​Inkspired

Languorous lie, less stretch as loose,   
acute, obtuse round island rug,    
a carpet fringe, frieze hieroglyphs -
by fall of things, a pattern type.
Though parallels do not conform,    
accoutrements of lazy life,
of physics serendipity,
here’s surreal to mark our ways.

See flex as spring, aerial view,  
curl fronds, though not acanthus, phew!
Framed heavy dark, yet flecks, grain, rain,
what midnight hour for fairy tail?
Of mermaid form, those weightless legs,
her limbs a tale of trailing lithe,
line crested spine of dorsal fins,
a stegosaurus costume break?

A piece of cake, this inkspired plate,
or is it pizza, box wide eyed?
Do snakes snack after jaws engorge?
No apple of that Eden’s eye.
Remote at hand if surf the strange,
defy the gravity of all,
break out the order of the day
to dream beyond the pre-set staid.

Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review.  He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
​
**
 
Relaxin’
 
Nothing so appealing than chillin’
and readin’ or watching the telly
‘bout dinos, my favorite beasties.
 
Wearin’ my spino pjs, sippin’ cocoa,
eatin’ pizza and ice cream, alone
in my cozy room on a rainy night,
 
thunder gives me a fright but I’m ok
warm and inside, if I were to see
a T-Rex, I’d hide or offer him pizza,
 
he might enjoy pepperoni and cheese,
you never know, it might please him
and he’d stomp off and leave me be.
 
Julie A. Dickson
 
Julie A. Dickson loves to write from prompts, especially Ekphrastic poems. Her long history of writing reaches back over 50 years; her poems appear in various publications including Niagara Falls Poetry Project, Medusa's Kitchen and The Ekphrastic Review. She has served as guest editor for three journals, as well as curating several volumes of poetry. Dickson is an avid reader and writer who shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo.
 
**
 
Itinerant
 
Dinosaurs don’t 
eat ice cream
or keep pet echidnas
in a cup - granted,
if they weren’t extinct, 
who knows if they’d
buy androids or 
a smartphone or 
order pizza in a box or
lie on rugs and watch
TV or
wallpaper the house
in prison stripes or
buy a sofa or
a creeping plant or
hang a set of Tibetan prayer flags
between the window
and the public toilet stall
called home.
 
Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman
 
Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia in traditional Yuin country, and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. 
 
**
 
A Late Night Encounter

Hello. Please, sit down and join me. I’m finally getting a chance to relax after an exhausting evening. I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Millie. I work here in the McCormick’s home.

The McCormick’s? No, they didn’t actually hire me. In fact, the mister and missus don’t believe the likes of me walk the earth.

Why, yes. Thank you for asking. Having them deny my very existence does hurt my feelings a bit. I mean, I work very hard at what I do, and I never get a single night off. They’ve been told – often several times in one evening – that I am here. And yet? Consistent denial on their part. But as you can obviously see, I do exist. I eat. I drink. I rest. I watch TV. And, of course, I work.

Do? Exactly what I’m on this earth to do. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Oh, you want specifics? What if I give you a demonstration instead? Here, lie down on this sofa. Hold this stuffed hedgehog. A little tighter. Now, dangle your right foot just a bit.

Do you feel yourself getting sleepy? Good! Good! Now, close your eyes while I turn off the light and scoot myself under here – ugh, tight fit. And grab your foot like so.

Ouch! I bonked my head due to your dreadful screaming.

My fault? You are the one who asked for the particulars.

No, of course I didn’t expect such antics. For goodness’ sake, please calm down. There is no need to carry on like that.

Oh bother. Now, look what you’ve done. All this noise woke the children. And I never got to finish my snack!

Ah well, as my mother always told me, an ‘under the bed’ monster’s job is never done.

Teri M Brown

Teri M Brown is a wife, mother, grandmother, Online for Authors podcast host, and author who loves word games, reading, bumming on the beach, taking photos, singing in the shower, hunting for bargains, ballroom dancing, playing bridge, and mentoring others. Teri’s debut novel, Sunflowers Beneath the Snow(Jan 2022), is a historical fiction set in Ukraine, her second, An Enemy Like Me (Jan 2023), a WWII historical fiction, and her third, Daughters of Green Mountain Gap (Jan 2024), is an Appalachian granny woman tale. Learn more at www.terimbrown.com. 

**

Superhero
 
Halloween, long past,
she can't bear to surrender
her cunning disguise,
 
cloaked in its magic
her legs are weightless
her gumption limitless
 
her force endless.
Go ahead, grab the remote, 
try to change the channel
 
but be warned
this dragon's superpowers
heighten with every
 
bite of pizza
slurp of cocoa
nibble of cookie,
 
who knows what can happen
with all three at once?
Prepare yourself to find out.
 
Elaine Sorrentino
 
An enthusiastic fan of ekphrasis, Elaine Sorrentino has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Writing in a Women’s Voice, The Poetry Porch, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Gyroscope Review, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Panoply, Etched Onyx Magazine, and at wildamorris.blogspot.com.  

**

Friday Night – 7pm
 
Stop.
Stretch out, lizard like.
Unearth the pleasure of the rerun, proudly
mouth words learnt by heart.
 
Disconnect.
Send your unapologetic apologies.
Ignore your digital self, desperate for attention and
let the phone battery die.
 
Savour.
Relish in that dreaded word: solitude.
Revel in the sight of it; the taste of it; the core of it.
Slowly exhale.
 
Stephanie White 
 
Stephanie White is a teacher from Nottingham, England. She has recently taken tentative steps into the writing and submission of poetry. When not indulging in writing, she is a regular wild swimmer.    
 
**
 
To Daphna Kato Regarding Snack
 
You've drawn a dream where you confide
illusion and the truth reside
and each within the other seen
becomes perspective you convene
 
to mesmerize beholding eye
that cannot help but wonder why
a bygone era went awry
as you in black and white imply
 
by walls that never seem to form
around a simpler joyous norm
now gone forever but for you
whose cleverness creates the view
 
you revel in as realm of queen
who draws what cannot be unseen.
 
