 After the Storm, by Istvan Farkas (Hungary) 1934 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 After the Storm, by Istvan Farkas. Deadline is May 14, 2021 . 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 [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 FARKAS WRITING 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, May 14, 2021. 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!
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 The Old Arrow Maker, by Edmonia Lewis (USA) 1866-1872 Dear Readers and Writers, Once again, I am astonished by the variety of approaches to an artwork, at the different ways that writers have responded to this artwork and artist. It is always difficult to choose among so many wonderful entries. Please know that whether or not your entry is posted, you are part of this ekphrastic project and community. Ekphrastic writing is the best path to art appreciation, and art is doorway into history, innovation, spirituality, knowledge, memory, empathy, and so much more. Thank you so much for joining us. Every other week we feature a new prompt, choosing a wide variety of thought-provoking works of art, from the obscure to the most famous. Check out our current prompt here: there is one more week to enter. And please consider sharing this post or any other on your social media, so that our writers can have more readers. We are very grateful for every share. love, Lorette ** The Song of Edmonia Lewis (thinking of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) In my mind I see the archer, See the bolt that will be loosened. And the sculptor made it happen, Brought to life sweet Minnehaha, Brought to life her aging father, Both to wait for Hiawatha. Black the hand that shaped the marble, Wise the soul of ancient people: Africa and the Ojibwe. With her chisel shaped the story, But the faces must be white ones, Thus fulfilling expectations. Had to leave her native country, And in Rome found recognition. Longed for peace between her people, Longed for reconciliation, Longed for wounds to heal forever. 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 fourth poetry collection, THE RAIN GIRL, was published by Chaffinch Press in 2020. Want to find out more? https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Soliloquy O my child, with each breath I steal your love for me With each arrow I make I trace your life that you lent Unquestioningly, I have prayed from the time you were born That you be with me. You the beautiful, who plaited mats of flags and rushes, I arrow-heads of jasper hiding my love in my crevices Like the deer laying down itself with love so deep In silence on your feet always. In the wake of Shiva the creator, Brahma the preserver, We live amid good and evil, it is a warmer world that I dream Now a shrine by the fireside urging you to surmise The communion of Ojibwa and Dakota tribes. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, I enjoy writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), my poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Sparks of Calliope, here and elsewhere. Having spent my growing up years in small towns of northern India, I currently live in Bengaluru. ** The Old Arrow Guitar Maker The sculpted gestures of making arrowheads looks to me like the one is waiting for a missing guitar. . . The Elder shows the child: “Here’s how I would strum if I had that perfectly good guitar.” Da-duhun-duhun-duhun-duhun-duhun-duhun-dah! “Darling, you got to let me know.” Dlane—dlane—dlant Dlane—dlane—dlant “Playing in the dirt / we find the seeds of doubt” Bla-la-lah-la-la-lah-la-lah! Bla-la-lah-la-la-lah-la-lah! “Look in my eyes / What do you see?” Mahnahnahnahnaut, mahnahnahnahnaut, mahnah-- “I used to travel in the shadows” The child looks puzzled, once looking for arrowheads and arrowshafts to appear, now wondering if the Elder could make a guitar of lightning jump from the fire. The Elder pauses, mid-strum in the empty air, sees the child not understanding, so the wise one says, “These sounds are visions of the future when Alex Chilton will come around.” Blang—errr—blauh-- Klik—klik—wahawa —— klick-klick—wahawa—wahawaower “I don’t know where I’m gonna live / Don’t know if I’ll find a place” The child, knowing it is punkishly impetuous to interrupt an Elder—even when strumming air, the child cannot contain the line: “I cannot understand, my Elder.” The Elder muses, “Child, I may take that line from you: ‘I cannot understand…my god.’ “But I see that you did not come today to write future’s music with our forward-fathers, but let me show you how Mr. Jones is striking up a conversation with us now. “When it was time to become an adult, I prayed to the moon, to my unfound love, ‘Darling, you got to let me know.’ “When I reflected on leaving my youth behind, I remembered when the change began, ‘Playing in the dirt / we find the seeds of doubt.’ “When the Elders revealed my Lover to me, we first had to trust the chief’s wisdom who asked, ‘Look in my eyes / What do you see?’ “We were scared by the flame and fire there, doubt making us see something dangerous, but then I had to remember my place: ‘I used to travel in the shadows.’ “When we trusted and came together, we were still full of questions: ‘I don’t know where I’m gonna live / Don’t know if I’ll find a place.’ “Then the strumming was joined by drumming, doubts and questions jangled in the air, like you said, Child, ‘I cannot understand my god.’ “But if John Hiatt, Alex Chilton, and Mr. Jones will meet us there, I imagined the only thing to do was pray for that guitar of lightning to leap from the flames and into my hands. “That’s why, Child, I sit like this now.” Benjamin Squires Benjamin Squires (BiCS) is a poet, photographer, and pastor in northern Illinois. He has never learned to play guitar, but can often be found playing air guitar and drums on his steering wheel while driving. His photography can be viewed at: www.bicspics.com ** Prowess Farther up the river is the village where the women are stewing squash, beating dried corn, and stretching deerskins to dry. Farther down the river, three days’ journey, is the trading post. Shania has never been there but she has heard of the rough, strange ways. Right here, with Pa-Gi, the old arrowmaker, is exactly where she wants to be. She has aped his headband and moccasins, but their necklaces are vastly different. His has claws from bears he has killed; hers has only wooden beads. Dummies. Every day he is sharing his cache of parts and tools, and most importantly, his wisdom. The flint and sinew for the arrowheads, the pine and cedar shafts, the split feathers and more sinew for the fletching. The knife to trim. She sits on a rock beside him, watching an osprey pinwheel overhead. An otter chitters on the riverbank, then plops into the water. She has seen twelve winters come and go. The elders gave her special permission to learn from Pa-Gi, because she was too wild for stewing squash. Today, she has slain her first deer with her own arrow, and now, gently cooling, it lies at their feet. Pa-Gi said a prayer of gratitude for