Long nights shots of vodka shared with Ukrainian youth bent over guitars Beatles’ songs. Singing I want to hold your hand feeding their hunger for blue jeans chewing gum ballpoint pens. Always under caution to be careful of our words of where our feet took us. The ongoing chill of Cold War those fraught debates the U.S. presence in Vietnam. History’s undersong a droning dissonance. Now another invasion Russia into Ukraine the Iron Curtain redescending. The Iron Curtain redescending. Another invasion Russia into Ukraine a droning dissonance history’s undersong. Those fraught debates the U.S. presence in Vietnam the ongoing chill of Cold War. Careful of our words where our feet took us, always under caution. Chewing gum ballpoint pens feeding their hunger for blue jeans. Singing I want to hold your hand bent over guitars Beatles’ songs with Ukrainian youth. Long nights shots of vodka shared. I left Kyiv, the golden city of cupolas, catacombs, monk’s bones. Boxed and strapped across my chest a silvery samovar I carried home, nestles Ukrainian dolls scarved shawled embroidered blouses red green. A troika of souvenirs on my dining table. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg first visited the Soviet Union in the winter of 1966-67, a member of the second group of Russian students ever allowed to enter the country. A visit to Kyiv, or Kiev as its name was transliterated at that time, was part of that trip. Her chapbook, Contradictions, contains her poems about that life-changing experience. ** Carousel, by Oleksandr Murashko The music stops, the players swop a roundabout for no way back; the fan is dropped, the die is cast, wisdom has met a maniac. Above the ground Ukraine life halts; the carousel has shuddered, died; the horses freeze their heads, the grins become a rictus multiplied. The crowds have fled, they wait outside their native land for safer times. The artists oil their guns, the poets lay down traps instead of rhymes. Underground girls hide the bombs beneath their skirts; they dress to kill a hellish foe, and in the dark they make Ukraine a bitter pill. The world has changed; we throw the dice, we spin the yarn another way. How worms may turn, how birds may sing, playtimes unfreeze we can’t yet say. Jock Stein ** Carousel Human beings travel through History on the backs of two cosmic carousel horses: one pale, one dark. Trying to outrun Hell, pale horse races inexorably toward intentional ruin, while dark horse unexpectedly wins the heat now and then for good or evil. Each horse circles and captures the race’s golden prize, neither permanently triumphant. Horsey history repeats the timeless tale. Think of ancient lore surrounding comely Helen’s snatching! The tale focuses wholly on the punch line – triumphant Greek legion squarely sieged and sacked Paris’ sleeping posse, revealing themselves as dark horse Bronze Age thugs. Mediterranean men bent on revenge for the seduction of Leda’s fledgling granddaughter. Storm troopers rolled a hulking hobby horse to the Homeric gates, Troy’s equestrian mascot transformed for monumental treachery. Winning the war, though, delivered Achaean bragging rights as hollow hollow hollow as the horse. City razed, temples desecrated, women widowed. The spoils-laden, chest-bumping victors stumbled across the finish line and headed home -- only to be hobbled by outraged Gods hell-bent on shipwrecking reckless soldiers for subjugating Troy with the usual trifecta: rape-pillage-plunder. Goons’ dominance saddling Grecian gifts forever with apprehensions of insincerity. Consider, too, the so-called Sport of Kings. Royalty and ruffians pant from the grandstand betting on a race that could end in a dead heat. When an odds-on favorite filly fails, only her jockey senses the severity of her wounds. Rider pulls up on the reigns when the optimistic odds of the morning line vanish at a finish line the mare is too broken to cross. Pale or dark, it’s best to avoid inspection of either steed’s teeth. You never know what you might find there, besides, of course, a space for the golden bit. A horse’s maw houses molars, dicers, and grinders. Worn out, broken down choppers----toothy tick marks recording the race toward civilization’s decline. Jude Luttrell Bradley Jude is a writing teacher and Pushcart-nominated writer whose work has appeared on NPR and in Teaching in the Two-Year College, Momentum, The Ekphrastic Review, Tupelo Press, and Thimble. Her work re-envisions history, classical literature, and reflects on life in an ever-shrinking, ever-expanding pandemic world. Jude is the Reverend Al Green’s biggest fan. ** Foal Filly Mare In the gentle spin before real life begins, let the breeze lift your scarf, let your mouth peal pure joy, let your sister’s arm protect you from what she already knows, let the world pass by in a languid blur for the last time before you are blinkered. Take this last turn on the merry-go-round until the saddle slips from under you and your life revolves round a carousel of monthly blood. Enjoy the final canter of childhood before the gallop into girlhood and womanhood, when any wildness left in you will be tamed, will be reined. A ride will come to mean a different thing, and when you return weary from ploughing the grain, your future husband will be the rider and you will be his beast. Bayveen O'Connell Bayveen O'Connell has words in or forthcoming in Ellipsis Zine, The Lumiere Review, The Sunlight Press, Scrawl Place, The Maryland Review, The Forge Lit, Fractured Lit, Reckon Review and others. She's received a nomination for Best Microfiction, and is putting together a flash fiction collection. She lives in Ireland and loves ruins and the wild Atlantic Coast. ** Black Horse I. In man-made wind, you whiffed hearth-baked rye bread, that spinster’s body odor, the men’s pipe tobacco, smoked