Portly Bard
 
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.
 
**
 
Partygoer
 
I was all dressed up and ready to go!
The spiny snake had seemed a great idea,
it fitted my pricklier than a hedgehog mood
when I chose it yesterday.
 
I imagined myself slithering 
round the drinkers,
the canapé eaters
and the dancers,
snapping at their ankles.
I imagined their surprise
and how I would laugh!
 
I thought in passing
about the Health and Safety issues,
all those feet ready to trample me,
such negative thoughts, 
but they passed
slithered away 
like snakes in the grass.
 
I decided to practice a bit,
found some snacks to nibble
and lay prone to work on my slither
but somehow I became distracted
lying there, so comfy,
eating cake, so comforting,
and a little drink, so calming
when taken with mindless TV.
 
I’m not ready to party now.
I shall just lie here dreamily dreaming.
 
Lynn White
 
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today-competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com.
 
**
 
A Contemplative Crocodile
 
Her body and her mood lie unnaturally flat. Somehow she fits into her daughter's early-teen crocodile Oodie. It's tight at the seams but she's made it work. Her daughter has left it behind, along with Friday pizza and movie night.
 
The teeth on the crocodile Oodie are for show. Don't be fooled, they're only made of foam. She doesn't bite. She's just a little sad. No, more pensive than outright sad. You see, her daughter, an only child, has left home, again.
 
She lies on the rug her daughter brought home from Athens on her last trip. She can't relate to her daughter's wanderlust. She’s never traveled herself, not really. Family camping trips as a child don’t count, crammed in the back of the family station wagon with her annoying little brother and her ‘too cool for school’ big sister. Somehow, because she was the middle child, she always had to sit in the middle. And overseas trips? Forget it. She never had the money for that. ‘How do kids these days travel so freely?’ she ponders.
 
The steady rain has a ruminative effect with her big world thoughts laced with ‘woe is me’ on loop. The tub of gourmet ice cream is strategically placed within arm’s length and looks just the right suppleness, momentarily stealing her attention. Wild raspberry swirl. She takes a small spoonful. She knows she will devour the whole tub tonight, but she is patient. Frozen in time.
 
Adam Stone
 
Award winning lyricist from Australia who since 2023 has gravitated towards short story and flash fiction writing. Member of Writers Victoria, Geelong Writers Inc and Bellarine Writers.
 
**
 
A Brief History of the Rebellious Teenager
 
Post War- she slips out the back,
slips into a booth at the coffee bar
to the juke box, a cola in her hand
and a High School boy - his arm
carelessly snaking her waist
canoodling in corners of red PVC.
 
Mid-Sixties- she powders her face
in clouds of Dusty Springfield white,
spider-lashes clumped in black.
She stiletto-staggers along the road
to hang with rockers, leather-clad,
the cloy of engine oil alluring.
 
Skip forward in time- late 70s,
she bops to songs on Top of the Pops,
arguments play loop on loop
as she flounces from rooms
in platforms and flares to the club,
where Travolta clones strut their stuff.
 
Millennium just around the corner
she needles and nags until at last
her mother caves, buys tickets to gigs-
Steps and The Spice Girls at the O2
all grown up, swigging white lightning
and puffing on fags with her clique.
 
She slips into Lockdown all flame-fizz,
emerges like flat-pack, black and white.
Pizza-box grease lolls on the floor,
she drinks Netflix through a cable-straw
and scrolls the world with iPhone eyes,
the occasional flash of dragon fire.

Kate Young

Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and Chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk
 
**
 
When the Whole World Wears a Costume

Late June night, on your living room floor,
slatted white, and each moment
in dinosaur outfit is not a failure
and the tasseled carpet talks cheap:
I’m the Captain of fun, honeybun.
You see the cliff marks of the present
dressed up as an ice cream globule--
all creamy soft and wavy. What hums
the glow of bare light bulbs
dangling from the ceiling slants
the lighting, or buzzes the camped-out 
horizon above the pepperoni pizza slices 
and the plants with spindly, dark vines. 
They breathe what oxygen is 
here, behind the TV animal-like, 
or beside the baby porcupine staring 
from a striped cup as if puzzled while
asking, “Why are you home this 
often?” Here, a cup might house
your animal delight richly, weighing
down passages of ever-clear sanity
or did sanity take root twelve hundred
miles from here on Waldorf Drive
in Akron, Ohio where the backyard 
black cherry tree canopied seven 
good years with you quaffing tire-scented 
air and burnt leaves. Home to grass-bladed
tents to hide bumble bees which don
summer as stinging crimson. Memory 
doesn’t voice how many miles anymore. 
Open the future behind you in a black drawer.
 
John Milkereit
 
John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues editions of The Ekphrastic Review. In December, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover.
 
**
 
A Letter to the Past
 
The scent of cheese, the aroma of ketchup pervades the air, invades my
nostrils. I’m too hungry to peel off the tight costume that sticks to
my skin. So, I turn off the distracting glare of television and
settle down on the Persian rug. The delivery guy had said my order was
straight from the oven. He was not wrong. The steam does a sprightly
dance as I uncover the pizza and the cookies. I feel the crust of each
bite on my tongue, the tanginess of olives, the spice of paprika and
jalapeños, the crunch of the onions, the bell peppers, the cherry
tomatoes travelling down my throat and into the cave of my ravenous
stomach. The pair of incandescent bulbs overhead shine through the
night’s song of darkness. The festoon of sepia-tinted photographs
oscillates gently against the wooden wall slats, in tune to the rhythm
of the rain’s pitter-patter. Your gift of love, Rancho, watches me
from his coffee-mug perch while I recline in crocodile pose, stretch,
reach out to comfort in the warm cocoon of this moment.
 
