 Song of Love, by Nita Jawary (Australia) contemporary Our challenge prompt this week is by Nita Jawary of Australia. She is one of our readers and writers, as well as a visual artist. We are very excited that Anita is also our guest judge this time! Anita Jawary (Nita Jawary) is a Melbourne writer, artist, poet and a fan of Charles Dickens. She has published in several journals including Be Guided by Art, The Ekphrastic Review, Mockingheart Review, Poetica Review, Jewish Women of Words, Songs of Eretz and has received a commendation certificate from the Society of Women Writers of Tasmania. She has also broadcast her work on Pier-Glass Panel March 2022 and Daily Daven. As an artist Anita has held thirteen solo exhibitions and participated in several group shows. She also works as a docent at the National Gallery of Victoria. Find out more about Anita at www.thedickensianchallenge.com ** Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! 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 Song of Love, by Nita Jawary. Deadline is May 13, 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. 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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. 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 Antarctica Waking (unaltered photography), by John Paul Caponigro (USA) contemporary  Antarctica Dreaming (digitally altered version), by John Paul Caponigro (USA) contemporary I Dream of Contrast Sometimes I pretend the churning night sky is smog collecting over a furnace, A swelling bruise on the air’s skin-- Destroying something so blue nothing blasphemous, Though dispersing shamefully in ashy shafts of wind. The world could use less blue, though I am blue, Though I resent that gray is the shade to coat it In gargoyle-ish, ugly hazes—converting beauty to mildew, Reducing my ridges of icy scaffolding to a misfit The tingle of numbness beneath my toes rivals that warm swirl above me Cold opposed to hot, water to blood, mist to a broiled air’s breath And while the clotty dark spots replace the stars momentarily, I wonder if—against all odds—being bleached by darkness means a star’s death Some beauties are beautiful on their own, While my beauty, without contrast, is unconcerning But my dreams of sweltering, smeared skies sets a deadly tone For if I dream of fire will I wake up burning? I cannot tell if I’m lighter in darkness than I am before a white backdrop, that if the sky is white then so am I or if the sky is black then I am not. The haze of my dream swirls above me imitating those chakly hues of ebony, though ghostly-- Featherlight, available only to me, borderless and overwhelming as the air in my lungs. Unfortunately, my lungs are brick-- Brick like cubes in the summer that melt in glasses. Brick like polar bear beds that crackle and drift. Brick like snow falling in painful pelts, dappling red irritations along the skin. I am not human as I feel, but a floating mass of what people call Beauty A chiseled ice brick that melts with the sky whether it's white or black. But I want to be more than that. I don’t want to Melt like I do when the sky is light, my ends interlaced with its beginnings as loveless lovers. No, I want Contrast like the darkness brings, the exhilarating pop of smoky chrome against my outline. So I dream of the heat to cause that mixing-- the storm necessary for my beauty, the darkness and anger and ferocity of frowning clouds, and I wake up burning. Julia Kroin Julia Kroin is a 9th grade student at Rye Country Day School. She enjoys writing in her free time and is currently working on a novel. She also writes for RCDS's school newspaper, as well as its literary magazine. In addition to her writing, Julia plays the bass guitar and will be joining her school’s jazz band next year. She loves taking her dog, D.J, to the beach whenever she can. ** In Your Dreamwake, A Whale Blue bleed through the glassy essence, wakelife into dreampivot: the glacier will examine you now. Follow the stream of pink quartz petrified in once molten granite. Faceted on the inside, the chamber holds you in a hum. What do you bring here? What will you take away, complicit in the melt? All your plastic convenience, the gravest. The dolphins were afraid for us. We didn’t know to be afraid. From the far shore we launched our red and yellow kayaks into the sound. Black paddles, our waterfeet, sliced air, coaxed water, propelling us toward immensity. Dolphins crossed our path. Auspicious, we thought. On a pebbled beach we stashed the red and yellow plastic vessels, tripped along the river through birch to a quartz pavement. We nearly turned back; it was further than we thought. The glacier receded as we advanced, didn’t want to be reached by us. Under the arch, a sapphire cave. Midsummer blue drips, crackle, a tunnel to the sky; a frequency that thrummed, reading our silent rhythms for their historical resonance. Dreamthrum of the watertwin, the whale in your mirrorwake seeks passage to the heart. Melt, freeze, cryofracture; cycle of your spires. Split by water expansion, your expansion; hollow blue welcome ushering the polyphonic wingrush, of feathers whispering the down draft, the down. Dolphins ride you home. Gayle Burgoyne Gayle Burgoyne is writer, creative coach and reformed management consultant who lives in London, UK. She loves to explore the strangeness of human reality through art and mountain sports, and writes while watching the foxes who live under the shed. ** My Affair Exposed Blue ice, her eyes staring into mine I try to look away but cannot—anger deep within synapses, sometimes hidden. but always dangerously there. I keep my distance. Jackie Langetieg Jackie Langetieg has published poems in journals and anthologies and won awards, such as WWA’s Jade Ring contest, Bards Chair, and Wisconsin Academy Poem of the Year. She has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has written six books of poems, most recently, Snowfall and a memoir, Filling the Cracks with Gold. www.jackiella.wordpress.com ** Antarctica Licking a snowcone Fresh from the ground around me A frosty summer. Vast blue icebergs glide On the endless silent sea Bearing away dreams. Blue ice, cold, silence And glittering ice crystals Maddening stillness. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet (Christmas, Childhood, Faith, Friends & Friendship, and Adversity issues), The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. Her first book of poetry, She: The reality of womanhood, was recently published by Notion Press (available on Amazon). ** Ice Blind The elements oppose us, my husband says, shivering harder than the wet dog scrabbling at his lap. Perched on the kitchen benches, our feet dangling in flood water, I brace the overhead cupboard doors against the onslaught of the disgruntled cat. Her travelling cage floated away in the night while we slept, lulled liquid by the silent river’s rise. Curling into the uneasy sling of the folding cot, I hunch a shoulder against the machinery grumble of the evacuation centre. My husband jostles his bed onto mine. His weight on the stacked sidebars tips me dizzy and I brace against the tumble. Forget land values, we’ll never own a patch of dirt. Frog-foot words, cool against my clammy ear. I fret about the cat, exiled to the ark made of a floating restaurant. I recall a parrot huddled in the hostess booth, the teenaged glower in her security camera eyes. With a thick hook, by lamplight, I crochet nets from videotape. My husband paces our assigned shipping container like a bunkered war criminal. Condensation beads on the metal walls, trickling in runnels, soaking the bare-board floor. Everything except my mouth is damp. Unmoored, the dog searches our faces for landmarks. The cat, holding the cupboard doors against me in her turn, has joined the mutiny led by the African Grey. I wish them well. We could inhabit an entire ice floe in the Antarctic, my husband says. There are jobs available, collecting scientific data. I crinkle loops of tape around my rust-stained fingers. Most of the cartridges lost their labels, soaked or faded into obscurity. Maybe the magnetic dots imperceptible to my finger tips are Bergman's gravestone face, turning from Bogart on the tarmac. Maybe a drowned neighbour’s sex tape. Morgana Macleod Morgana Macleod lives and writes on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia. She has short stories published in several hard-copy anthologies you've never heard of, but you might have seen Thumbnail 5 and 6? Her work can also be found online at sites including New Flash Fiction Review, Medium and outofthegutteronline.com. Still buzzed by a recent Pushcart nomination, she's toying with writing a novel but concerned about the limits of her own attention span. Feel free to stalk her on Facebook (Morgana MacLeod) and Twitter @morganamacleod. ** Swept Away Swim I swim in current swirls each day sunrise smiles upon great glacier ribbed vertebrae to peaks – wind hewn ice art sculptured shapes above water- line icy water I turn and whirl chunk breaks off splash I see diminished shadows against sky white-blue ice a new tunnel They go explore new passage beneath beyond ribbed wall I’ve known dare I venture forth peer up precarious peak I fear groaning cracking swim I swim water warmer sink to cold depths will all glacier fall to ruin swept to sea where will I swim then? Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a poet who finds peacefulness in water, sitting by a lake, stream or ocean. She writes of nature but also conflict and challenge, such as bullying and animal rights. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science: Gerontology from UNH and works in-home with elderly. Her work appears in New Verse News, Misfit and The Ekphrastic Review, among other journals and in full length on Amazon. ** Why Be Blue? An ice giant lay down and deliquesced, the only thing remaining now a spine and iliac crest. Did he fight or did he acquiesce, his discs like zipper teeth, like columns in a line? He yielded to the warming earth and fell. Why fight against reordering, one’s elements cupped and shaken like jacks before scattering? Why be blue in the light, or why be blue at being blue? Taken as a whole, any time at all is good, any life, any being. So few are, you know. Slimming, meagering even more into the flood, he goes. Soon, he’ll disappear. Soon, I’ll follow. Perhaps he’ll, we’ll, leave some echo, a distant researcher will see it, and say, Oh! Devon Balwit Devon Balwit walks in all weather. Her most recent collections are Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2021]. https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet ** The Wall An icy mitre Rough-hewed above the Bishop’s gate A welcome breach In a fortress colonnade The peaceful waters; reflecting, rippling Foretell no storm nor ill Yet sail with caution should you venture there For, by the morning, it will be no more Yet, the camera Preserved its state for us to know And ponder what might stand in stead When next the morning comes John Pettett John Pettett has followed Caponigro's work for many years and is now interested in ekphrasis as well. ** Antarctic Blues glacial blue's the colour of deep penetrating cold, first absorbed through your vision then that biting chill you cannot forget – long before the snowflakes fall the frigid air freezes any exposed patch of skin in seconds. It's the sound of ice candling that I love - a crinkle-tinkle, bell-like music from shards with pillared crystal structures and the specific blueness Antarctica has a monopoly on. As we sailed onward the ice colonnades and archway appeared in front of our boat, like magic. And then we began to wonder what might be through there - it could be the entry to a yet undiscovered domain that breaks down the barriers of reality, because in this place your head can never trust your eyes, and much less so your heart. Emily Tee Author's note: this is a Golden Shovel poem based on the quotation “first you fall in love with Antarctica, and then it breaks your heart” attributed to Kim Stanley. In a Golden Shovel poem the last word of each line makes up the chosen phrase. Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she has recently started writing poetry. She has had several pieces published in Ekphrastic Review challenges and will have some others in print later this year with other publications. She lives in England. ** Orchestra at the End of the World Listen – the earth is gnawing her teeth. Don’t you hear? Splintering the ice. Can’t you hear her? Mellifluous mourning day and night. Listen – the earth is crying jagged tears. Don’t you hear? Symphony of blues. Can’t you hear her? Depths of melancholy to drown in. Listen – the earth is screaming, writhing in pain. Don’t you hear? Monstrous movement. Can’t you hear her? Darkness spilling from her jaws. Listen – the earth is asking, a question over and over. Don’t you hear? Pleading, pleading. Can’t you hear her? Waiting on an answer, fading, fading... Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán is a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland. Her poems have appeared previously in The Ekphrastic Review and on the latest episode of the TERcets podcast. Her work has also appeared in The Honest Ulsterman, Drawn to the Light Press, The Poetry Village, The Trouvaille Review, The Waxed Lemon and more. She is currently working towards her first collection, distracted by cats and coffee. ** Berg Again The blue/white sea dragon stills on the inky surface of its habitat, but above and below are meaningless. Timeless. The picture it makes could be of anything, all things, as the creature that exists in this moment cedes itself, incrementally, to the heat of our glances, the heat thrown off by humanity wandering ignorant of its very existence. Its exquisite form, monolithic as it is, is temporary, The neck arches over the water without a keystone, snout in the distance resting. The undulating scales of its shadowy flank, age like Grecian columns. The bulk of it is hidden, like a sleeping volcano, feet perhaps seeking the very core of the planet. One day it will be something else, and further ahead, like all of us, it will become what it was, its constituent parts, molecules floating in the dark, waiting upon ripples of gravitational forces, preparing to become, once more. Rebecca Dempsey Rebecca Dempsey’s recent work has featured in Shot Glass Journal, Ink Pantry and Elsewhere Journal. Rebecca lives in Melbourne, Australia, and can be found at WritingBec.com ** Letter to the Heart of a Man who Still Mourns a Revoked Future I can love you better than she can, can chip and chisel the pockets of cornflower into ice blue. Something shipwrecked in this mirage of dark water—a queen with her king, their castle not too far behind them? And maybe it’s foot soldiers beside them? “Or maybe they’re ghosts,” you seethe. With all the fluting and fillets of your heart, I still can love you. Better than she can, I can drown and never run empty. Storm your storm clouds and I’ll fit you into every ripple of me. Build a distant archway and I’ll tongue what little salt there is into atrium. Ahja Fox Footnote: In architecture, an atrium is a large open-air or skylight-covered space surrounded by a building. Atria were a common feature in Ancient Roman dwellings, providing light and ventilation to the interior. Wikipedia 2. An atrium is a chamber of the heart that receives blood from the veins and forces it by muscular contraction into a ventricle. Ahja Fox is a Colorado native who has editorial, hosting, and teaching experience through Art of Storytelling, Poetix University, Copper Nickel, and Homology Lit. She has been published in various online and print journals like Five:2:One, LEVELER, Driftwood Press, Okay Donkey, SWWIM and more (including various anthologies). Nominated by several journals for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize, Ahja has finally gotten up the nerve to draft two poetry manuscripts. ** mama calved growlers & bergy bits borne of polar ice covert ship wreckers stealthy as love Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith is a writer in Montreal, Canada. ** Lot’s Wife The story of looking back is a long one. Here, ice. Ice in the shape of your once-woman’s face. Your face is looking back, hair a cascade of frozen shape. Ice like cats’ mouths dipped, or pillars from some lost city. Water the colour of dreams and beneath, your body, eroded by salt and water. The stories of fleeing are long too, painful and happening – In flight, your man ahead, you look up for a moment to the darkening sky, drop, at your feet, the last loaf of bread, which you grabbed, wrapped in paper, shoved in your bag as you ran out of the house, everything else left – hairbrush, his good shoes, your wedding portrait – and up the hill and away. Over time, salt becomes ice, the sharp edges of your dark hair soften, cheekbones more chiseled by wind. Shadows blue in the shade. What was land is now water and ice now water as humans flee the world they have meted out. The story of looking back – Did you look back, she asks herself again, her thoughts clouds, cold, a loose knot, and mist. Or did you merely stop, bend to retrieve the bread, let your hair fall forward. You know, she tells herself, as she replays the moment again and again, sees her own eyes slide through the veil of hair to look at tortured bodies, the fine pillars of the city become bone and ice. You looked and as you flung your hair aside to hide your looking, became solid, granular, blood unmade, a pillar. Thoughts ripple through her, her body and hair merge to water. She knows there is little left of her or the city. Pillars that will melt in this great human reckoning. Iced canopy of hair frozen to the deep, the deep flawed and breaking. Yvonne Blomer Yvonne Blomer (she/her) lives in Victoria, BC on Lək̓ʷəŋən territory. The Last Show on Earth, her fifth book of poetry was published with Caitlin Press in 2022. She was Victoria’s fourth poet laureate. www.yvonneblomer.com ** Endgame She will never speak again. As the light fades, she juts her chin forward sphinx-like, glares out of the window at the gathering night. Her daughters attempt to plump up her crumpled pillow; she lashes out without warning, then freezes, gasps; a slow, shallow sigh. They look on, feeling helpless, desperate to act; whispering to her, they recall their summers of sea pinks and cockles when she would lead them from the farm, down the field to the shore for a picnic; those times when they paddled at high tide. Out of their phones, they summon a pale, monochrome image: sandcastles, buckets, spades, seaweed, seagulls, mud flats, wet feet. In this picture, they are squinting; the sun must have been in their eyes though she is laughing as she holds onto them; they lean towards her, grinning. She stirs in the bed, glances at the photo; her fingers start to scratch and pick at scabs, pinch loose skin; she scowls, pulling at her nightdress. They stroke her hand; it is paper-thin, ice-cube cold. She tugs herself free, makes a weak fist, shifts her body to face the darkening sky, senses waves crashing over her…. In silence, they wait. Dorothy Burrows Based in the United Kingdom, Dorothy Burrows enjoys writing flash fiction, short plays and poetry. Her fiction has been published in various journals, including The Ekphrastic Review. She tweets: @rambling_dot ** Frustration In one life, I am waking to the dull ebb & flow of time, dragging my fingertips along the evenly corrugated walls in a heat-less home. In another, the sky thunders w/ promise & a roiling wind buffets each balustrade of my own making w/ lust, envy & artistry. I am awake & I am dreaming. I suppose I am alive. The floor is littered w/ chances & I’ll let myself drown before I walk through that door. Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum is a writer and teacher from Wasilla, Alaska. She currently serves as CEO of Red Sweater Press, President of Alaska Writers Guild, and Editor-in-Chief of The Poets' Touchstone, a publication of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. Learn more about her and read more of her work at caitbuxbaum.com. ** Antarctica, Awakening I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice. “The Wild Iris” by Louise Gluck I’ve been numb so long buried beneath a terrible weight lost to myself scoured simple as the moon * sensations nearly imperceptible a wash of warmth * shifts meltwater this white shroud frays I slough sheets of ice into the black sea * something trembles cracks a glacier slips my shoulder snow rosy with algae I remember a green time leafy shadows rain Marion Starling Boyer Marion Starling Boyer’s Antarctica poems are from Ice Hours, selected by Carol V. Davis for the 2021 Wheelbarrow Books Poetry Prize and is forthcoming from Michigan State University Press. Boyer is the author of four other poetry collections. A professor emeritus for Kalamazoo Valley Community College, Boyer lives in Twinsburg, Ohio and leads workshops for Lit Cleveland and Lit Youngstown. ** One Day It was the hot pink in apricot, Orange in lemongrass and The glacier in turquoise, Colors that mixed into the flowers As I lay in the yard behind the porch, No longer in my dream. The darkness was fading- Entering the hole, a magical abode Of families together again, Of scars cleaned, miseries forgotten. The tides that once were higher than my reach, Now settled to a peaceful stream, pristine. The time was turning immortal- Seagulls collecting from near and afar Gliding on the waters, Arriving at the shore like a plane on the sea. The cherry blossoms in wait, all the way To a sudden secret's tree. 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. ** Departure's Girlfriend
"Down to my boat, my boat To see it off, and glad at the thought." W.S. Merwin, Departure's Girlfriend "Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice..." Robert Frost, Fire and Ice "...the poem [Fire and Ice] is a compression of Dante's Inferno...like the downward funnel of the rings of hell." John N. Serio "Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain I've seen sunny days I thought would never end I've seen lonely times I could not find a friend But I always thought I'd see you, Baby One more time again --" James Taylor, Fire and Rain The figures were frozen in a dream, statue-like the woman with her arms raised, reaching out to the man who already has one foot off the pier, on the steps -- the gang plank -- leading to a boat that would take him from the ancient world of fiction to the perplexing reality of contemporary non-fiction, illustrated by faces that could be altered, digitally, for Facebook if the story they were living had to be discontinued because things never went the right way for Departure's Girlfriend, whose anonymous identity had been doubled by an invisible twin who gives ridiculous advice -- the devil made her do it, he supposed -- sitting on his shoulder opposite the Angel who always dressed in italics for poetry, Departure's conversations with his Girlfriend when she's fictional. Non-fiction was expensive. He'd gone over budget for trips and equipment and when he'd reached out, filled with longing to the empty side of his lonely hotel bed, he heard the Devil whispering C'mon Baby, Light my fire! He assumed it was his campfire on the night they couldn't communicate by cell phone after an argument; the night he'd heard the serpent-hiss of history, and froze in fear as a black adder -- gold-gilded by his flashlight -- had wrapped its coils around his backpack in memory of Cleopatra, a statuesque shadow standing in the Greco-Roman doorway of a palace as he, a voice in his own future, tried to price boat tickets to Paradise Bay and Harbor.... Was it a dream to wake up to the ice-blue beauty of ice, fallen, a if from heaven in the shape of an archway? To see how nature, as silent as the air in Antarctica had frozen a piece of the sky, a spiritual space where one might pray or marry blue as ice torn from the hem of Madonna's robe; and blue as the eyes of Departure's Girlfriend, reflecting the ocean, filled with light when she saw him. If the ice were transformed to rock and stone by some magical act of earthly wizardry she might be waiting for him under Darwin's Arch; or become The Morrigu a tri-partite goddess, walking across the Irish Sea to Scotland's Highlands on The Giant's Causeway if she thought to leave him for the famous Finn McCool. She knew her dear Departure had never sailed away by chance because the world needed sudden fiction -- fast -- before the ice was melted by their passion. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp, often honoured by the Ekphrastic Challenges, has begun to recognize the names of others who appear, regularly, in The Ekphrastic Review. Her recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, shows, as do Caponigro's dual photographs of Antarctica, Dreaming, and Waking, how closely related are fiction and non-fiction in the artist's creative imagination. Her character, "Departure," from W.S. Merwin's poem, "Departure's Girlfriend," has made other appearances in her poetry. Once her companion in South America, this is Departure's first trip to Antarctica. ** Frigid you look different in slumber the frigid peacefulness as you rise from the ripples you rise and offer passage i see you as you were i see you as you are i see you as you are seen a gateway empty waiting for me to choose perception cold reality refreshing true neither existing without the other Sophia Ferello Sophia Ferello is a college student from Massachusetts, writing for fun while they work to attain their Bachelor's in Culinary