its life. May this deer’s body nourish our bodies, and may its memory nourish our souls. Happiness warmed her shoulders like sun on a turtle’s back. Then he began explaining how to repair the arrow she pulled from the deer. When Shania grows old, she will remember fondly her apprenticeship to Pa-Gi, the intricate stories and pulsing songs of the hunt he taught her, but right now she finds the old man cranky and critical, his voice gravel scraping a tender sole. How could she know the arrowhead would detach as she tore it from the muscle? She plucks at the soft folds of her skirt and looks away. But this is not the only lesson; in fact, she will pass along the story of this day to her children and her children’s children. Out on the water, a canoe glides. She sees it passing between birches near the water’s edge like a lynx drawing close to its prey. The canoe holds the translator, Three-tongues, and an unknown man. For a moment, Shania thinks the fame of her hunting has already spread to the world, and she beams with delight. But no: foolish pride. She has heard of the traders, their strange clothes and behavior. Bearing weapons, always. Bearing gifts, sometimes. Perhaps he has glass beads so she could make a necklace for her mother. Pa-Gi murmurs, “watch out.” Some traders are greedy. They will argue over the number and size and thickness of pelts. Sometimes they take a hunter’s own deerskins, those meant for personal use. She keeps her eye on the trader as the canoe pulls to shore; she drapes her skirt over the trimming knife. The two men climb from the canoes, low-stepping along the central seam so as not to tip it. The trader has marvelously strange clothes. She wishes she had a boldly striped sash like his. She can barely tear her eyes from it, how the stripes move as he moves like shadows of tall grass swaying in the wind. The trader is looking at her. He is not admiring her kill, lying fat and sleek at her feet. He is looking at her body, her bare arms, her budding breasts. He looks so intently she is about to say something, make a joke about growing antlers. But she stays silent. The trader says something to Three-tongues. “The girl,” Three-tongues says to Pa-Gi. “Is she your daughter? How much do you want for her?” “She is not for trade,” Pa-Gi says calmly. “Ahhhh.” The trader opens a big bag. He pulls out a cup. Not dull-colored, like a birchbark cup, but shiny metal. Not heavy, like a wooden cup, but light. He holds it aloft and it gleams in the sun. He hands it to Pa-Gi. “Test my fine cup,” the trader says via Three-tongues. When Pa-Gi does not move, the trader takes a second cup from the bag and scoops up water. He takes off his own hat and tosses the water on himself, so his face is wet and dripping and shining. They all laugh in surprise. “Go ahead. Try.” She watches Pa-Gi handle the metal cup. He turns it a little, he touches it a little. On rainy days she has seen him make a drink from the bark of willow trees to ease the pain of his bones. This would be a fine cup to brew such a tea. No leaks. Hot, not warm. He hesitates. “She is not for trade,” Pa-Gi says, handing back the cup. His eyes darken briefly. “She is my wife. I need her all the days of my life.” As the canoe with the two men drifts away, the osprey bursts into the sky again. Shania vows to make a better arrow. V.J. Hamilton Short fiction by V.J. Hamilton has been published in The Penmen Review, The First Line, and The Antigonish Review, among others. Her fiction has been anthologized twice and she has won the EVENT Speculative Fiction prize. She lives and works in Toronto. ** The Arrow Of Time The arrow maker's expert at his craft. His jasper points are honed with perfect skill, Each fastened with precision to its shaft-- And when they fly, their flights bend to his will ... Reflecting on his daughter's changing role, Resignedly he grasps she too must fly: Of time, the arrow's not his to control, When any day a stranger might walk by ... Once Hiawatha comes, this father knows Fond days with Minnehaha soon will end-- Time's arrow is the one that never slows: Its flight to Minnehaha's will must bend Most surely, bringing sadness to the day Events propel this daughter far away. Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who builds game-theoretic models of animal behaviour. His acrostic sonnets have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist and the Washington Post. His limericks have appeared in Britain’s Daily Mail. ** The Present of the Future Gaze, Father, to the future, to your daughter’s destiny And dream of strong bonds between your own Dakota And your other half, Ojibwa, now in the name of Hiawatha As he offers sustenance in your honour and in his hope That you will grant him leave to marry Minnehaha, Daughter at your side and in your love. Gaze and comprehend That in unifying both your houses will find strength in peace That far surpasses specious glories that are fleeting in the Trying times of war. Let the arrow-heads you craft of jasper Find their home only in the hunt and not in perceived enemies, For peace brings to this realm the happiness that stories of your youth Reserved for the after-life; This is reality; confront it as a man --- Eschew encouragement of battle in wars of blame and shame And turn that gaze so readily to Hiawatha and help your eyes Peer to a realistic fantasy where people live and love and know Acceptance based on substance and of character, not hatred born of Disillusion and unfounded images delighting in an evil separation. The love of your young daughter and her man can be the making Of a future filled with hope come to fruition, a place where children Play and learn and fear not those who share the blessings of the World so treasured by forefathers --- crystal streams, verdant vegetation, Prey uncountable, air so crisp that breathing it sings songs to heaven. As close as Minnehaha is to you in body is she so in cherished dreams And so it falls on you, a man of skill and of great wisdom, To help her build a world that ancestors can peruse and smile And know that this God-planted country will be in faithful hands, Hands that craft the arrows that will hunt the food that feeds Their people, hands that plait their resources into clothing and Carriers of food and water. Peer, Old Arrow Maker, with placid And comforting anticipation at a peaceful competition, One which sublimates the human inclination tending to conflict And brings to us a higher plane containing multitudes of treasures That our all too oft unrealized hold out to us, if only we can put aside Our feeble and unjustified but baser instincts to do battle. Here is the lesson to be learned: Use your tools, our Arrow Maker, To build a strong foundation for your child who kneels with love Beside you, do your best work always, construct not weapons but tools To create the foundation upon which those who come may thrive; Student – daughter – son to be – heroic guide, lead them to tomorrow; Make more than arrows when you piece together the days ahead, And in your doing so, take comfort in your understanding that You have protected all