Preeth Ganapathy
 
Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published in several magazines such as Star 82 Review, Panoply Zine, Visual Verse, Quill & Parchment, Shotglass Journal, Sparks of Calliope, Tiger Moth Review, The Sunlight Press, Ink, Sweat & Tears and various other journals. Her microchaps A Single Moment and Purple have been published by Origami Poems Project.
 
**
 
How to Snack with a Dragon

Black scaled dragon lying in its lair
stretched out - relaxed - surrounded by its treasures
the business of cleaning its hoard complete
now time for a snack at its leisure
its sharpened the spines on its back
all the way from its head to the tip of its tail
now it’s time for a dragon to relax
so approach it as slowly as a snail
or quiet as a mouse if that suits you best
it’s a risk like crossing the Rubicon
stealth is the test to not rouse the beast
be on your mettle from minute one
and don’t expect a share of its Snackage
a dragon is as protective of this as its trove
it has a monster-appetite for pie and ice cream
better to be prepared by taking your own
it takes up a lot of space as it lays there
it’s back legs stretched almost to the door
step cautiously and avoid all the obstacles
then wait to be invited to sit on the floor
don’t show that you’re scared or nervous
when it looks you in the eye look right back
only speak when spoken to and with these rules
you’ll avoid being its next favourite snack!
Better to not meet a dragon when it’s hangry
if it rumbles and grumbles it’s not a perfect storm
let it have its snack on its favourite treats
and it might turn back into its more reasonable human-teenage form!

Peter R. Longden

"My passion for poetry began over 25 years ago: my way to record how I see the world. I am married to Sally with two grown-up boys (and a granddaughter). I submit to competitions, one poem shortlisted for the International O'Bheal Five Words Poetry Competition in 2022, others published locally."

**
 
Saturday Night Dreaming
 
Watching my snack
In front of the telly
Wearing my dino
Flat on my belly
Perfectly happy
Perfectly me
I
spy with my little eye
A soap unseen
My private dream
 
Stien Pijp
 
Stien Pijp lives in the east part of the Netherlands. Some years ago she and her family moved there to a house in the woods. As a dreamy urban person, comfortable with the rhythm of the city, she is now getting closer to nature every day. She works as a language therapist. She reads stories and poems of friends and sometimes writes herself.
 
**
 
Cookie Dough and Tic-Tac-toe
 
the X’s the O’s the hash and the tags #
the sweat the blood the stain and the tears `` 
  
drip
drip 
drip
 
in the center, the core, the heart. 
my heart, to be exact.
which was somewhere near austin by now. 
or at least traces of it settled there in his pockets 
dusting up against his thighs 
wrestling with his keys 
and whispering
why.
 
i lost the Tic the Tac and the Toe. 
all the Xs and every O. 
he loves me. he loves me not.
pigtails and schoolyards and kissing in a tree. 
he carved our initials with a plus +plus +plus 
and an arrow —> right through it. 
 
he bled me, gut me, drained me. 
he sliced open my arms
milked my veins
sucked out the red 
licked the last drop 
and fled.
 
but left the black Xs instead. 
 
left the black to the sheep to the gin to the wig.
left the black to the man to the john to the cash.
left the black to the A to the D to the C.
left the black to the horse to the cherry to the tree
and left me.
 
left the black of the mug of the hedge of the hog.
left the black of the rain of the love of the blind.
left the black of the za of the box of the stripes.
left the black of the spikes of the footed of the jams.
  
stamped inky fingerprints on my belly and 
planted charcoal-stained kisses on my neck. 
tattooed graffiti on my breath for me to choke 
on the stench and all the rest.
 
ring around the rosie
he left the hell the hath and 
first comes love then comes 
all the FuRyyy!
ashes ashes we all fall
 
down
 
black marker winged out the window, where the 
caw caw caw of the crow drowned out crowded 
house on the radio. don’t dream it’s over, they sang.  
 
oh, it’s over, i grrrowled. and crawled out from under 
my bed 
 
left the black of the night of the wild of the things.
left the black of the horns of the claws of the teeth.
left the black of the king of the crown of the carol. 
left the black of the tin of the foil of hat (-wearing)
tornado-ripping t-rex sized terrible things 
we do for love in tomorrow’s trash. 
 
gathered the O’s grabbed a spoon and gobbled
down a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough.
 
Michelle Hoover

Michelle Hoover is an aspiring poet, graduate student, and professional wiseacre. Living near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her ornery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow, she loves how language, when constructed in unique, beautiful, and even dark ways, can become an elixir for tired souls. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, on her phone, her friends’ phones, and now, presumably, your phone; enjoy!

**
 
Curiouser
 
When Mr. Prickles
popped up 
from the cup
 
he huffed
as hedgehogs
are wont to do
 
it's late
it's late
for canton tea
& crumb pets
 
Alas
sighed Alice
with her siamese smile
I have
but a slice 
of peyote pie
& 
wee droops
of shroom tea
 
oh dear
oh dear
gruffed Mr P 
but 
that wouldn't dew 
nicely
 
Donna-Lee Smith 
 
Donna-Lee Smith writes at times from an off-grid cabin in Quebec where she communes with the loons and bathes in the moonlight.
 
**
 
Witch’s Night In
 
the wind howling / this potent night / you want to walk out in it / do a rain dance / but it’s chilly wet / and you remember how / you frightened your neighbour / the last time /
 
so you stay in / play dress up / eat ice cream / ignore the phone / watch a paranormal thriller / you already know who did it / your familiar beside you / ensconced in / a glimmer of togetherness / 
 
your space made sacred / the comforting pelt of rain / surrounding / your haven womb home / small but perfect / 
 
your creeper plants wave at you / as you try and glean / creepy guy’s next move / damn this series is good / so is your life / 
 
Nina Nazir
 
Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, artist and avid multi-potentialite based in Birmingham, UK.  She's had work published in various journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Unlost Journal to name a few. You can usually find her with her nose in a book, writing in her local favourite café, or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir and X (Twitter): @NusraNazir.  She blogs regularly at https://sunrarainz.wordpress.com


**
 
The Best Day
 
Today I made the best day…maybe not the best day of my life, but it was up there as one I’ll remember. Every hour was filled with my favorite things. I lounged in the grass to watch the clouds transform into shapes and created stories for them. I let the warm sun bake my skin. I ate hot dogs and macaroni and cheese for lunch. I blasted boy band music and screeched every lyric until my neighbor rattled my apartment door with an irritated fist. When I opened the door, I stared into his purple face and told him that I listen to no man. It was exhilarating. The color of his face inspired me to paint the walls of my bedroom fuchsia. As a final touch, I stuck plastic glowing stars above my bed.
 