Arts. They have never been published before, but they have been writing since they were very young and are excited to finally put their work out into the world. ** Silent Write Quiet is the night at 2:00 AM Its silence thick like jam rolling off a knife Here at my desk, by grace of chance, I sit and write… looking out black window panes in North America- no bombs in air Rise and fall, rise and fall, my breath and pen the only movement here. On another Continent men make munitions smear across the sky Flames disintegrating homes and dreams in a land of bread and music Forever silenced: mother’s voices crumble underneath burned buildings falling walls and windows Children left alone to scream in war raged bloodied streets. And then there is Antarctica… Palatial with the sun’s slow six- month rise Waking to peaceful glorious blues that sparkle in architectural patience of ice Millennia serenity…as ancient and scrolled as acanthus leaves Magnificent because here, here on this Continent no man formally resides. Susan Tenney Susan Tenney is an Award-winning director and choreographer who loves to write poetry. Her ekphrastic poem Saturday Morning Thoughts at Your Doorway Watching You Sleep was chosen by The Poet's Corner in November 2021 for their Poetry in Motion collaboration with the Page Gallery of Camden Maine and her poem Elegy for T. for their event Love Unmasked in February 2021. She recently completed her first Chapbook: Objects and Other Living Things. ** Ice That Dreamed of Life As Soil (to John Paul Caponigro Regarding Antarctica Dreaming) Illusion formed to dupe the eye of intellect it leads awry, is image, though of sight unseen, you've wrought as ruse that you convene, though artificial, still as art of "is" and "isn't" to impart suggestion that the truth might lie somewhere between "Why not?" and "Why?" essential to our science quest and to our faith that fear would wrest and to the arts that mark our trail both as the pleasure and travail of moments that are left enshrined for those ahead by those behind like ice that dreamed of life as soil where limb and leaf could root and moil. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment... Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** This Shifting Planet Time stands to attention, poised at the foot of a Titan, its hands moving over the frozen lungs of an ancient land mass with the wheeze and rasp of the dying. I cover my eyes blindly, seared by the glacial weight of ice, its opal sheen pulsing in ribbles stained with the gloss of crackled-glaze, a ceramic, freshly cooled from kiln. For eons balance has hung solid in the cyan air its breath of cut crystal a warning before Earth’s underbelly felt its spine slacken, buckle under the sheer mass of it melting, retreating, leaving snakes of silt in its gravelled wake to reveal a single feeble reed its voice a whimper as the planet shifts. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and has been passionate about poetry since childhood. Her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The Poetry Village, Words for the Wild, Poetry on the Lake, Alchemy Spoon, Dreich, The Poet and Fly on the Wall. She has had poems in two Scottish Writers Centre chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlet A Spark in the Darkness is due to be published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12p ** The Fateful Tale of Capt. Robert Falcon Scott, RN --conjured by the art of John Paul Caponigro: Antarctica Waking / Dreaming Twin photos, blue as the Antarctic Sea, as if a Greco-Roman architect designed, awake or dreaming, what we see. They brought to mind how Nature tossed and wrecked adventurers, as if a toss of dice. The quest for glory was its own defect. Dante knew that Hell is cased in ice, as cold would kill a frozen man and dog. Even ships were shattered in this vice. We have their charts and finely scripted log for places where a misstep or a fall would blanket with a trace-erasing fog. On Exeter Cathedral's silent wall the sister placed the sledging flag of Scott who died in one last gamble for it all. to do not what he willed but what he ought, while guessing how this fatal trek might close, barely failing at the goal he sought. Will we freeze to death or mount a pyre, a poet asked; but when each breath just froze, did he still think his world would end in fire? R.W.Rhodes R.W.Rhodes taught global religions for many years at Kenyon College. His poetry and translations have appeared in a number of literary journals, online and in print. While visiting Exeter Cathedral in England, he saw the sledging flag from Capt. Robert Falcon Scott's first exploration of the Antarctic. The photo and digitally altered twin of Antarctic ice done by John Paul Caponigro, opened up dream-like memories of that experience for him.  Young Boy Feeding Rabbits, by John Bradley (USA, b. England) 1831 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 Young Boy Feeding Rabbits, by John Bradley. Deadline is April 29, 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 BRADLEY 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 29, 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. Editor's Note: This was painful. It often is, choosing a few from many. But on the occasion of the gorgeous artwork by a consistently participating and popular challenge poet, we had heartfelt, personal work meant to honour the art of our beloved Rose. I am thankful to all of you who entered. We went with a large selection but it was still tough to choose. We are grateful to every writer for sharing your gift of words with the world. As always, we strive to strike a balance between supporting regular participants, welcoming new ones, and showcasing different perspectives and readings of the artwork itself. This is not an easy task! In this case, Rose sent me her own poem about her artwork, and it seemed only fitting to me to show it first, followed by some of your entries. Thank you all. ** Phoenix From the ashes Phoenix rises. From defeat, strength unfolds its wings. There is power in forgiveness, growth through inclusion, witch-magic in rebirth. And Phoenix does not rise unarmed, she is prepared to fend off any new ambush, soaring into the evening sky like a griffin on the way to the end of the known earth. Proud, relentless, only the heart vulnerable, the intention is noble, the outcome guaranteed. From the ashes Phoenix rises. 