pork, beer in the hogshead-- the hot friction of metal. Worn gears would bind, those horses would shudder and thrust forward like the mule-drawn canon—later armor bogged down in black mud, deep ruts in acres unplowed, unplanted. You’d eat rats and roots; you’d have nothing to give starving neighbours. Then the tanks would come, then men in black boots. II. Counterclockwise the black horse carried you. The machine’s metal teeth meshed and clicked beneath. On the gray jumper your mother rode, too. She knew how to hang on, head down, and breathe. Hand-painted birds, vines and green cherries wreathed the beet-red center, withstood rain and wind. This was your country before war—the end of your innocence and independence. Revolutions on horses transcended nothing. The tanks made a strange new cadence. III. A whistling shell shot through the carousel, blew horse guts and metal gears around the square. Your father’s friend propped him in the stairwell, head in your mother’s scarf, flesh in his hair. Groans and smoke traveled in darkening air. Soldiers dragged your mother to the garden, shot your father again in the kitchen. One forced you onto your knees, but didn’t see that knife under your floral shawl, freedom in your squint, true love for your family. IV. On that black horse you were an old rebel when they cranked up the re-built carousel. You clenched your mother’s scarf and your grandchild when again the world spun counterclockwise. Now, she hunkers down; tanks groan and roll by. Knife close, she waits for boots to storm inside. Counterclockwise your black horse carries her. The machine’s metal teeth mesh and click beneath. A toddler looks out with her wood jumper. She’s learning how to hold her head and breathe. Robert Ray Robert E. Ray is a retired public servant. His poetry has been published by Rattle, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Wild Roof Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, and in two poetry anthologies. He lives in coastal Georgia. ** Erasing Moonlight Under the setting sun the Warsaw landscape is splashed in watermelon. Anastasia, her scarf untied and blowing in a soft breeze, is awed by today’s carnival festivities-- native melodies accompanied by flutes, accordions, trumpets and cellos, familiar folk songs, the tantalizing scent of sugar-dusted pastries from distant booths when she mounts a carousel horse, its wooden body motionless as it makes its circular journey when she is reminded from earlier dreams of summer evenings, before the invasion-- the dark nighttime sky, shards of flickering light from airborne rockets, the orange balls of utter destruction. Dr. Jim Brosnan Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Nameless Roads (2019). His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Children Against a Red Background 1.Nothing erases children riding wooden horses a centrifugal force of growing up joy of a Saturday afternoon casually dressed in national costumes, you're so natural against red backgrounds, the country fair filled with crowds in a kind of peaceful solidarity native food, joy and expectations for nothing except colorful dresses and black and gray horses turning . 2.The history of your beloved country is spinning, advancing from the past, independence waxing and waning like horses galloping in determination and defeat. The dust of alienation, the desire for oneness, the pogroms and expelling for Jewish citizens– peasants caught between Cossacks, Austrians and Ottoman Turks. The suppression of independent language and annexing of territory since Catherine the Great. 3.Then world wars and Stalin. Ukraine the murder belt between Germany and the Soviets. Tens of thousands of villages destroyed by one side or another. After WW2 pogroms and starvation for all not only the Jewish. The Holodomor, the great famine that killed millions of Ukrainian brothers and sisters and children. Soviet forced collectivization and land distribution and the destruction of your culture to become only Russian; known as Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic until the wall came down in '92. 4. What poet is qualified to understand the qualities of separation and control and national spirit. The tangled history,craving and carving of land and liberty like holiday lamb. The poet of the west must stand outside the window of history and put hope in Democracy, and Independence such tottering terms. And look deeply in the eyes of children in 1906, in national costume of dignity, riding a simple carousel, on wooden horses of innocence, at a country fair, with a backdrop of red that permeates the past and the future. While Cossacks with screaming swords and empty bushel baskets come to plunder on horses so real your childhood weekend of ordinary delights and red draped backgrounds becomes more terrifying and beautiful as decades pass. Daniel Brown Daniel Brown lives in upstate New York where daily images from Ukraine astonish him with humanities cruelty and resilience while he goes about his retiree's life of writing and routine. He is most recently published in Jerry Jazz Musician and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Carousel Kievan Rus adorned with flowers, Ukraine, the wild Dnipro’s bride. Behold from Saint Sophia’s towers-- No Yaroslav the Wise astride A brazen warhorse. Sunshine chortle, Ceramic ponies spring immortal The brook of time and baby coos, Aroma wafts zharkoye stew. The Tsar’s unbridled rage, we hear it, Resounding hooves of Peter’s steed: The Neva’s flood has come to Kyiv; Our sole defense, Shevchenko’s spirit. Survive we shall, the Cossack braves Once more—forever—save Ukraine. Dave Day Dave Day is an attorney from Honolulu, Hawaii. He has published extremely nonpoetic articles in the Hawaii Bar Journal and the Emory International Law Review.