When the fluffy white clouds of the morning turned into stormy gray, and I took myself for a walk, splashing in every puddle I passed, ruining my white shoes. Now after a warm bubble bath, I lay on the ground, too close to the television to eat pizza and ice cream. The soft glow from the screen makes the snowy silk of the dress shimmer, and it catches my eye. I have no regrets about calling it all off. He would have hated today if he’d had been here.
 
Samantha Gorman
 
Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel about witches in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. 
 
**
 
We Serve a God of Second Chances
                                                                                
       "Tiger shark vomits entire spikey land creature in rare sighting!"
       Computer News, June 8th, 2024
 
She called her daughter "Bundle of Love" --     bunde liefde -- as she dressed her
for winter in a furry cap with ears.     New mothers don't always think about confusion,
 
and how soon their daughters     would want to run in packs; while she, growing older,
was called a "dinosaur."     As a child, she'd loved nature:  her playmates, crawdads
 
and green lizards.  Adolescence was hell.     Acne and lost love, the boyfriends
who would confess they'd walked on ledges     to watch women change their clothes.
 
She'd bought a blow-up Godzilla     taller than she was, and her young children
had watched her dance with him     on lonely weekends.  Then the garment industry
 
had realized a new kind of intermingling (zoanthropy.)     Dressed in a lizard suit,
lying beside her faithful companion, a retriever     she'd shared all that was left
 
in the student-sized fridge      (a gift from an African American student who knew
she didn't have a kitchen.)     Reality had taught her that those who don't have money
 
can be much kinder than the "haves"     who probably toss filets on their new grills
set up in cabanas beside swimming pools, chefs watching     water spill over blond herds
 
in bikinis.     She'd seen food giveaways on the news, heavy-set drivers, their bodies
wedged behind the wheels of their new pickup trucks     as they sat in line waiting
 
for free food.  Lying beside her on the SPCA blanket     (a gift she'd been given
with membership) her  dog -- a gentleman -- waited patiently      for his next bite
 
as he stared at the broken television set --     picture with no sound. Or was it sound
with no picture?    He looked at her from time to time, confused by the change
 
in what he'd grown to expect from TV     the video with jungle animals she'd given him
for company when he was a puppy.     Did he miss the trees, branches swaying in the breeze,
 
the marmosets, squirrel-like so he barked at them?    When had their lives together changed?
So much broken like the antiquated television      with its nouveau repertoire, heavy investments
 
with 2nd chances, jails as a second home;     a way to meet a second husband...
When had fraud become a kind of fun, a pretense --     a way to pretend that anyone
 
could be anything they wanted --     a chameleon in tight black leather pants, decorated
with dinosaur ridges running down the seams?     A chihuahua in a green bandana
 
with a picture of a tiger     to celebrate International Tiger Day on July 29th?
She remembered her daughter     before she was old enough to walk, lying on a rug,
 
stretched out, full-length, beside her "animal sister," the family cat.     On the news,
a large (very large) man parked at the food giveaway     rolled down his truck window
 
to tell the person dispensing food     that he'd come to get free food for his auntie -- "por
ol' hongri thang."     Beside her in her lizard suit, lying on their animal allegiance
 
blanket, her dog, forever loyal, sighs.     The snack plate is as empty as the broken TV
screen. Her daughter, now grown, doesn't return emails.     Yesterday, a little girl in a hair-
 
band with ears had danced, holding up a cell phone for a selfie     to get attention at the grocery;
the woman in line in front of her asked if there was free food for pets;     and she, who had loved best
 
children & animals     who is culturally crippled, her house taken by squatters,
wonders if her 2nd chance is a bad fairy tale --
                                                                                        if it was warm and comfy
                                                                                               for Jonah in the belly of a whale?

Laurie Newendorp
 
Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. With degrees in literature and creative writing (Poetry) she has been honoured many times by the Ekphrastic Challenge. Among her loves are children, art, animals and the Romantic Movement, including William Blake's iconoclastic reversal of traditional literary perspective with such poems as "Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night: what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"
 
**
 
Morsels

Every moment has a surprise story.
Every breath traces a line I can taste.
What are objects but an unexpected encounter with myself?
My companions are whatever random images grow secret gardens in my anxious soul.

Kerfe Roig

Kerfe Roig plays with words and images both in combination and juxtaposition, looking for new ways to see the world.
 

Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. 

The prompt this time is Antigone Giving Burial Rites to the Body of Her Brother Polynices, by Marie Spartali Stillman. Deadline is July 5, 2024. 

You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please.

The Rules

1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination.

2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF.

3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way.​

4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.

Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry.

5.Include  STILLMAN 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. 

7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 

8. Deadline is midnight EST, July 5, 2024.

9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is.

10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline.

11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 

12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 

13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the  challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 
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​14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges!
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15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages!

16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.

Moça Sentada (Seated Young Woman) 

Nossa Senhora! comes to my mind,  
             Our lady! I was raised by ladies like her,  
             in Brazil in the fifties and early sixties, 
Black and White and Indian and other names  
of the races of women who were brought to these shores 
or from lands in the interior. 

In Brazil they were more than six million slaves                                    raped from Africa
            and the Indians who would not serve yet remain, 
            in the cast of a face and the crook of an elbow. 