you love and value --- your people, your land, Your dreams, the prayers that emanated from your forebears: You are no noble savage; you are not savage at all; you are What we must call --- if we are perspicacious --- the true American Dream! Herb Munshine Herb Munshine: "I live in Great Neck, New York. I have been a high school English teacher for 56 years and am still teaching. During my teaching career I have been advisor to student literary magazines, newspapers and yearbooks. I love encouraging young people to express themselves in writing. I have had a few award-winning student-writers, and I am proud of the accomplishments of all my students. I started writing poetry during my days as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone, West Africa in 1964-1966 and I have written many poems during the current pandemic. I have two grown children and seven grandchildren." ** Lost Forever I am young my father says I cannot know the ways of men yes, just a girl a springtime flower of tribe and stream, laughing water, rapid water, flows the river, weave the rushes, sit with father works the stone, my father watches Hiawatha, I have seen him, stranger to our tribe, our people learn my fate is fever, death comes early lost in love, my Haiwatha, but in death sings his Nokomis daughter of moon, her tears she cries the snow my grave, alone in darkness ne’er again to see my husband Minnihaha lost forever Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson has written poetry for over 50 years, has lived near four of the five Great Lakes and finds water to be both cathartic and a muse for writing. Dickson's poems can be found in Page & Spine, Blue Heron Review, The Avocet and The Ekphrastic Review, among others. Dickson serves on the board of the Poetry Society of NH and her full length books are available on Amazon. ** Letter From The Oberlin Jail, From Edmonia Lewis to Her Beloved Aunt (Ginoshenh) February 21, 1862 Boozhoo, Ginoshenh, Here I sit in the Oberlin jail. My left leg is torn, I am provided with bandages from my attorney, John Langston. He visits every other day, now that Samuel has business he must attend to in Colorado Springs. Thank gichi-manidoo for my brother! He has provided the funds to Mr. Langston for my defense. Mr. Langston, a coloured man, also attended Oberlin College. However, unlike me, he graduated with high marks, and in good standing. Right now, I am so concerned about both my leg, and my very life, that the thought of not graduating has been pushed to the back of my mind. How one’s fate can be changed in an instant in this country! My mind is still on moving to Europe. My deepest desire is to have the opportunity to create and live my life untethered by my gender, and the colour of my skin. From where I am right now, I see no clear path to getting there, but I dream of the colours nightly. I have other injuries too, the worst a superficial cut to my right eye that bled profusely, but doesn’t appear to be deep. I’ll not go on about my outside issues, it is the inside that storms with the indignities I suffered from the faceless mob. Faceless, only because the cowards put masks on before their vicious attack! I smelled the rose perfume of a girl from school, imagine it! She sat right behind me in my Art History class! Oberlin may not accept me back. Samuel has been in recent contact with Mr. Edward Brackett, a sculptor from Boston. Depending on what the college decides, I may end up as his apprentice. If I get out of here, and get out I must, my intention is to visit with you and my other relatives in Niagara Falls. To be out among the trees, to lay a freshly cooked fish on a plate and eat it with wild rice and corn after fishing for it in the early morning light, this thought sustains me. I am sending this letter by Mr. Langston so I can tell you what you already know: I did not poison those girls! I think I was set up, but by whom, I do not know. I was with them both, readying for friends to arrive at our boarding house. We all ate the same thing, although they both drank milk, and I only water, as you raised me to do. They fell over sick before our company arrived. Melissa told her father it was me, that I intended for both of them to die! I didn’t think for a moment that anyone believed her, until three days later I was ambushed, beaten, and jailed. I don’t know why I thought for a moment that my denials would be heard! As one of only thirty coloured students out of a thousand at Oberlin, I know my word doesn’t stand against the majority! I prayed my third novena to Saint Joseph last night, and God willing, I will be out of here before the ninth one as my trial should be concluded four days hence, possibly before you receive this letter. I have been thinking about sculpting the bust of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, you may know of him. He was the commander of the 54th Infantry, all coloured men, and he was white. I have written to his son after reading about him in the local paper. I do think many people will be interested as he has many admirers in the North. He died leading his men into battle, and he didn’t have to be there. His family was well-to-do, but he joined the cause nevertheless, and I find that admirable. I hope to hear from his son soon and Samuel says he would like to see me mount my own show! That bust would be a sure draw, and I intend to pour the very cast myself. Do not worry over me too much, ginoshenh! I’m hoping that you will hear of my freedom from Mr. Langston even before you receive this letter. Soon, very soon, we will be casting lines and laughing together. I remain in my heart the true expression of the name you first gave me at age five. Yours Affectionately, Wildfire Debbie Walker-Lass Author’s note: Edmonia Lewis was a half-black (Haitian) and half-Indian (Ojibwe) woman who was the first renown modern black sculptor. She attended Oberlin College, funded by her brother, Samuel, who had made his fortune in the California Gold Rush. Her first show was in Boston, where she exhibited a bust of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw. A few years later, she moved to Rome to study under master sculptor Antonio Canova, free to make art and practice her Catholic faith. She was acquitted of all charges related to poisoning her friends, but the college dismissed her right before graduation. After her young mother’s death, her Ojibwe aunts raised her, naming her “Wildfire.” In 2002, she was named as one of the One Hundred Most Influential Black Americans. Debbie Walker-Lass is a literary essayist, poet and short story writer. Her work has appeared in several journals and magazines, including The Ekphrastic Journal, Three Line Poetry, and Natural Awakenings, Atlanta. After a long career in Supported Employment and Mental Health, Debbie spends her time reading, writing, and creating jewelry from vintage pieces. ** When Gallery Lights Fade I brought you back to where it all began, to find the light in your eyes as we admire the brush of love carved out in the artist’s hand. We circle the marble again again and realise there is no light within the moulded eyes, just stone rolled into sockets of bone. The opacity worries me. His forehead strikes me, the way it reflects the gallery glare back at your face like the smile of a blade caught in a full moon rising. How can sculpture express such light? There is so much emotion in her eyes without a fleck of duck egg blue or a pool of warmed bronze to lighten the mood. I can almost feel the fold and softness of Minnehaha’s skin, trace each tress of her hair in its skim from her scalp to her back solid, yet slight as a whisper. I drink in every detail of her and catch the tilt of her neck leaning into Hiawatha’s world, re-shaping its form into something polished, atoned. Her father waits, his wise hands turning wood over and over until perfection sits in his palm, a gem ready for gifting. I brought you back to where it all began, to find the light in your eyes. It is late. Gallery lights dim as we pass out into the moon. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and has been passionate about poetry since childhood. She generally writes free verse and loves responding to Art through Ekphrastic poems. Her poems have appeared The Ekphrastic Review, Nitrogen House, Words for the Wild, Poetry on the Lake, Alchemy Spoon and a Scottish Writers Centre chapbook. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlet A Spark in the Darkness recently won The Baker’s Dozen competition with Hedgehog Press and is due to be published. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet. ** Heart Undaunted Loving fathers don't forever ask a daughter to endeavor as the latent beauty looming within bud awaiting blooming. They envision her transcendence into bliss of independence as transplanted blossom growing seed to cast as her resowing -- as creations of her making found revering, not forsaking, all her father's constant caring that once felt so overbearing but was fittingly preparing heart undaunted for its daring. 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.  Women Making Textiles, by Mario Urteaga Alvarado (Peru) 1939 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 Women Making Textiles, by Mario Urteaga Alvarado. Deadline is April 30, 2021 . 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 [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 ALVARADO WRITING 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, April 30, 2021. 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!  We have a new contest for poetry and flash fiction, with guest judge Alarie Tennille. The theme is Women Artists. To get the details, click here or on image above. The Bird Watching contest submissions are due on May 1!
 With just a couple of weeks left for our Bird Watching contest many of you have already sent your entries and are ready for another major ekphrastic writing challenge. We have gathered another intriguing collection of artworks, and the theme this time is Women Artists. Artists throughout history in many different cultures faced immense obstacles, and women even more so. Few female painters or sculptors have been acknowledged by history or books, and yet we have a rich legacy of creativity if we dig between the lines to find gold. The subject was so exciting that I got carried away. It was my intention to select 30 to 40 prompts to inspire your ekphrastic writing practice, but ended up with 60. Many more were left on the cutting room floor. I hope each artwork will lead you to study more works by the featured artists, to learn about their lives and work and the worlds they lived in. Use your ebook of 60 artworks as a reference and a book of writing prompts, now and forever. Purchase before the contest deadline also qualifies you to enter up to ten poems or stories. Selected entries will be published in The Ekphrastic Review, in a series of special showcases. We are absolutely delighted to have Alarie Tennille as our guest judge. Alarie is a long-time contributor to the journal, a consultant for our prize nominations, a winner of our Fantastic Ekphrastic Award for her outstanding contributions to the journal and to ekphrastic literature, and a widely published and loved poet. Alarie will choose a first place winner and two runners up from the published selections. The first place entry will receive $100 and each runner up will receive $50. Winners may be flash fiction, creative nonfiction, or poetry. Your purchase of our ebooks has made it possible for us to offer cash prizes in these new contests at The Ekphrastic Review. Your support also helps with the time, maintenance, web and other expenses, and promotion of this journal. We can't thank you enough. RULES 1. Click on button below to get your ebook of sixty prompts by women artists. 2. Write from any or all of the artwork prompts. You may submit up to ten pieces. 3. Please submit all of your entries in one email. Wait until you have your complete entry to send. 4. You may write poetry, flash fiction, or creative nonfiction, or a combination, up to 1000 words each. 5. Deadline is July 7, 2021. 6. Send your entry to [email protected]. In subject line, put WOMEN ARTISTS CONTEST. 7. We hate to censor your creativity and will try to accommodate experimental formatting, but be aware that flush left formats work best for the web. Complicated formats or spacing is difficult or impossible to reproduce faithfully. 8. Your work must be inspired by the prompts in the book. They can incorporate a description of the art or connect to the artwork's history or subject matter, or to the artist biography, or they can use the art as a point of departure for imagination, memory, correlation, etc. In other words, the writing can be about the art or about anything else the art triggers you to dream up. 9. The Ekphrastic Review will publish selected works in special showcases from the entries. Of these selections, guest judge Alarie Tennille will choose her favourites. The judge's decisions are final. 10. The winners will receive $100 CAD for first place and $50 each of two runners up. Winners will be paid by PayPal. 11. Winners will be chosen and announced by the end of July 2021. 12. Please include a third person biography up to 100 words. 13. Please use copy and paste in body of email, or a word document. You may include a PDF to show formatting and italics, but please include it in addition to your copy and paste or word document. 13. Good luck and have fun! Correction: I made an error in transcription when compiling the Women Artists ebook. Page 13 credit should read: The Conquest of Belgrade, by Katarina Ivanović (Serbia) 1845. Apologies for this mistake.  Resurrection Panel, Trebon Altarpiece, by Master of Trebon Altarpiece (Czech Republic) c. 1380s. Resurrected His face is serious, sad, as he raises his hand in warning to the stunned guards, tumbled at his feet. “Touch me not,” he says in a voice full of impossible distance, a cold echo from a deep well dark and damp as the grave. The armored men look up confused at his sudden apparition, their faces caught in expressions we recognize, their features those of ordinary men. Above them, above the stone lid of his coffin, the resurrected Christ floats, unearthed and unearthly his feet not planted anywhere but hanging straight from the pale body, so thin it seems fleshless, weightless, still marked by the wounds of crucifixion, but bloodless, strange, alive in some way unnatural, his triumph an outlaw grace, a miracle whose simple touch could burn the living down to bone. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired RN who has had a lifelong love of writing, literature and art, that makes ekphrastic a particular favorite. She finds these writing challenges are particularly good at bringing out new and surprising poems, full of unexpected surprises. A frequent contributor to The Ekphrastic Review she has work also in many journals and anthologies, including The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, and The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic. ** Cleaning the Sepulchre No one likes to leave their dear one in a sepulchre where others have lain. Even here, in a tomb with the lid unopened. The spiritual body of the man who had rested here has risen, they say, in red rag glory. For barely two days since rioting throngs jeered around the cross and his bloody feet, for two days since the mourners were almost trampled at his sad crucifixion spectacle, the body lay here. Me, I never attend that barbarity. More important is what remains within the dark stone interiors—the stains, the stink. It is through cleaning that I get to know those who inhabited these death spaces. This man, the rumours go, raised Lazarus entombed four days to life. It was my father who cleaned that tomb after the corpse, stiff with putrefaction and swaddling, stumbled into daylight. No one talks about Lazarus’s next life, if you can call it that, after a four-day death. I know this man’s spirit through the blood congealed, the fluids expelled through the weave of the muslin. This man, once a baby also swaddled, was visited by royalty seeking him under a blazing star. Frankincense and myrrh, they brought the infant. Despite all the years, their faint medicinal scents infused the rock and rose up to me as I shoved aside the lid that he had resurrected through. Now I scrub and sluice this place. Let in the daily air. Fran Turner Fran Turner grew up on a farm in the most southerly area of Canada but fell in love with Toronto, her home. She has worked in nursing, shiatsu massage and cancer advocacy and has taught in her own Aikido dojo. New to writing, her short fiction has appeared in Dodging the Rain and Adelaide Magazine. She loves experimenting with flash fiction. ** Dear Great Spirit, I don’t know who or what you are, but still I need guidance from time to time, and you are the one I pray to. Is it really prayer, though, if I don’t think of you as either god or angel? If my words are not holy or sacred, but ordinary questions to which I have no answers, or ordinary dilemmas I can’t seem to solve? And if, really, it’s your mother I picture, not you, holding my hand? Your spirit is not far away in a luminous heaven, but a presence, always all around me—neither gentle nor severe--listening, observing from everywhere to everything. Your spirit does not judge the importance of my concerns, even though my life is tangled up in trivia. And if my words result in nothing else, I can feel them being absorbed by the waves of energy that make up the universe, becoming part of it—acknowledged, heard, transformed, made real. I neither serve nor worship you, but remain instead, in continued chaos, Your Mirror Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** The Art of Reverence Impossible to disbelieve, You're seen by three of four as Son the Father chose to grieve and resurrect for more... ...in death than in the trodden dust where fear by faith was quelled as signs performed became the trust in minds that had beheld... ...and in the minds Your message swayed by parables retold and by example You conveyed as moral shield to hold... ...against the danger things possessed become to transient soul in time so brief to be addressed comprising earthly role... ...and in the eyes of turning face at well of water drawn where ethnic fear dismissed the Grace they dared not look upon... ...yet felt in misting moist surprise the thirst that You had quenched of soul so parched from hate's despise You left in kindness drenched... ...and in the eyes that faced afraid the consequence of sin and those with stones to be conveyed by hands unjust within... ...who lived to hear "Go home, repent and be with God alone becoming message I have sent by guilt that you atone"... ...and in the eyes that gave though poor the most that they could give content with having little more than Grace in which to live... ...and in the eyes of those You spurned with guilt beheld in hand at temple tables overturned to have them understand... ...and in the eyes whose hands were laid for silver pieces gained assuring You were thus betrayed to captors and restrained... ...and in the chants of "Crucify!" from those You would forgive for homage paid to rule of lie as will by which to live... ...and in the eyes that had to see the holes that nails had made and where the wound would have to be from pierce of torture's blade... ...as doubt became by trembling touch the Hope though never seen that countless hearts would have to clutch on which their souls could lean... ...and in the voice that thrice denied the kingdom of Your name, and yet would be the stone implied of churches we became... ...that letters would immortalize as risen body seen becoming apostolic soul Your death would reconvene... ...where art would later render views that sacrifice would bind to Grace of peace You left to choose in eyes no longer blind... ...to Light, opposing shadows cast, becoming evil's bane as Truth by hallowed vestige passed denial would profane. 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. ** Resurrected Not closed in by a boulder in a cave, but from a closed coffin of elm, He rises. We condemned him, Killed him, for refusing to go to battle. A coward who cared not to fight for his homeland to maintain power and hoard the riches of the world. We were the ones willing: To risk our lives. To follow orders. To be the heroes. To be the martyrs. While we lie on the battlefield of the blood red sky, our bodies ripped open and shredded with wounds of war and Unhealed wounds of Hell haunting us for eternity for those lives we destroyed so violently, in a blood-thirsty trance; Snatching them From the Earth. From God. For what? We don’t remember… This man shines with Blood on his Hands Feet and Gushing from his side. We are Astonished. Amazed Afraid. Ashamed. What’s this? He calls to us, “Do not be afraid For I am with you Always” “Rise up And Believe In the Power Of Forgivness And Eternal Peace.” “My peace I give you.” “Life everlasting Can be yours If only You forgive Others And Yourselves.” “And serve the world As Creators of Peace.” We gape in Awe. Yes. The sun begins to rise. Our breath returns. And we now Believe. Our blood now shining; Resurrected. Lisa Molina While not bingeing