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 Untitled, by Rose Mary Boehm (Peru, b. Germany) c. early 1980s This week we have a very special artwork, by Rose Mary Boehm. Rose has been a prolific contributor to The Ekphrastic Review, including frequent participation in the challenges, for many years. She is a beloved poet, here in the ekphrastic community and in the literary world at large. When Rose posted some old drawings she did on Facebook, we were amazed and immediately thought it would be wonderful to write about them. We chose this from many beautiful pieces. ** Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her fifth poetry collection, DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS, has just been snapped up by Kelsay Books for publication later this spring. Two further manuscripts are ready to find a publisher. Rose is also an artist. She had a solo exhibition in London many years ago. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrastic! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing 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 Rose Mary Boehm. Deadline is April 1, 2022 . 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. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. 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 BOEHM 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, April 1, 2022. 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 will no longer 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. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. 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! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. 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! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Nebra Sky Disk, found in Germany, 1999, possibly dating to 1600 BCE Said the Seven sisters, we are trapped in our blue-green sea sky, forever circling like fish, our skin glints bronze, pitted with time, shouldered by our father who saw us changed in fullness; the moon bent down and came up bright, our blood running down its throat; the men fell on us and came, again and again, in fullness we were mothers, love fell from our shoulders like rain; a sky god released us as doves into the heavens, as stars we burn gold, winter light; in fullness we rain still, deathless and divine, in lore and ceremony we trap mortals, sisters. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is a poet and member of Hampton Roads Writers. She lives in Virginia with her writer husband, Bradley Barrett, and their young son. Her poetry has been published by Superpresent Magazine, Backwards Trajectory, SEZ Publishing, and won Honorable Mention in the poetry category at the Hampton Roads Writers 2019 Writers’ Conference. ** The Centre of Their Religion was the Night Sun, moon, stars, constellations-- whatever the conclusions, one thing we know: those are images of celestial phenomena. The arc at the bottom a ship or a rainbow? The Germans believed that a vessel ferries the sun around the dark side of the sky at night. Perhaps the same vessel that brings the moon on a different schedule? The Nebra sky disk was looted and sold. Found again and confiscated. Then began the scientific feuds. It may well be one millennium younger than initial dates suggested. Celtic swords have been found with depictions of rainbows, crescent moons and suns. Bronze or iron age—important only to the experts. The rest of us delight in its beauty and marvel at the skill and vision of our ancestral craftsmen. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her fifth poetry collection, DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS, has just been snapped up by Kelsay Books for publication May/June 2022. Two further manuscripts are ready to find a publisher. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** At the Funeral Home Old skin, A Secret I tell my granddaughter As she pinches the back of my palm. Creating a mess in her room Had been our favourite game. Breathing into the trees beyond dead, Hollowed, roots invading the neighbourhood, Half above, half below the ground. Tracing the skies writ in pink, Mourning in solitude, fading in despair. Tonight I unearth Sun, stars and the crescent moon As yet unlit and young. To be the heirloom, stay besides me, Still the time, like the hummingbird Mid air flapping her wings. Rising on days to rejoice, Keeping the light when we journey. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. 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, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** I Will Make You Believe In Aliens From Moon I will fall on Earth like a comet, A roaming echo of Big Bang. You will have no trust in my testimony without tangible proof. I will tell you how sky boat took me from past to future; That I am a time traveler on expedition. You will look at me with mistrust, eyes squinting with blue flame of suspicion. Were I to claim I read your thoughts, Predicting the end, You would turn your back on me unquestionably. But I will say “I love you” instead, And suddenly you will believe in aliens. Yevheniia Chumak bio: "I am Yevheniia Chumak - an emergent author with disability. Born and raised in Ukraine, navigating a migrant life in Italy, I write poems to cope with critical events that affect me deeply, to convey my inner struggles or unconventional perceptions. Poems are born naturally for me and always unexpectedly. I believe that there is enough space in the