She is seated and convoluted twisted so to show this is not  
                          her usual way to be 
the flower has escaped across her dress,  
                          no longer between her fingers,  
it is posed.  
Her head bust and legs form a z,  
the doe caught in the headlights and in contortions to escape 
                          not 
the man painting her  
                          he was the grandson of slaves! 
                          and a hopeless melancholic.
She is the Algerian women Marc Garanger shot in 1960 
with his camera 
the colonial registrar forcing each to uncover her face                    raping their intimacy
while Marc sheltered their ferocity at colonial outrage in film. 
Some eye the camera in undiluted fury 
                         others just this side of fury, silently call out and wonder 
                         where are you taking me? 

Our moça is resigned                          no longer defiant like the Algerians, 
all and also brown skinned and bangled  
bright red shirt and almost a pout as she looks askance. 

The background is Da Vinci-like but with a little white boat 
                         breast high, no bigger than a moth, surely a psychopomp 
                         returning her soul to distant heavens.  

Slightly bent Lourdes cared for me, somewhere Indian,  
as a child she carried children on her back, twisting her spine,  

Black Domingas told us stories of one legged Saci-pererê, 
           pipe-smoking, mischief-making child-sized Black man  
           who ambushed travelers,  
at bedtime she lullabied me the boi da cara preta, the black-faced bull
who ravished disobedient children      and put me to sleep 

and here is our moça              ravished and pinned down  
from three directions  
Indian and Black and White and now what genes 
what other trails will make themselves known? 
That information is trivial, three paths, no decisions, and in her twisted body and dark
face and fleeing eyes she says see me here, preserve this moment, reshape my destiny for 
​all eternity.

​David Herz

​**

Sunday River
                           
                                                                 "More than a distant land
                                                                  Over a shining sea
                                                                  More than the steaming green
                                                                  More than the shining eyes...
                                                                  Oh, what a night, wonderful one in a million --
                                                                  (Oh, what a night)

                                                                   Frozen fire Brazilian stars
                                                                   Oh Holy Southern Cross --"
                                                                         James Taylor, Only A Dream In Rio


      A white sailboat floats    in the background of the canvas,
      visible behind the tower     of a castle, the location of the last royal

      ball in Rio de Janeiro.     Called January River by the Portuguese
      Rio declared its independence, did the artist      dream of freedom

       as he painted the girl he'd chosen     for Young Woman Seated?
       She is dressed in vivid colours, gold & garnet;     a skirt with sea-green

       ribbons;     and a bodice, chili-pepper red, or crimson-red as blood...
       She pouts, petulant, in her portrait     seated on a shelf of hard stone,

       granite from the Corcodova Mountain     that borders Guanabara Bay.
       Is she annoyed with the artist     her lips fixed and sulky, her expression

       both determined and sexual?     And where had she picked 2 wild 
       blooms --  anemones and memories --  in pink and purple     as if hers

       might be a love story      unexpressed, though she presses the flower
       petals in a diary, on the page where, it is noted     that he has drowned.

       Does she think of his art     how she watched him paint,
       one hand manipulating a paint brush;     both hands hoisting a sail

       that looked like the white wing of an angel?     It is 1896, the year
       he paints her picture;     and the year he dies at 33, his body lost for 2

       days in the Bay.     Did she ever wonder if his fate could have been different
       if the Cristo sculpture had spread His arms     above Bandeira's boat,

       blessing the waters?     If the Cristo Redento of the Andes could create a miracle?
       Bandeira rising, gasping for air, alive as he surfaced?     But the mountain top

       is empty in 1896, uninhabited by the Redeemer     an Ikon that wasn't built
       until 1931, a year she could follow steps up the mountainside;     witness the view

       of Rio as it stretched beneath the Cristo's open arms.     Did she pause in her walk
       to pick 2 new wind-flowers (nature's name for the anemones)      thinking of her pout,

       the way she'd been impatient, ill at ease, sitting for a portrait --     how he'd captured

                                                             her young face --  as if the broken art of dreams
                                                                                                                              is woven into fate.

Laurie Newendorp

Honoured many times by the Ekphrastic Challenge, Laurie Newendorp's book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the visionary world of art as it is related to poetry.  She lives and writes in Houston.

** 

Ingenue

They say patience is a virtue.
Do you think of this while you wait? 
Do you hold your thighs tight
against the want? Do you
listen to the cardinal singing
in the tree behind you, oblivious
to the howl deafening the beat
of a heart betrayed? 

If only all the other loves,
who will one day stroke your cheek
and twine their fingers in your hair,
appeared before you. Now. 
You’d never think of him again. 
Your frown would curve
into a smile bright as starlight;
blinding as a forest fire.

The pale sky above you 
would burst into a symphony of blue.
The rising breeze of joy
would fill the sails of a boat
adrift. Quicken the blood of a heart bereft.
Suffuse the faded flowers on your skirt
with red and peach, soft
as the fingers of a lover’s hand.

Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman

Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia in traditional Yuin country, and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ​

​**     

It’s Come to This

I can’t make you kiss the clouds 
whispering over the calm blue
 
skin of the ocean. Looking away 
from a sailboat in poutiness— 
 
a memory of our future 
no longer buoying.
 
Not as flower stems that rest 
in your lap, the tide of a gold
 
skirt. It’s come to pass. Your white-laced
wings jut from red silk. Each silent
 
moment is a fabric. Te amo--
no matter. I fell from the cliff 
 
nearby, but I’ve come to 
never lose sight of you.

John Milkereit

John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. In December, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover.

**

Face Down Wisdom

At noon when my stomach is full and
hot and round like the beguiling sun above
is when I’ll raise my eyes across a plain unseen--
you are far too young now, and hadn’t been born then--
and with flowers lying across the stripes of my skirt,
like hostages tied to a railroad track,

I’ll draw my face gaunt and low
and stared down a sniffing, self-impending sense,
blowing through my hair, like it is wind,
it dies down, to grow tall and assured, as if 
there is immediate victory in strength.