on her new favourite writer’s works, Lisa Molina can be found working with students with special needs, writing, singing, playing the piano, or marveling at nature with her family. She has lived in Austin, Texas since earning her BFA at the University of Texas. Her poetry can be found in several literary journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Beyond Words Magazine, Trouvaille Review, Ancient Paths Literary Journal, Down in the Dirt, and soon to be featured in Amethyst Review and Peeking Cat. ** Anastasis The disciples desperate. The redeemer dead. Israel lost. They had been mistaken. How they’d fallen for his lie. Jesus, the Messiah. They felt cheated and abandoned. But he'd told them he would return. He'd told them that he was the redeemer of souls not nations. On the road to Emmaus they accepted, shaking, that he was back in flesh and blood. He even asked Thomas to put his hand in his wounds. Women had returned from Jesus’ tomb, found it empty. The body gone. There were rumours. "The disciples came while we were asleep and took the body." His benefactor, Joseph of Arimathea, had been responsible for the burial; some said he healed his badly broken body. There’d been a pulse. Scholars don’t agree about the timing. “Expressions like ‘three days’ and ‘40 days’ are imprecise in the Bible,” Borg said. For the evangelists, “three days” means “a short period of time.” In this fourteenth century painting an emaciated Jesus floats over an impossible coffin. The wounds clearly marked in red. Red repeated as a visual reminder of spilled blood. One depiction of a story told to us for over 2000 years. Some try and count the days, years. Others will believe we’ll rise again one day in all our misery, pain, flesh, and bone. Then there are those who take the story and move it in their heart. We can be sure of only one truth: let your old self die. The new you is waiting. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, one full-length poetry collection and two chapbooks, her work has been widely published in mostly US poetry journals. Her latest full-length poetry MS, The Rain Girl, has been published by Chaffinch Press in August 2020. Read more: https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Crowned The king is dead! Long live the king! The crown of thorns, the cut to the heart in the end there was no end. 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 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/ ** Swallows After I found my mother Easter Sunday; after she had attempted suicide with sleeping pills; after I saw the humpbacked gibbous moon in the purple night sky; after cliff swallows built mud nests; pigtailed ten year old, war refugee from Budapest; after I prayed, fearing my mother would die; after I washed the concrete kitchen floor with water, painted cerulean the chairs; after the red brick house was separated by steel doors, foundation with a roofless hall, steep staircases; after yellow forsythia, pussy willows grew in a bomb crater: after everything, we stood there, you ask: Why do you write about swallows and mud nests? Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a poet, editor, curator, advocate and activist. Author of four poetry books, the most recent collection is Salt Bride (Inanna, 2019). Forthcoming, The Tempest (Inanna, 2022). Writes in journals, anthologies, and seven chapbooks. Her poem “Dachau on a Rainy Day” was nominated for the 2018 Pushcart Prize. Founder and Curator of Visual Arts Centre Reading Series and Argo Bookshop Reading Series. QWF 2010 Community Award. ** Resurrection for the Non-Believer Religion best serves the believer Education, memorize books of the bible Sit up straight, listen to the sermon; bow your head Understanding of God alludes conscious thought Resurrection of Jesus defies death Rebirth – born again of spirit, of body Evangelists boast all-knowing paths to salvation Celebration of Easter, Christ- not a chocolate bunny The Easter bonnet I wore as a child lays crushed in a box I resist blind faith; I’m from Missouri – show me Overhead, helicopter egg-drop entices children Non-believers resurrection; Mother Earth renews life Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a semi-retired home health worker, assisting elderly with telling their stories and providing companionship. Her poetry reflects experience in aging, teen issues, bullying, nature and environment. Publications including Poetry Quarterly, The Avocet, Page & Spine and the Harvard Press have supported her work. Full length books are available on Amazon. Dickson spends her free time writing near water and reading aloud to her two rescued feral cats. ** Death Defeated Hired to guard the tomb of one who had lost the battle to remain alive soldiers fall, amazed, terrified, when the granite slab pressed down hard, sealed, proves useless to contain him. They saw him dead, broken, helped push the slab over Him, yet with the dawn this Christ emerged. Do not the dead stay dead? Is not this the ultimate battle that all will lose? Yet this man rose above his grave, defeated death. On their vigil they witness His rising, a feat beyond all understanding. They find no comfort in his raised hand of peace-- peace is not their ken, death is their profession. Amazed and terrified, they note where blood had flowed from flesh torn by thorn, nails, sword a red, red robe now covered Him. He is a new soldier in a war they could never win-- He battled and defeated death itself. His armor, a golden halo His lance a golden light, of love, of peace, of everlasting life. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage, and yes, she is a believer in the defeat of death by Christ on behalf of all of us. Her poems often feature hope, love, food, family , and strong women. ** He Shattered the Box My God doesn’t live in a box. A grave could not hold Him. My God can spill blood and still live. My God can take pain, and mold it into beauty. My God can step on water, tread the snake head, command the wind. Even government officials were astounded. Religious people harbored jealousy. But you and I, commoners really, delighted in His coming…. and His overcoming. My God shattered the box of my past into dust and tiny shards. My God knew my name…. and still invited me to follow. I don’t fall prostrate on cold stone to kiss His grave. He is not there. My God… Diana Newquist Parson Diana Newquist Parson is a retired teacher, who enjoys sleeping late, blogging sporadically at https://glorybug.wordpress.com/, and traveling with her husband. She is mother of one, grandmother of three, and has no living pets. She sometimes walks around, talking to herself as she tries out the sound of words, and she has been published a few times. Diana doesn’t know how to swim, is a mediocre cook, and hates to dust. Otherwise she is fairly normal. ** The Resurrection Jesus stands tall, halo shining, the holes from the nails the Romans pounded into his hands and feet, bleed onto the coffin he rises from. The Romans surrounding him, kneel, begging for forgiveness. “Forgive me, for I know not what I do,” the soldier before him says. Jesus gently touches the soldier’s head. “You are forgiven, my son. Go and spread the word that I have risen.” The other soldiers stunned at the sight of this man who is supposed to be dead, stare at him astounded. Not knowing what to do, they follow their fellow Roman. The red and white robes that Jesus died in, slightly slide down his shoulder as he steps from the coffin and slowly walks into the sunlight to greet his disciples waiting for his return. 