universe for all voices to be heard, for all emotions to be seen, for all viewpoints to be accepted." ** Lost Song for My Baby with Unvaccinated Lover I went crazy leaping to your shoreline beneath the Pleiades—those seven sisters, and the lunar crescent, the blue-green midnight film, your mother’s voice, late spring wrapped in a beach blanket lodged in dunes. Here your origin began beaded as a necklace of time when tide was the most moon stricken, rainbows, sun boats, bodies far in the cosmos yet close enough, breathing zones rising and setting, sketching a shadow-pitched perimeter. Measure the earthwork. I will go crazy if I don’t go crazy for your future treasure pit. I can’t promise bronze swords, hatchets, chisels, or spiral bracelets. I will start your memory plate and oars to navigate, flower gloss, and the illuminated sheen from your gold orbs. Your surface will grow as beautiful as your aura, conceived as thick, still stars watched from a clear sky while your mother’s nails drew enough blood to lick for a blessing. Your heavens will sew and synchronize like fields. The rhythm is sand dollars, broken by current. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals including Panoply, Naugatuck River Review, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. His next full-length collection of poems, A Comfortable Place with Fire, will be published in 2023. ** Sky Disc There it is. The fragile disc of a Snow Moon. like ice worn thin by the returning sun. It hangs high, in and beyond the curly branches of the acacia tree until a grey mass of clouds spirits it from view. “Himmmelsscheibe” or Nebra Sky Disc” I remind myself, a found treasure that let a bronze universe rise from the earth thousands of years after being lost. Here it is. The size of an ordinary cake platter, surprisingly modern like an emoji from the past. Before our compulsive naming, our lengthy equations, bewildering theories and those boots walking a desert landscape. A bronze and gold artifact – each star like a gold nugget, seven of them forming a constellation and a sliver of moon between brackets of gold, solar barges transporting the sun, its gods, on their eternal return. 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 has contributed to The Ekphrastic Review on numerous occasions and was delighted to win one of the recent flash story contests. ** Nebra Nebra sky tat inks upon my skin Austrian copper Carpathian gold Cornish tin third eye portal to Pleiades Titan and ocean nymph Cleopatra emerges skin gold eyes blue green flecks from the Nile homage to you Nebra buried and alone Moonlighters incarcerated for unearthing you did you have a name when they sold you damaged by the spade this ode's in gratitude for their astronomical deceit Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from Gotland, a Swedish island in the Baltic Sea. ** Pleiades’ Play Tucked by hand in the middle of the celestial forehead like the third eye of a human, you own the tribune of the heavenly assembly, the seven shakers and movers of the universal harmonies, so I can’t wait to hear the timber of your choir. The divine eyes present a dissonance: one is wide open, decanting liquid honey, making my irises murky, I rub them, get sticky fingers, clean them on my lips, never tasted anything so sweet, and proceed; the left is squinted, measuring something – a gold sickle harvesting a clasp of questions from my pupils merged in a wonder of your polyphonic temper. The spheres are intoning a cadenza but I can only hear the overture – of Agni, the fire god, falling in love with seven beautiful sisters living happily married in the neighboring abode, but for better for worse they were chosen for different purpose and when a seductress with a past, appears to him disguised as each of the sisters, each night, they make love and Agni, oblivious to the allure, splinters in happy libidinous ritornellos… …Oh, this wide open eye pushing my irises, its honey pouring in force cadence all over my face, I rub my palms, no effect, honey spills down my neck curls over my breasts, glides along my waist, snicks between my hips, glues my feet, from head to toe - honeyed – is this heaven on earth?! The sisters proceed with their romantic arias, I’m taken on a dream ride, when I realize that the seven heavenly spheres coincide with my body’s chakras, after all they are from Agni’s realm, I feel they churn in unison, heaven and being immerse, thank god I’m glued and don’t collapse, for I’m alone and with no disguise. Existence was never so bitter-sweet. Fast backward to myth. Operatic climax delivers. While Agni thinks he had conquered the sisters’ hearts, the husbands assume they were dishonoured and expel their wives; hand in hand the girls meander the unknown vast universe with millions of stars blinding their eyes, searching to find their eternal abode like a needle in a hay stack, the spheres are in tears. But as it happens in heavens, finally, they recognize their destiny’s mark and stop to recompose their hearts which resonates in the sweetest chorale. Enters Agni’s postdiluvian act – in a melodic disguise the frequencies of his passionate memories catch up with the girls’ trembling arias, pleasure and excellence entangle and spark, honeyed spheres churn and lit their abode, it is a rebirth, the sisters morph into doves, Pleiades, they are hugged in the sky as tenderly as the ancient hand tucked these seven ringlets here in this iridescent cradle. What paired, what cohered the electro-magnetic realms to this ecstatic state of the shared celestial-terrestrial mind, singing the presence of the absent fire remains even beyond the spheres and the choir. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas studied and taught linguistics at the Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London, and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to meaning and her poems appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and its challenges several times. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** Star Maps "You know something, Forget? If they take me down up there, I won't regret a thing. The termite mound of the future and its robot-like ethics worry me more." Iturbe, The Prince of The Skies* "That which we are, we are." Alfred Lord Tennyson "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket... Save it for a rainy day." The Fontane Sisters and Perry Como The changing light sustained the famished earth, starlight like a map of infinite possibility St. Ex's navigator was reading before their Lockheed Lightning was eclipsed by war. In Munich, Einstein had watched a workman falling off a roof across the street from the patent office as his head filled with equations -- the birth of quantum physics -- proven when the sun was hidden by the eclipse of 1918, a black-eye hole in the solar system when the sun was backlighting for the Dog Star and The Pleiades., The Seven Sisters. She had no sisters, and no Father to explain activity in the heavens although science had proven the earth was round, a circle revolving like a merry-go-round so she wouldn't fall off the edge of a broken city sidewalk washed by rain, or the cracked-paint corner of a 16th century canvas if she looked up at the sky with a telescope, fascinated by the possibilities of travel -- the unexpected appearance of a sky boat... Who, she wondered, had been in it? Yes, she'd stood beside the stones -- megalithic giants -- and felt the pulse of nature part of their inner circle at Stonehenge before the stones were surrounded by wire; fenced-in like prisoners of war, their energy depleted by distance as if prehistory had to be protected from the future although patterns in the art of making sky- maps was unchanging, its facsimiles in the stone and metal shaped by eternity and its guidelines: when to plant and when to harvest; when to love and when to cry; which day to try to navigate a turbulent sky or read the pictographic directions in a tunnel (what the heart can't say) until light slides across the water; for light to fill a cave of conception for exactly 20 minutes at the solstice (this is Newgrange) spring on its way with green fields to follow winter's end illustrated by Sky Maps their meaning hidden in the circle of the Neibra Disk... Do you remember the ley lines, places where we couldn't discover the mystery of emotion -- Too damned elusive! on holidays when the moon's fat and full -- its shape like the sun's -- a wheel and a circle; then the new moon at twilight: an apostrophe, moon-shards, a crescent comma -- villainous thunder and violet schrapnel -- dreams of love and a sky map that refuse to be translated by anything except the stars. Laurie Newendorp *The Prince of The Skies is Iturbe's biography of Antoine de St. Exupery. Laurie Newendorp was, for years, an avid student of archaeology and ancient Irish legends. The Nebra Disk resonates with prehistoric Celtic art in the shape of warrior's shields, jewelry, architectural monuments, and the beautiful, imagistic descriptions of early Irish legend, inspiration for both Yeats and Shakespeare. Newendorp's graduate thesis, Crossing Time Lines, explored nature in art, poetry, and personal experience, as does her recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, which includes ekphrastic poems honoured by The Ekphrastic Review challenges. ** Nebra Sky Disc Germany 1600s BCE Blistered disc, pocked and erupted. A boy-man’s moon burnt. A sailor nervously gnaws metal, eating the bronze edges. A mouse in an ocean musing, steering silently. Crumpled inward, a coined planet. Dimensions but not directions divined. Slivered moon, a thumbnail, stars sail searching skies in the sea. Ancients date that disc. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen lives in Upstate New York. Her chapbook, More Than A Handful was published in 2020. She has published or has forthcoming poems in Silver Birch Press, The Ravens Perch, Fresh Words Magazine, Spillwords, Topical Poetry We See She is on the Board of Bright Hill Press in Treadwell, NY, and is an Editor for The Blue Mountain Review and The Southern Collective, both in Atlanta, GA. ** star struck you present yourself as a smooth green disk fine verdigris patina etched by experience I feel the eons flow as I run my fingers across edges notched and nicked relics of hard won battles many stars have pock marked your domed skin, otherwise so smooth and inaccessible, a metal mantle that keeps me, and the universe, locked out. You stay vulnerable within you are sun and moon to me my alpha and omega I orbit you, a minor satellite reflect back your golden glory elliptically in your thrall one of many you tell me moon must surrender to sun as day dominates night you float a mysterious smile lacking much humour, knowing, provocative - and look at - through? me, on your astral plane, vision scoping as far as Hubble yet oblivious to what is right in front of you Emily Tee Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she's rediscovered the joy of reading poetry