My stomach full, but the cavity
for my heart, it is sick and shallow
not as something which has never been filled,
but as something burned away,
all the excitement I once had with my youth
having gone, probably wasted, and yet I say
to the tall wisdom: I am young, I am far too young.
But of course look to my face now, see wisdom.

Patricia  K. B. Manley

Patricia “Tricia” K. B. Manley is a former third-year student of the creative writing program at the Fine Arts Center in Greenville, SC, and a rising college freshman at Western Carolina University. She is the former design editor for Crashtest, an online literary magazine run by the writing program at the FAC, focused on promoting the works of high school students internationally.

**

Zenia in February 1869

Be sure to smile, mamãe said
before bundling me off with this lunatic
skin darker than mine and not a photographer
like the one in the new shop in Ipanema

We are not animals, mamãe said
you get painted in your third best dress
borrow my bangles, hold these flowers
under that brush we’ll drown the past year
find you a husband to replace the husband
you never had, descanse em paz
as if paz has ever set foot in this house

Actually, I don’t mind the carriage ride
or a day out on Praia Vermelha, cliffs
climb behind me like the back of a throne
said this painter, even though mamãe told him 
don’t put the cliffs in, just pretend
she is somewhere the fiancé didn’t leap
to his death but here I am, lap full of zinnias
so some fat man sweating in the parlor
will guess my name’s Zenia, think himself clever

I don’t miss him, the one gone or to come
let this day out last forever
me with this turpentine-smelling stranger 
who I could grow to love because
he keeps saying not to smile
even though the tree is perfeita

I don’t tell him why this expression
sits so easy on my face — see that
boat small and white in the distance
I already know it is death coming for him 
I am his last painting, alone, surrounded 
by men who can’t stay alive

Angela Kirby

Angela Kirby earned a BA in Creative Writing from Duke University. She is the 2022 Second Prize Winner of the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and a double winner of the Anne Flexner Memorial Prize. Publications include Nimrod International Journal, Roanoke Review, The Light Ekphrastic, and Humber Literary Review. ​

**

​Autopsy

A wistful sadness, looking back,
reflecting on what might have been;
the open flower is soon to fade,
and half closed bud to never bloom,
potential yet unrealised?
Those bangled wrists, by metal form,
and glinting ring an index of
the slavery descendancy
that bore a son unrecognised.

The tailor’s boy knew how to clothe,
from bright puff sleeves, lace collar trim, 
vermillion of tie wrapped top
to yellow flow with blue stripe fall.
Was that to flag El Salvador,
the host of his professorship,
and where, near to, century on,
he made his stamp with home Brazil,
diplomacy established then?

His medal, gold, art history,
might seem fool’s gold as hopes foretold
were thwarted, Europe, own art school, 
despite success, exhibiting,
design and landscape brought to nought.
Attempted launch was cause of death,
both school and boat, more thwarted float;
a fortnight cold Bandeira tossed
amongst the shoals, fish teeming schools.

A shoulder hunch, rejected such,
the face surrounded, bordered locks,
that indrawn breath, once hope now shade,
a rock dark cove ’gainst sea and sail.
How sad that skill, enfolding cloth,
serenity in graceful arms,
set scape of sun hint, fruitful leaves,
should end by waves of being lost,
no autopsy of body, soul.

Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by online poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review.  He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com

**

​Tarnished Expression

He drowned in Guanabara Bay
though it’s apparent his boat launch
may have been his attempt to end
pain beyond measure --the right corner 
of his canvas has no horizon but a triangular 
sail reflecting a pearly white that moves 
between sky and water.

His seated woman frowns at his abridged 
future--no oil palette to mix 
auspicious shades of primary 
colours--no contests to enter 
granting him a study in Europe
She is on the verge of standing--pushing up 
and off from her passive position.

The broad open planes
of her face invite me inside her
I squint at her gold and silver bracelets
the ring on her index finger.
I too wear a tarnished bangle-- a slender heirloom
from my godmother--meant to ward off evil
and sadness of unknown origin

Jenna Rindo

Jenna Rindo trains for races from the 5K to full marathon and arranges words in rural Wisconsin. She worked as a pediatric RN and an ELL teacher and now tutors and mentors refugee students. Her poems and essays have been published in AJN, Calyx, Tampa Review, Verse Virtual, One Magazine and Relief: a journal of Art and Faith.

**

Girl Seated

brushed-beige dusky girlpoised to run,
belied by the yearning in her eyes,  she longs to stay
be with him
the portulaca slips from her fingers
forgotten, like her heritage.
Wait here, he says, I'll be back.
He runs off, answering his father.
Hidden love,
will she run?

Sandra Rogers-Hare

*Note: Portulaca. Moss rose, Portulaca grandiflora, is a drought and heat tolerant annual native to hot, dry plains in Argentina, Uruguay, and southern Brazil. Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira, a Brazilian, is a descendent of slaves.

After a career in education, Sandra has been writing books. She facilitates a writers' workshop, travels, studies history and takes photos of street art. Her memoir, Salmagundi, The Story of a Mixed Race Child Growing up in New York and Minnesota, was published in 2017. She is presently writing prose-poetry about her experiences in the controversial utopian cult, Synanon, to be published in 2025. Sandra has six grandchildren, one of them canine. She lives in San Leandro, California.

**
​
Harvesting Silence
 
Is she waiting
for them to walk
together by the sea
where the gleam
of wet slate
dissolves in hours? 
 
Lost in thought
her eyes vacant,
her lips tight,
her face forlorn,
outlined in long
black hair while
expressionless,
she sits perched
on a cliff yards
from a ragged coast.
 
She no longer listens
for the timbre
of his voice, 
while her focus 
creates a yearning
for his touch
as a cloud-laden sky
retains her regrets.

Jim Brosnan

A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He is a full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. 