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. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Rising It is a red sky, bloody red; derived from it, the mantle wraps the divine sense in scarlet, underlined with palm green; the stars are gold made – their hue – quarried from his halo; the Golgotha rocks are muted dark – theirs is a ghostly deathly mark. He cancelled it and has risen from it: stepping over its obsolete lid, bestowing blessing, cross in hand, and taking that larger-than-life gait that only a novice toddler does and a god on the rise. The artist, the master of Trebon, must have yearned badly for benediction as he placed the divine on his own focal point, unlike others where he stirs up, dashes above, or stands jubilant on the high grave plinth. This rising, so down to earth, let the painter’s pained heart leap symmetrically upfront into Jesus’ open wound imparting, thus, the mortal love on the proper perspective; he – remaining on this pivotal spot with his live reddening brush . Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dimitrova lives in London. She uses the publication name Ekaterina Dukas. A graduate in Philology and Philosophy, she is interested in the history of arts, ideas, culture and universalism, going back to Sanskrit sources. Considering poetry as man’s alter ego, she is an avid explorer of the metric word. Former educationist, she is now a volunteer at Victoria and Albert museum and at The British Museum for the interactive program Hands On. Her poems have recently appeared on The Ekphrastic Review and Poetrywivenhoe. Previously, her research on the medieval manuscript The Gospels of Tsar Ivan Alexander was published by The British Library and subsequently awarded by questia digital library a position 9 in one of their periodical selections 16 of the best publications on illuminated manuscripts. ** Remembering Up in the blue a flock of rosy sheep moves to and fro across celestial fields, chased by the breezes, climbs atop the steep- sided sky-dome. Today the welkin yields such riches, such profound abundant peace – nothing exists but goodness. Why recall a yester day, on which the sun did cease, the sacrificial hour, when over all the world light turned to night? So, I forget the crucifixion darkness and—a fool-- assert my claim to Heaven. I regret not my transgressions, care not for the cool once hot with His blood slopes of Calvary – I am so lost, dear God, help me…help me. Sasha A. Palmer Sasha A. Palmer is a Russian-born award-winning poet and translator, who currently lives in Baltimore, MD. Sasha’s poetry, translations and essays appeared in Writer’s Digest, Slovo/Word, Cardinal Points and elsewhere. Sasha has a thing for the word “amateur” and tries to follow the motto she has created: Live for the Love of it. Visit Sasha at www.sashaapalmer.com ** Anastasis, Longing For Parousia I had been there by the cross I felt His departure After waiting a lifetime I wept with the others. After 3 days, 3 nights I witnessed the stone roll I experienced His resurrection. Hallelujah! I looked up to touch Blood trickled from His wounds I saw Him walk free. I believed what I saw. I listened as He spoke I hung on every word Watched as He forgave I heard Him proffer eternal life. I long for His parousia And know the day will come. Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by many literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Italy, India, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been part of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the fortnightly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019. ** Trebon Altarpiece : Resurrection The men are always sleeping. In the garden even your beloved disciples bewildered, fearful, frightened, golden halos too heavy for mere mortals whose silvery beards droop on to dusty cloaks and chest to sleep. After the worst when it is finished the thin, punctured body rises too light to lift the tomb's heavy rings and lid, He stands there, guards tumbled, their weapons useless in the holy glow as if Jesus were only a whisper of an idea a holy airborne murmur towards something more. The heavenly breeze lifts his proud standard where your conscience should follow where He will soon hear the chorus of angels, Not sink down past the useless scabbards of feckless guards, lodge in the loamy leaden earth beneath the gold raiment of the stars above. Lucie Payne Lucie Payne is a retired librarian who has spent the past 25 years encouraging others to write and is now taking her own advice and writing as much as she can. ** la modone noire: The Black Madonna "She guides through darkness to transformation." The Story of The Black Madonna There would be no regrets: he had climbed the 216 steps to see Our Lady, to thank whatever act of love had kept his hands supple in old age -- he thanked the spring weather for the rain to green the fields for sheep, for sheep fat from their bodies to rub on his weathering fingers; to bless the stars that came out like a floating halo for Our Lady before he climbed into his cot-like bed moved, in winter, near the fire, the cold less when he pulled a thick woolen blanket over a body so changed from his youth he was surprised how youth came back when he took up his tools at dawn, and watched Our Lady grow from wood surrounded by sheep's tallow candles. After his breath put out the candle's fire he touched the frazzled wicks and rubbed the soot against the robes to see if wood grain would show through, all this before her face -- the small, appropriate smile and the infant -- no more than a knob of wood until his nature was defines although it was clear he was cherished tucked against his mother's body. Who would think of them he wondered, if the straw mattess was burned, the room emptied of life when he went back to Toulouse? The wind whispered as he annointed her with black residue gathered when the candles whispered, sputtered and slept; and he was sure he heard her whisper as he dreamed her story, dreaming her into a life where he, mortal, had to leave her, eternal in art protected by a new moon, an omen painted in gold and hidden in the folds of her robe. * 1986 We had driven through the Loire Valley and pulled off the road when we saw a sign for an underground-level village inhabited by the Troglodytes. In light coming from an opening in the "roof" of a cave-like setting, a photography of a woman with white hair was illuminated, set up on an easel so tourists could see her as she'd been in the past, with a spinning wheel, spinning yarn. From her image in the Loire, we went on to Perigord, where we passed a fabricated