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, will be published by Kelsay Books in July 2022. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/  Untitled, by Rose Mary Boehm (Peru, b. Germany) c. early 1980s Pinned Hooded chainmail feathered mantle wings spread pinifer needles extend owlish shape-shifter puffed to terrify serious stance captured prey faceless aggression tantamount to her survival pinned for eternity needled to art tapestry frozen in time vesuvian aviary Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a poet who addresses bullying, animal rights, environment and dabbles in Ekphrastic poetry. Her poems appear in New Verse News, Misfit and The Ekphrastic Review as well as other journals and in full length on Amazon. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science: Gerontology and works in-home with seniors. She is a past poetry board member, guest editor to two journals and shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and JoJo. ** Freedom Heart wings pulse, beat every breath a rhythm. Whispers scratch, cling as cobwebbed veils trace prey and paths divert like the mighty eagle spreads its wings and soars. The maiden in her bower proclaims shaded victory bright eye aflame she observes as furtive dance evolves and prods gilded futile lives to become to be known to be free. Jane Lang Jane Lang’s work has appeared in online publications including Quill and Parchment, the Avocet, Creative Inspirations, The Ekphrastic Review, and has been published in several anthologies. She has authored two chap books and lives in the Pacific Northwest. ** The First Place Mail coif of feathers and needle-thin primaries. Webs along with birds and humans and their rehearsed unaffected faces in the event that there is not a war. Hovering is acceptable. Standing is not possible. Face impassive one half covered in mail coif the other half covered by nothing except the elements and the enemies. Perhaps one day the uncovered side will break the law that allows only certain movements and comments; unlikely though it might be possible. One option is hovering full-bore soaring – you will recall standing is illegal. Being held is not illegal. This aided Jimmy immensely in removing its armor. It would land on his open hand gracefully. He'd cup his hands and it would settle in for a quiet, sensitive nap. Sleep needs. I just watched careful to never raise a ruckus. Most of these were rarely glimpsed interlaced manifestations. One night I came to believe in them and one dragged a tail of feathered light by me so fast I think I saw it. So excited I told no one. War came. In the first place there was no surprise involved. In the first place we did what we thought we were supposed to do. This is what preparation is always for. I should tell you here that my lacey friends are able to fly in any direction being as adept forward as backward. Their primaries only look fragile. Sharper than any razor stronger than the strongest tempered steel. Nothing delicate about them aside from their desire to remind us of something we cannot quite pinpoint. The navigator recognized the entrance to hell. Its signal was green. As soon as he and his crew were in they started a campfire. Its signal was green. In the first place they celebrated with dance and seemingly improvised song. Celebrating the light they imagined would return. If it had ever been there in the first place. Maiden voyage next time we will not return, not without the first place. John L. Stanizzi John L. Stanizzi authored eleven collections - Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide/Ebb Tide, Chants, Four Bits, Sundowning, POND, and The Tree That Lights the Way Home. He is widely published, and besides Ekphrastic Review, he has published in Prairie Schooner, American Life In Poetry, New York Quarterly, Cortland Review, Poet Lore, Italian Americana, and many others. His translations appear widely in Italy. His nonfiction has been published in Literature and Belief, Stone Coast Review, Ovunque Siamo, Evening Street, Potato Soup Journal, after the pause, and others. Potato Soup Journal named his story Pants “The Best of 2020” and it appeared in their “Best of…” anthlogy for 2020. A former New England Poet of the Year, John received a Fellowship in 2021 from Connecticut Office of the Arts. Lives in Coventry, CT., with his wife, Carol. https://johnlstanizzi.com ** The Phantom Bird A songless fledgling in a ghostly garden, as if a drawing made with x-ray lines, emerges out of shadows bound by dreams. This is the darkened wood in which it hovers, interstices of night between the trees, whose leaves are feathers so precisely splayed, And here a woman who remembers this. Her breath and pauses punctuate these words, telling many tales of silences. Her unseen arms are arched above her skull. She tips her mask-like face to that slow fan, descending overhead -- the shuddering -- a solemn touch of slowly flexing wings. O wonder, when she sees they are her own. R.W. Rhodes R.W. Rhodes is a retired professor of global religions. His poetry has appeared in various journals: The Montreal Review, Better Than Starbucks, and Halcyon Days, among other publications. He was the third-place winner of the 2022 Society of Classical Poets Translation Competition. He is the collaborator for an art/poetry exhibition, Specimens and Reflections, that will take place in September at Fairfield University Gallery. ** False Flight I had two wings, Yours were larger. Kept me from things, Made life harder. I thought I’d soar, I slowly crashed. My eyes were yours, Fears swiftly stashed. I could not move, Doubt smothered me. Greatness to prove, So high the fee. Lines firmly drawn, Time wept release. Somewhere a dawn, Somewhere my peace. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living in New England. She self-published the children’s book, Come Along and Dream, several years ago and has been writing poetry since childhood. ** Supreme Being Fractured face-- Phoenix rising First of your kind In beauty unsurpassed What fire bent to your purification What shadow of deliverance among the ashes Arrived in recent decades burning scent Hot tongs spent in renewal And marked by a new sunrise Up, up-- You rise supreme Carole Mertz Carole Mertz, author of Color and Line (Kelsay Books) writes in Parma, Ohio. A recent poem on a migraine brought her a Pushcart Prize nomination. Carole reads (in poetry) for Kallisto Gaia Press and the Julia Darling Prize. ** Gift of a Dream From the unbroken darkness a mile or two below my waking thoughts the feathers of the dream angel drift upward spiraling in a thermal and gathering into the shape of a woman running against clouds of newspaper sailing down the sidewalk. She stumbles into my arms, her eyes amethyst, her hair bound with a black cloth, her hands holding my shoulders as she pulls me into her arms in a green rowboat, water spilling over the gunwales, trying to swallow us as we cling to each other, to our breathy whispers, deep kisses, and tears. Malcolm Glass Malcolm Glass has written and published poems and stories in many journals and reviews for the past sixty-five years. His thirteenth book, Mirrors, Myths, and Dreams, a collection of poems, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2018. ** Tankas My lover, lover, there’s feathers above my head. One eye is open. My unmasked face wants you but half is shaded. ** When I paint violet, the canvas is an angel. The hopeful couples have never seen dreams my way, have never seen snow dust wings. 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 Naugatuck River Review, Panoply, 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. ** She Was Once a Bird A girl is born With sparse mousy-brown feathers, Laughing eyes, a secret charisma Born as sacrifice to the Gods Of domestic terrorisim A Wren, she used to be Kicked from the nest too early When the mother-love couldn’t stretch Across eight squawking nestlings The one terrorized, stuck to the side, Was pushed out, flipping, stumbling, then realizing An awkward flight, fraught with love and terror. She was a bird, nevertheless, and meant to fly Yet she flitted, searching for something warm She used to know, burrowed into her brothers And sisters, content and covered, anonymous The noticing rendered her real, and disposable Immediately perceived as wasting too much space Released from comfort and captivity She used her wings only sparingly- Not wanting to wear them out like so many Other welcomes. Free things intrigued her: blackberries, night sonnets, Shiny glass, clean water in concrete baths, Abandoned domiciles, suet and seeds When surprising new plumage appeared, she preened Puffing out her tiny chest, she attracted attention Such a light-boned, creature, chattering to herself A singular man honed in, startling her stock-still He hovered over her body, stiff on a branch, and wished. Unfamiliar appendages began to sprout: Wings into half- arms, lengthened, thickened legs, a widened head Hands, ears, larger soft brown eyes, a huge heart Wrapped in a soft suburban blanket She soon forgot the joy of effortless flight- Disremembered the enormous freedom of climbing white sky She hid shiny things only she could retrieve Feathered her nest, waiting and wondering: Would her daughters inherit wings? Debbie Walker-Lass 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, Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Universe, 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. ** A Mythical Creature of Unknown Power When the prowling starts, I swoosh Cassie onto my shoulders and we lace fingers into wings. We are a mythical creature of unknown power. As the creature’s head, Cassie must stoop a little under the lintel, and as the creature’s body I must hip the door shut on its latch as we fly from the monster to our magical underground realm. Back before our little family realised it was lacking a Cassie, Mum mosaicked the basement walls for me with leftover paints trollied round by Fiona, our favourite neighbour. Dad used to say we’d struck gold with Fiona. Mum would just smile in that way she had, like she knew a whole lot more than she needed to say. In the evenings, I’d anticipate her key in the front door. Leg it up the rubber-edged steps to waylay her. We anticipate different things now, Cassie and me. We become moths avoiding light when the air starts tasting bitter. Beyond our whispers, we can hear the empty waltz of Mum’s yellow rocking chair in the kitchen. A bottle rolls overhead, garbling its hollow rhythm, and from its sticky-sweet mouth I picture the last spits of poison dulling to oblivion. Cassie wiggles her drawing at me. It’s us, our rainbow wings outstretched behind a tiny, shuttered house. “When proper Daddy comes back I’m gonna give him this picture,” she says, and her feather-thumb goes to her mouth the way it does when he’s reading her a story, pyjama-snuggled and leaning in to every sober word. Outside the house our old red truck hovers, fresh with fat tyres. A tall, smiling man waves from behind a giant steering wheel. Sad-Monster-Daddy is tired now. My chest vibrates to his three-up-two-down stumbles on the stairs above, rousing the truth-genie I keep corked up inside. I drum my hooves on the vinyl floor. “Wanna fly up and get some cocoa before bed?” Cassie nods and raises her arms. I swear she’s growing bigger and heavier by the hour. Nearly too heavy for mythical flight. After cocoa I’ll heave the bottle bin to the end of the alley for its fortnightly pick up, past Fiona’s back door. The light from her art studio a glowing invitation. For now, though, we wheel and swoop. While upstairs’ snores begin to fade, like the closing beats of a secret countdown. 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. ** Filaments When God became His life begun, from filaments He had it spun in saline depths forever dark where He alone could be the spark unseen that would begin design of threads that weave to redefine and slowly rise to seek the light as ecosystem day and night of tiny forms to swarm the seas at first and then the lift of breeze to spiral skyward free from brine then fall to land and realign as fertile germ forevermore the means to thrive and wings to soar of life enlarging both ashore and in the blue from brim to floor creating likeness slowly drawn that filaments were moved to spawn. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment... Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Kashmir I live split. My head laced. Two sisters in their struck Memory. From the round Table. Knight at the Ark. Ark Angel: She shall appear self-strange Her wings, static of The sky raised. Angelic light should permeate her. Autodidactic, idiosyncratic, anathema. Some mythic beast, some mammory. From the pharmakon, chronological Anamnesis. Third eye, her bird throat Voice striated, in-describe Her blue eyes rimmed with kohl. On sight, try flight for the first time. Evangelical, ethereal, antimony. Healer, medicine girl-liquor Of the good kind, pawned Neptune Akhenaton off, doll where you go A concept all way cross my planet ‘n back to wade, Episcopalian Eyes scowls in gold lettering. Hypokaimenon- a material sub- Stratum, what grounds the field Goes under us ‘n goners? Sail as if this pulse Were punctuate, and yes She goes underground, ecstatic Plunge of sweet pine bristles. Steep hills in Kashmir valley Where the river runs glen dry Upstream fish-eyed, the whole Embrace of another inside healer Versed in psychiatry, Professional feeling The question, presentation, The approach, a practiced glance. Challenge, Jasper, why? Time- flash hands changing in the pan. If I ever washed them, a different river already Stuck out like serration- I rinsed Lank, walking forth to the good cold water And stood there, and like talus there was a ledge. I didn’t know where that ledge was. Jasper Glen Jasper Glen is a poet from Vancouver, Canada. His poetry appears in The Antonym and Island Writer Magazine. ** Atremble i Hold the white dove with both hands forming a bowl, fingers linked at the front. Feel the flutter of its heart aginst your fingers. It's more scared of you than you are of hurting it. Breathe. Relax. When the time comes release it with a gentle upward motion. It knows what to do. ii Have you ever held chainmail? Felt its cool smoothness, the metal heaviness? Links that flow like silvered satin. The weight of it pulls down on the head, sits heavy on brow, flows over your shoulders. Power. Responsibility. iii A full moon eye stares from half a face, the rest clouded, unreadable. Too much sadness. Only sibyls see what the future holds and they speak in Greek, peppering riddles. On hearing, hearts of warriors and doves tremble. Emily Tee Emily Tee spent her working life wrangling numbers. Now retired, she has recently started writing poetry. 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 England. ** I Used to Fly No predator I, without talons Nor piercing beak to capture prey but preyed upon By birders and other collectors. I used to fly with velveteen wings Now delicately skewered one feather at a time To faux velvet canvas under glass. I used to glide with radiant eyes Through jet streams in vast cobalt skies and starry nights Half sighted now and punctured through. I used to soar from wind swept plains Through forests to the timber line of mountain tops Majestic reverence no longer mine. Revered though still while on display Where passer-bys observe my splayed magnificence Soaring now in eyes’ imagination. Karen Fitzgerald ** Last Dream Perhaps you think you heard soft whispers in the parlor, light footsteps down the hall, the brush of sassafras scratching against bedroom windows in an hour when you no longer are consoled by silence-- music you can’t sleep through. In these restless midnight minutes cast in a silky backdrop, a chorus of angels sings Hallelujah while you try to learn their names on this late April evening. 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), Literary Yard (India), Nine Muses (Wales,) Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Ekphrastic Review (Canada), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** By Another Name In front of Smitty’s Bar on the beach yellowed by the wash over mudflats called a nicer name than the muck Mother used as a facial I remember the twist of her hips as she waded from one rippled expanse of sand to the next and rose out of depressions where oysters dwelled as her face dried in late morning and began to crack in lines from eyes and nose until they settled below her mouth. I never patched them with thread just let them stay at the tide’s reach as it made its way to steps that topped the bulkhead everyone called a different name but I held fast against the breach. 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. ** Firebrand Remembering Brünhilde, Njal & the Völsungs Poured evenly across a brass plate, a cobalt black layer of waxy resist vacuum sealed the surface, etching needle scratching artistic details among Viking runes; link upon link, rings linked with rings, drenched in ferric chloride, boiling water & baking soda flushed away the etchant, revealed a Rhine Maiden’s leather braces; scalds lionized Brünhilde’s fiercely fair power; brandishing a bright spear, the shield maiden spread & fanned wings like a golden eagle, steely swan feathers jutting outside divine armor. Covering & protecting the Valkyrie crown to collarbone, a chain mail coif forged on Midgard’s anvil, annealed with prudence, galvanized in patience, tempered by good judgement & distinguished favor ushered men like moths towards flames as she rode though stiff winds, scanning every still breeze in search of steeds unsaddled-- warriors fallen—choosing & guiding the slain into Valhalla’s all to brief hereafter spent boasting of battles, revisiting sagas—embellishing personal exploits--drinking & feasting until Ragnorök. 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. **  Antarctica Waking (unaltered photography), by John Paul Caponigro (USA) contemporary  Antarctica Dreaming (digitally altered version), by John Paul Caponigro (USA) contemporary We are excited to offer the photography of one of our readers and writers, John Paul Caponigro, for our challenge this week. John Paul Caponigro is an internationally collected visual artist and published author. He leads unique adventures in the wildest places on earth to help participants creatively make deeper connections with nature and themselves. View his TEDx and Google talks at johnpaulcaponigro.com. "I chose the twin images because they’re pivotal in dual series of images - one nonfiction and the other fiction. It was breath-taking when we saw it and that ice can look like Greco-Roman architecture still astonishes me. I’m writing about these images myself. That could set up an interesting hall of mirrors in our individual and collective memory palaces." John Paul Caponigro ** 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 Antarctica Waking/Antarctica Dreaming, by John Paul Caponigro. Deadline is April 15, 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 CAPONIGRO 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 15, 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. |
Challenges
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