​**

Olive Season Misery

you’re a woven thought, 
spiteful bracelets on my wrists.
you’re a wilted fern I water out of pity,
and I liked you better
before our encounter in olive season. 

your past transgressions interfere 
with my chosen solitude.
how long, I wonder, 
before I can imprison your name 
in a cerebral cell 
and throw the key away? 

you missed your ride, 
I watched the sailboat leave.
now, here you are with me--
a blotch on my sunset,
a smudge on my horizon,
and I want you to leave 
so I can despise you in peace.

sometimes, I pity you,
but I wouldn’t hate it 
if you tripped down your mama’s stairs--
past her olive trees--
and onto the red cobblestone.
your cousins’ cruel laughs
at your bloody knees
tattooed with the ferns
you can’t be bothered to keep.

​Claudia Althoen

Rooted in the vibrant cultures of Edmonton, AB, and Minneapolis, MN, Claudia Althoen finds solace and inspiration in the written word. For her, writing is not just a form of expression but a way to navigate and understand the complexities of the world and the human experience. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review.

**

He Kissed a Flower

In honour of the almost 200 Welshmen who fought with the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War. Among them was Victoriano Esteban, a member of the Spanish community in Abercrave in the Swansea Valley, who worked in the International Colliery. Born to Spanish immigrants he grew up speaking Spanish and Welsh. He was one of 289 volunteers killed in the Battle of Brunete a day after they took the village of Villanueva de la Caňada from Nationalist rebels.
 
They came to Villanueva in the night.
So many of them, thirsty, tired, wounded,
into the ruins of our village here. The others fled.
 
We were frightened, throats sore from screaming.
There were bodies everywhere. Tia Elena
lay bloodied in the dirt: one of the sublevado human shields.
 
We ran as they came, calling out in languages
we didn’t understand. I tripped and cowered
but one man stopped. He smiled. I feared the worst.
 
He spoke to me in Spanish though his accent was strange.
His speech was gentle though his hands were rough
from mining coal in a place he called Wales, Cymru, Gales..
 
He said his name: Victoriano.
 
I gave him water and we talked like friends,
a kind of peace when all around was war.
As they moved off he kissed a flower he’d found
 
and handed it to me, then stood in line, waved,
and shouted Volveré, fy nghariad.
I cannot dare believe he will return.
 
I watched him march off, sad and sure
none of us knows the price of victory;
the flower he gave me, wilting in my lap.
 
Carolyn Thomas

 sublevado - the name used for the Nationalist rebels.
 Volveré - Spanish – ‘I will return’
 fy nghariad  - Welsh – 'my love'
 
Carolyn Thomas is from the Neath Valley in South Wales. She is now retired after a career of teaching in Further, Higher and Adult Education. She has reviewed for Stand magazine and her poems have been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Dreich, Impossible Archetype and other magazines. Her  stories appear in two anthologies, Lipstick Eyebrows and Painting the Beauty Queens Orange, published by Honno Welsh Women's Press. She currently lives on Tyneside with a misanthropic cat and, being Welsh, proudly sports a dragon tattoo.

**

​​Second Thoughts

I’ve stayed till you became a fingernail 
of pale paint on the grey horizon.

I’ve waved till my arms caved, though 
I’m sure you’re too engaged to make me out –

drowning in sails, salt spray and splash. 
I’ve rubbed the ring you fixed on my finger

which fits like a padlocked corset.
I’ve plucked a purple daisy and you love me 

not, so now I’m tucking this second bloom
in my hair and turning my head the other way.

Helen Freeman

Helen Freeman loves trying her hand at the prompts on The Ekphrastic Review. She also has a beautiful Brazilian sister-in-law who had no second thoughts about her brother. She has poems published on various sites and magazines and currently lives in Durham, England. Instagram @chemchemi.hf 

**

Feijoada

Gabriella dreams of her mother’s Feijoada, remembering the steam fogging her glasses as she inhaled the wafts of rich earthy black beans, salty pork, and tangy tomatoes. Sometimes, her mother would throw in bits of fried bacon, which would add a pop of smokiness. 

Sunday's Feijoada was the best. On Sundays, Gabriella and her mother would walk to the fruit stand after church and pick up a few laranjas, oranges and carry them back in their bare hands. Gabriella always wanted to eat one on the walk home, the morning sun quickly running up the sky, but Mama always said saving it for the stew would be worth the wait.

She was right.

A little bit of fresh orange zest and a slice or two on top of the brimming bowl imparted just the right zing, each spoonful a hug for Gabriella’s stomach.

Gabriella still remembers the cooling feeling of her bare feet standing on the smooth wood of the footstool when she was still too small to reach the stove. The varnished slab was a welcome relief to the blanket of heat wrapping her as she hovered over the pot to stir while her mother cut up the carrots, the tomatoes, the cabbage, the pork trotters.

Mama would let her taste it every so often, making sure the melange of flavors was singing in perfect harmony.

“Cauteloso,” —careful, she’d say as she blew a gentle puff of breath right over the ladle. Then she’d carefully guide the sip up to Gabriella’s watering mouth for a test.

“Delicioso!” It was always delicioso to Gabriella, but sometimes Mama would add more salt, more farofa, or even some coriander anyway.

Then, when Gabriella was still small enough, her Mama would lift her from the stool and whirl her around the kitchen, her hand-sewn apron dancing like a superhero cape.

They’d laugh and laugh until Mama was laughing too hard to hold up Gabriella any longer. They’d both crumple to the floor like marionettes, Gabriella’s head on her mother’s chest, listening to her heartbeat, listening to the delicious melody of the Feijoada bubbling on the stove. It was Sunday’s symphony, one that outdid any church hymns, any organs and voices singing to the heavens.

Gabriella’s favorite part was when the family finally sat down to dinner to enjoy the final masterpiece after it had simmered and simmered all afternoon.

They’d both sit across from Gabriella’s father, who never stepped foot in the kitchen except to eat. Papa always got to have the first spoonful while Gabriella and her mother watched in anticipation of his approval, their growling bellies begging for it to come quickly.