and has recently started writing as well. She has had several pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges and will have some others in print later this year with other publications. She lives in a semi-rural part of England. ** Hare in the Moon Finn folds back the sun visor to a hazy wink of moon-glow between buildings. Ignores the tremor invading his fingers. Dark mornings chew the miles slower, grant him adjustment time. Night makes a protective barrier, between him and his need to be a useful citizen. His sister used to search for a hare in the moon when their family lived under open skies. Said it meant a happy day would follow. Finn didn’t need a hare, back then, but sometimes he’d pretend, point. “See, Nissa, he’s waving at you!” Finn’s work colleagues haven’t questioned his prolonged absence, or his sporadic return. What could he tell them? My wife died, I have cancer, my town was swallowed by fire. I had to flee my home in a boat, a gunman rampaged my child’s school. None of these are true. “My box of monsters got too heavy,” he might say, his hands not knowing where to land. Finn tries to concentrate on his mindfulness breathing. In for 4, hold for 7. Steady exhale for 8. It’s not working. Here it comes. The rush of singularity. Him and the unknown day. The road making no sense and his hands losing traction. This is the moment for turning around. But then there was last night. Nissa made him laugh on the phone. Some cheesy old family joke. A bubble of strangeness floating from the startled flex of his ribs. The handset jiggling against his cheek. For a moment he even loved the scrubbed carpet stains. Finn’s foot rejoins the accelerator. The road straightens out. These hands gripping the wheel once released a bicycle seat so his son could fly, his wife Gwen applauding behind them; once held his father steady on the icy hospice ramp; once coaxed Nissa from an unlit night that had frozen her. A ribbon of cloud unwraps the moon. A nose twitches. Two long ears wave at him. Linda Grierson-Irish Linda Grierson-Irish lives in Shropshire, UK. Her stories have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Ellipsis Zine, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Flash Frontier, Bath Flash Fiction anthologies, Reflex Fiction, Aesthetica Creative Writing Anthology. She has been included on the BIFFY50 (Best British and Irish Flash Fiction) 2018-19, and received two honourable mentions for Best Microfiction 2019. ** Sounds of Silence The Pleiades peeped past the moonless sky all night my dreams rolled my name soundlessly gently watched its quiet vanishing the silence was the sound of mist moving over a winter lawn the sound of fragrance pluming from fresh-wet earth the sound of a string of jasmine laced in my mother’s hair the sound of home giving birth to a thousand suns Poonam Jain Poonam Jain lives in London, has been writing poetry for a few years, and has been published in a few magazines. Her husband is a passionate photographer and astronomer, and some of this has rubbed off on her. ** Nebra Sky Disk, 1600 BCE Sun, crescent moon, and stars on a slightly curved sky of bronze sharpens what we see at night in a mountain town blacked out in the Sangre de Cristos. There are reasons to shield the sky from light other than a breath held as you raise eyes into the nebula and gasp at perfection before boundaries. A boat at the bottom speaks in a language never heard before the sun comes up an orange red that could be watermelon could be cantaloupe, but always fruit. Never a time when I do not stand at a window until it dispenses into blue, until it becomes the base of clouds in a sky ready for storm a day unlike any before. Kyle Laws Kyle Laws is based out of Steel City Art Works in Pueblo, CO where she directs Line/Circle: Women Poets in Performance. Her collections include Beginning at the Stone Corner (River Dog, 2022), The Sea Is Woman (Moonstone Press, 2021, winner of its 2020 award), Uncorseted (Kung Fu Treachery Press, 2020), Ride the Pink Horse (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019), Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing, 2018), This Town: Poems of Correspondence coauthored with Jared Smith (Liquid Light Press, 2017), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press, 2015), and Wildwood (Lummox Press, 2014). With eight nominations for a Pushcart Prize and one for Best of the Net, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., Canada, and Europe. She is editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. ** Solstice One by one the ancient wolfskin-shouldered ones assemble. Piece by piece the antlered world emerges from the circling dark to dance about the dancing flame, the roaring bonfires set tonight to call down thunder from the fickle flickers of our moonless sky. Quietly the ancient ones await the strike of daylight’s dagger in tomorrow’s dawning light, the sign that heaven’s jeweled anklet-clasp has been secured again, that all our counted days might circle round to see the ground being forth the swaying grain again, the leaping trout and chuffing stag, our round-eyed daughters’ bellies swelled with life. And that we might live again to set the hillside brush aflame, extract the stone’s green blood, and gather shining rivers steaming from the rock with which to fashion amulets and pointed spears and maps of time, this disc of earth and sky we lift into the air to show the heavens we are here. DB Jonas DB Jonas is an orchardist living in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of northern New Mexico. His work has appeared in Neologism, Consilience Journal, Poetica Magazine and The Jewish Literary Journal, and is forthcoming in Tar River, Innisfree, The Amethyst Review and The Deronda Review. ** Dinner For One “I’ll give you the moon” said James. But I wondered what sort of moon. There are so many. Would it be full or half or quarter or something in-between. But it doesn’t matter now I can see exactly what I’m getting. He handed them all to me on a plate with a side order of stars and planets. And then he left. 