figure held against a cliff with ropes -- a perpetual rock climber -- before we reached an informal museum with a room full of sculptures. One, a Lamb, held a golden cross in the crook of his front leg, raised to hold a sign of Christ. I had seen the Lamb before, among the symbols of the Masonic Order; and years later, his image had flown down from the ceiling in my bedroom, a waking dream at Easter, 2003, two days before my second grandson (named, appropriately, Gabriel) was born. I'd come to love the image of "a little lamb" in William Blake's "Songs of Innocence" (1789) an expression of God's will and the beauty of God's creation as it was expressed by a visionary poet whose writing marked the beginning of The Romantic Movement, a literary movement that gathered the emotional and esthetic parts of art as they were found in nature. In Perigord, we entered a "department" in France known for truffles -- and truffle pigs. The pig, it should be noted, is a symbol of The Great Mother, Queen of the cosmos, in Egyptian mythology In Perigord, truffle pigs can locate succulent truffles, fruit bodies that are a delicacy to enhance the flavor of French cuisine, scenting them as they grow, sometimes three feet underground. Above ground, after driving through the same enthralling rock landscape we were to find in Rocamadour, we came to a small museum in Perigord where the "little lamb" was displayed, surrounded by other sculptures, as if he, and the other works of art, had been stored there without identification for future reference: what artisan had made the lamb so our family would find him, a work of art, not grazing fields in France? Sheep and lambs are seasonal -- transhumant -- scampering up formidable cliffs to reach spring pastures. In Rocamadour, a town built on limestone cliffs, the Black Madonna sits in a hollow of natural stone (or at least she did when we found her), her dark face and robes accentuated by the streaked whiteness of natural limestone, pale gray and cream, veins in rock reminiscent of grains in wood; nature's mark as trees grow, bent by the winds of The Mistral farther south, and stone from the water-bed of the Dordogne River, thrust up- ward to create a landscape for a woman who was not historically validated. Was it she who stepped out from a boat in southern France bringing the mystery of legend? And with it, a sorrow she hadn't wanted, to hear Christ's words, meant to prepare her for life without him, calling on her to be strong in her belief, guided by her intuition of the deeper meaning for his words, do not cling to me. *
P. S. I wish we could all be Children of the King -- Czeslaw Milosz, "Elegy For Y.Z." I could tell you we found a 14th century workshop, historically preserved as it was built and hidden at the bottom of limestone cliffs -- rocks with pockets of foliage -- craggy hillsides in a landscape similar to the topography illuminated in medieval Persian manuscripts where figures are pictured wearing the colors of sun and sea as they climb upward in ancient illustrations; yet how different they are from the wood sculptor, his character more like someone in a child's story with Geppetto creating Pinocchio in a world where everyone lies to protect the family secrets, how the carver's hand interprets the truth of pilgrims as they climb 216 steps to reach The Black Madonna; and how a stone sculptor's hand carves Chinamen as they climb a blue mountain in art with the individual characteristics of nature -- its perfection an imperfection -- success and hardship -- a journey patterned by shades of blueness -- empyrean tones in Yeats' late-in-life poem, Lapis Lazuli... How blue was the twilight when a woman who would be called The Black Madonna, her identity hidden in the iconography of gravestones -- encoded and enigmatic -- tried to gather her deep blue cloak around her to cover any discrepancies in the personal details of her journey; how she never met a craftsman or a boatman who listened to her description of an artist, The Trebon Master a man who painted an altarpiece with Christ who came back from the dead in Bohemia; and when he came to life in spirit, he traveled with her, even as the essence of his renewal would come for centuries -- unchanging and ever-changing in nature -- a guide through wars and oppression and the promise of love stories ancient and modern, deconstructed in abstract shapes in a world rebuilt with art and passion. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp's recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, explores the relationship of art and poetry as it is repeated in differing time periods. Persian poetry was first illustrated with illuminated pages in the 14th century, the same century when the Trebon Master was creating his altarpiece in Czechoslovakia. The Byzantine Black Madonna, brought to a monastery in Czestochowa in the 14th century, is Poland's holiest and most important relic. The French Black Madonnas, including the 12th century Dordogne Black Madonna in Rocamadour, are related to Mary Magdalene in southern France where clues of her migration after Christ's Crucifixion are encoded in burial iconography. ** Heretic Hymn: Easter The sky still storms long after you first think of rising at nine a.m. Night is still the ex-lover who keeps returning, leaving her black dress in the doorway. Wind blows the trashcans over, street littered now with the bones of dead prophets. Your therapist calls by ten because you haven’t and can’t go there. ‘It’s not enough to rise.’ You nod. Pause. The voice on the other end asks if you’re there and you don’t quite know the answer. Fact is you don’t want to talk in front of witnesses – it’s all blood and alcohol. Then again, Night knows. You rise. Crack a window. The earth is giving off messages: dust kicked up by the rain, a skunk that passed through in the dark, rain’s splashes pushing up from the walk. Now the other end of the line’s gone silent. You tell him about Night; they’re already acquainted. Everything rises. Even the things you hated just moments ago. Let them, says a voice that sounds like yours, lifting, and you – lighter now. D.A. Gray D.A. Gray is the author of Contested Terrain (FutureCycle Press, 2017) and Overwatch (Grey Sparrow Press, 2011). His poems have appeared in The Sewanee Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Appalachian Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Comstock Review, Still: The Journal and Wrath-Bearing Tree among others. He holds Masters Degrees from The Sewanee School of Letters and Texas A&M-Central Texas. A veteran, Gray now teaches, writes, and lives in Central Texas.  The Old Arrow Maker, by Edmonia Lewis (USA) 1866-1872 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 The Old Arrow Maker, by Edmonia Lewis. Deadline is April 16, 2021 . 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 [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 LEWIS WRITING 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, April 16, 2021. 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! |
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