Papa would close his eyes and lift his face towards the ceiling, holding the stew in his mouth like a secret. Sometimes, it seemed to take so long for him to swallow that Gabriella would look up at the ceiling herself, trying to count the dead flies resting in the domed glass covering the bulb.

Finally, Papa’s throat would squeeze. He’d smile and say it was the best Feijoada he’d ever had.

“My girls have outdone themselves again!”

“It was all Gabriella,” Mama would say, and then give a loving wink, the gleam of light catching moisture in her chestnut eyes. 

“No, Mama. We did it juntos!” Gabriella always dragged out the last word--juntos, together, partly to set the record straight, partly because she’d never wanted it any other way.

“Well, someday soon you’re gonna be a better Feijoada master than me!” 

Gabriella’s father would always follow up with his same silly suggestion that they try a cook-off to see who could make the better Feijoada, but the battle never happened. They were a cooking team.
Though Gabriella could now easily reach the stove without the old footstool, it wouldn’t be possible to compare Feijoada recipes; she never wanted to anyway.

She hasn’t allowed herself to bathe in the intoxicating aroma or felt the steam kiss her cheeks before the first savory bite since her mother died. It’s been just too painful to think about making it alone.

Even if she wanted to, it’s been too long to remember how Mama seasoned the offal or the right ratio of black beans to tomatoes. 

She’s nearly forgotten the velvety chorus of the pot simmering on the stove, Mama’s grounding heartbeat, and the echoes of their riotous laughter filling the cozinha.

What she does know is that it’s still the loveliest melody she’s ever heard.

Amber Sayer
 
Amber is not new to the world of writing, as she is a professional health and fitness writer by trade. However, she hasn't done any creative writing in over 20 years and is excited to start exploring the depths of her imagination and taping into the power of expressing her feelings through words.
 
**

​Dear Womanteen,
​
I really want to know what you mean
with that perplexed gaze
with no soul around to impress
with your dazzling dress
made under your grannies oracular spells.
and meant only for your Destino’s fantasies,
It took them a life of faithfulness
to create it as a visual potion for
the eyes of the one-and-only
now waiting for you at the port –
the cool foreign traveler
you recently met at your village market
while he was searching for a local amulet
and got captivated by your rings and bangles
wired as ‘dithyrambs’ as he said;
and though you did not understand
you took the jingling word as a compliment;
more to it – since he recognized their charm
your grannies, greatly awed, took it as a sign
that he was the one and let you go to him
on your own, as if it was to collect
heaven-dropped manna from your garden.
You were just fifteen, but your grannies
bet on your amulets and prophesied
 your life will be spent in a far away land.
So, for that anticipated momentum
you dressed to the best:
this splendid blouse was made
on the day you were born
by your maternal granny out of joy
that you carried her name,
and she made it from untreated cotton,
so all natural spells of elements, miracles and events
that happened to the plant were meticulously preserved
as stamped – each oscillation prompted by bees’ flickering,
each nightingale’s song echoing, all the sun and moon kisses,
the rain’s whisperings – all that produces the manna of bliss
 was saved as it was and is;
and just like the frame concludes the painting
so the dress wrapped your body to impress
even with suspense - the red application
 enhanced your oracular defense.
Your fraternal granny made your golden skirt
when you turned thirteen to proclaim
the opening of your new blossoming page;  
and thus they conceived to the fringe
your coming of age honeyed hinge,
someone was about to open to the last inch.
 
But, it’s said, we never know the fate’s last caprice of flow. 
Bandeira appeared on that spot, placed his easel ad hoc
and thought of capturing the might of the rock
against the mood of the sea
as best as his eye can see;
but as she emerged from behind  
framed in her oracular apparel,
her hair curling the wind,
her eyes penetrating the horizon,
his attention turned off the radar
from the sea’s blue infinity
and in his thought he began brushing
her dark mane as a divinity;
while all he could mumble was ask her to
‘just sit and look at him as she liked as she deemed’.
She stopped and turned her face with that perplexed gaze:
“I don’t get you Sire, but I can watch
whatever the almighty sends in front of my eyes;
I wanted to sit, any way, to gather myself
from the pushing slope of the mountain  
battling rolling pebbles and thorny shrub,
like a vicious brush”;
while thinking to herself:
“Grannies didn’t foresee this man’s omen; nevertheless,
I’ll just let my feet rest, come to their senses
and then take me to my waiting destino’s fancies”.
She withdrew herself in the nest of that thought
and left her baffled pose to its own accord –
feet hanging, hands loose, flower elapsed,
eyes absent in the outgoing moment,
mystifying the play of marble and sea –
in fact, the best posing act he was ever to see.
When her look trembled it was understood
she was about to go, so, he approached
to show her what he saw.
She had a look and went numbed,
froze like the rock in that pose.
The only thing she could do was poke her finger
onto the canvas to check if it wasn’t her doppelganger
her grannies kept telling her exist in a parallel twist
of fate and do malice to our mindfulness.
She couldn’t move. Her feet were glued.
He had brushed away their senses
unto the canvas’ fancies, smuggled between
the folds of her dress-to-impress,
in the unimpressive cracks of the rock,
on the waving branches of the tree on the top. 
Her amulets powers were brushed aside.
His filbert strokes took over their places.   
For better for worse,
a cotton-soft canvased bond
turned out to be a magic wand.
Bandeira got lost in brushing her hair.
Her irises glided along the soft strokes
with pebbles’ flair.
 
Ekaterina Dukas
 
Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have been frequently honoured by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon has been published by Europe Edizioni, 2021.     

Our third annual ekphrastic marathon is coming up soon! Click on image for details and to sign up!

Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. 

The prompt this time is Snack, by Daphna Kato. Deadline is June 21, 2024. 

You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please.

The Rules

1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination.

2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF.

3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way.​

​4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.

Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry.

5.Include  KATO 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. 

7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 

8. Deadline is midnight EST, June 21, 2024.

9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is.

10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline.

11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 

12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 

13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the  challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 
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​14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges!
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15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages!

16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.