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: Apogee, 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/ ** Disc to Disbeliefs Anything great adds to mystery, as in Nebra Star (or Sky) Disc of Bronze Age, Unetice culture, Germany, forestland of controversy in answers, definitions, meanings for not solved in what this is in how precise arc degrees at sides of disc (each 82° of circle) sunrise-sunset solstices angle of winter-summer Mittelburg, moon phase calculated, location of stars arrived at Pleiades prominent as sun traveled the sky in solar boat to disappear to the underworld every night at the darkness of right before the agriculture by day, the equinox of autumn and spring predictions, the trades, of gold and tin from Cornwall, copper from Swiss Alps five hundred meters down in earth to the question of tools, hoard of unmatchables, some say the moves, the size, the signs of Iron Age-- strangeness in the find, looters with lies to brokenness, burial among barrows outside-- enclosure, uncovered as something more-- than believed in. Lynne Goldsmith Lynne has an award-winning poetry book and children’s book. She has been published in All-Creatures.Org, Interalia Magazine, Journal for Critical Animal Studies, Not Very Quiet, Plants & Poetry Journal, Red Planet Magazine, Spillway, Stravaig, The Environmental Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, anthologies, and elsewhere. ** Lost Love Removes from goddess breast, brooch most favorite kept nightly in chest, brought out to clasp celestial robes in reign, hand extends to lips, whispered desire shivers immortal shell into embrace forbidden; once her bidding is done well, goddess bends to bid final farewell, gift enchanted gold imbued brooch from her transcends to shield warrior true that no blade pierce her knight, disk proves right til’ time buries, no gallant one ascends to stars, goddess grieves mortal love, robe falls as tears Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson has been writing poetry for most of her life, but discovered Ekphrastic poetry only four years ago. It has enriched her work, provided with wonderful art to write from. Dickson has been published in more than 40 journals, including Misfit, Proems, Blue Heron, Five Willows and Ekphrastic Review. She writes of bullying, nature, captive elephants, lakes and often from personal memories. Her collection, Untumbled Gem [Goldfish Press 2016] as well as other works can be found on Amazon. Dickson often reads poetry to her rescued feral cats, Cam and JoJo, who enjoy the sound of her voice. ** Failed Stardust: a Tanka Sequence I. Hoping and praying Wishing on the shooting stars On the sun and moon - Great celestial bodies Careening through the vastness II. Very powerful Yet, unable to turn dreams To reality So you get too discouraged Wondering what is the point III. You soon stop searching For reasons to keep trying To keep on fighting To keep battling your demons To keep getting out of bed IV. You admit defeat Stop listening for birdsong Stop chasing rainbows As they arc across the sky Their secrets kept out of sight V. Not unlike your heart Their truths remain hidden deep In both day and night Hidden in the cosmos far Twinkling a secret message - VI. A Morse Code of light One you cannot decipher Much to your chagrin Dancing across galaxies And space-time continuums VII. So captivating - Utterly mesmerizing - That you find yourself Unable to look away Despite your great depression VIII. You still look skyward FInding hope in each sun ray In each star sparkle Unwillingly enraptured Stumbling over your own feet IX. Attention focused On that last unknown frontier Stretching out above You miss the here and the now You miss all the fine details X. You miss every chance And you miss your soul, as well Having traded it Many times for one more glimpse Of the cosmos heavenly XI. You miss too much class You miss the change in seasons You miss love and life You miss the important facts We are all made of stardust XII. Yet, we are nothing - Nothing more and nothing less Than another part Of the universe divine Right down to our molecules XIII Down to our marrow To every single atom Every element Building us all up from scratch Through time and evolution XIV. You fail to see it Fail to recognize, to know Fail to acknowledge That you are just as special As the sky at which you gaze Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a writer and artist living in Madison, Wisconsin. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies spanning four continents, and her poetry won a 2021 Merit Award from Arts for All Wisconsin. One of her poems was choreographed and performed by a local dance troupe, and she had an ekphrastic creative nonfiction piece featured in the Companion Species exhibit at the Chazen Museum of Art. Among other venues, her recent and forthcoming publications include Brown Bag Online, Deep South Magazine, Defunkt Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Fauxmoir, Fireflies’ Light, Great Lakes Review, Poemeleon, Red Weather, sPARKLE & bLINK, SPLASH!, Star*Line, and W.E.I.R.D. ** Pie Plate O to hold the universe still but slippery a sea creature gliding a wet hand the stars sheeting their metal posts golden & near a bit of pounded alloy crisping in a woman’s hands slick & bending as she compiled the universe three thousand years ago its calm teal outlook the same tonight O finger-worn horizon crinkled like a favorite pie plate ovened & ovened the cove of moon & the same brass-studded stars teeming their tiny welcome heat Carolyn Wilsey Nature’s intricacies inspire Carolyn to write poems. She holds a BA in American Literature from Middlebury College and an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Carolyn attends writing conferences and is active in Bay Area workshops and open mics. Her poems appear in Pretty Owl Poetry, Rogue Agent, Stirring, Eclectica, The Virginia Normal, West Marin Review, Appalachian Review, Quiet Lightning, and other publications. In 2020, one of her poems was nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology.  Carousel, by Olexandr Murashko (Ukraine) 1906 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrastic! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing 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 Carousel, by Olexandr Murashko. Deadline is March 18, 2022 . 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. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. 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 MURASHKO 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 18, 2022. 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 will no longer 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. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. 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! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. 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! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Gogol's Dream, by Viktor Gontarov (Ukraine) 1995. Used with permission of the Matskiv foundation. Please click the image above by the brilliant Ukrainian painter Viktor Gontarov. This painting was a previous challenge prompt, and you may wish to read the selected responses again.
Ekphrastic Cats: the Contest!!!!! With Special Guest Judges, Kathryn Kulpa and t.m. thomson3/2/2022  We are ecstatic to announce Ekphrastic Cats, our new contest theme. And even more excited to announce our guest judges- Kathryn Kulpa for flash fiction, and t.m. thomson for poetry!!! Kathryn and t.m. are both widely known in their field, and also give their time and hearts to cats in need. Write poetry or flash fiction/microfiction, inspired by any of the artworks in our Ekphrastic Cats ebook. Finalists in both categories will be published here, and in an ebook anthology that will be free for writers and all readers to share with other readers. The winners in each category- poetry and flash fiction- will each receive $100CAD. The ebook is a specially curated collection of 52 artworks through history featuring cats. These works have been selected to inspire your writing practice and curiosity about art history and its cats. ** Rules 1. Your ebook purchase for $10CAD is your entry fee for up to five submissions: flash fiction or poetry or both. 2. Submit to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com with CATS in the subject line. 3. Deadline is May 5, 2022. 4. Finalists and winners will be announced sometime in June. 5. Word limit 1000 for each story or poem. Style is up to you, but please note that experimental format is difficult to reproduce online. 6. Each poem or flash you submit must be inspired by one of the artworks in the ebook. Let us know which ones you used. Your work can be about the artwork or artist, or about anything the art inspires for you. Let each work ignite your imagination and see where it takes you. 7. A selection of finalists in both categories will be published here in The Ekphrastic Review. 8. One winner in flash and one in poetry will each receive $100CAD, to be paid via PayPal. 9. Editors' and judges' decisions are final.
*** Upcoming Cats Themed Workshop Join us online on March 27 for a cats themed workshop! Ekphrastic Cats Workshop Sunday March 27 at 2 PM EST
CA$30.00
Ekphrastic Cats: Writing Cat Poetry and Cat Stories from Cats in Art History Join us for a chat about cats in art history. There's a fascinating spectrum of ideas and depictions, showing that the human fascination for felines is ancient and widespread. We'll do a very quick tour through time to see some interesting highlights and learn more about our relationship with this amazing creature through visual art. Then we will do some fun writing exercises with cat art prompts. Poetry, flash fiction, prose, however you are moved. Sunday March 27, from 2 to 4 PM EST Doors open at 1.45 PM EST, for those who wish to meet and mingle. Workshops often go over by 15 minutes. We prefer to end them organically after our last discussion and exercise, rather than abruptly. We send Zoom links on the day of the event. We aim to have interesting, informative content and challenging exercises to inspire your art journey and writing practice. We encourage discussion and sharing. No refunds for cancellations, sorry. We will happily move you to a future workshop if you cannot attend. |
Challenges
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