 Istanbul, by Garabet Yazmaciyan (Turkey) by 1929 Waiting "Armenian weddings have many traditions. One such tradition is the cutting of the red and green ribbon." Anonymous Green sky at moonrise means the lovers must have stood outside the artist's shop looking at his hand-painted sign, the self- portrait of a man sitting at an easel. No, it meant when this picture of an artist-at-work showed the man who could paint what they wanted, they did not have to buy a still-life like the picture on the other side of the sign, and they didn't want a landscape without people the Maiden's Tower without Hero waiting while Leandros swims toward her; to be reminded of tragedy, how he drowned in the darkness. Will we be in a boat? the young man asks in Armenian, and when the girl answers O yes! the artist smiles. Already his paint brush has begun to trace the circle of the moon fallen from the pale shape of the clouds, and even in darkness the boat holding the couple will leave the pier on the other side of the swollen river from a house that could be his house, a house where a man stands on a porch as smoke curls into the sky from a chimney pipe. Inside the house, built on stilts so the river can't come in a woman calls to him from the hearth -- Are they coming? Can you see them? She is thankful for the warmth of the fire after the violence of the storm, and thankful for her daughter coming home with the man she has decided to marry; who will, formally, ask her parents for her hand. In the past, weddings have been lavish the Priest placing small crowns on the heads of the bride and groom to consecrate them as king and queen of a new kingdom -- their own kingdom. The Byzantine Emperor is ancient history, part of a world where he built a Maiden's Tower to isolate his daughter -- to protect her from death, a fatal snake bite. Everyone in Istanbul knows of this legend, one of misfortune; and however unlikely such a story is in 1928 the woman in the kitchen is worried for the safety of her children, delayed by storm and high water as she prepares food for their engagement celebration stuffing grape leaves with meat and rice for Dolma, and crushing walnuts for Gata and Paklava. The young man will be their son, and when the sky clears her husband will paint the ritual colours -- that strange and diaphanous green. They cannot afford a luxurious ceremony, but the painting will be a wedding gift. In it, the children will be coming home by boat after the storm and before the signing of the marriage contract in the Consulate's office; then the pro- cession, money-giving and dancing in the streets on their way to watch their children blessed by the Priest. She has saved her wedding ribbon -- red and green -- for this very special day and her husband will paint the spring into the sky, into the moon-ripples reflected in the water so like a fortune made with wavy lines the gypsy has seen in her coffee grounds: the future of the young couple, who, like their foolish parents will share the wedding ribbon and start a family, unraveling time when the colour red is heart-fire burning in an artist's hearth. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp is one of the writers who is addicted to Ekphrastic Challenges. Yazmaciyan's painting, Istanbul, reminded her of her daughter's trip to Bodrum, on the Turkish coast north of Istanbul, to visit a friend who was studying underwater archaeology. In order to marry a Turkish boy, her friend had to sign a contract in a government office (standard procedure) before she married in America. The Armenian alphabet was accepted in Turkey until 1926 when Turkish became the official language of the country. Yazmaciyan's self-portrait, painted on a sign to advertise his tin shop, is one of his best-known works. ** The Moon Practises the Art of Night Photography
1. He leans into a sea-green sky. Soft focus. 2. Leander’s Tower. Foreground, midground and background: Straits of the Bosphorus. 3. Beyond Sultanahmet men sit in winding streets, play backgammon and drink small glasses of z’atar tea. Cats slink into shadow. Panorama. Pan from left to right. 4. In Beşiktaş a young woman stands, watches as mourners lift her mother’s bier into a waiting carriage. Amber beads twist through her fingers. Point of focus: the daughter. 5. A single boat with quiet oars. To avoid noise lower the ISO. 6. The muzzein calls the hour for morning prayer. The moon shutters the lens, slips away. Marjory Woodfield Marjory Woodfield is a New Zealand teacher and writer. She has lived in the Middle East and this often provides inspiration for her writing. She’s been published by the BBC, Atrium, Orbis, The High Window, The Pomegranate London and others. She has won the New Zealand Robert Burns Competition, and most recently been placed in the Hippocrates Poetry Awards, Yeovil, Ver and John McGivering writing competitions. She is currently recipient of a Cinnamon Press mentoring bursary. ** Refuge The wandering spirit. The homeless. The stateless. The Spinx. Silent and heroic. The gasps of joy. That escape from the child's mouth. Make yourself at home in me. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet-actress and filmmaker. She narrated and produced the documentary film, ARTWATCH, about famed art historian James Beck. She is the recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement Award - and hosted the television series On Our Own, winner of the President's Award. Her documentary film, Silent Journey, is streaming on: http://www.cultureunplugged.com/storyteller/Sandy_Rochelle Publications include: Dissident Voice, Every Writer, Wild Word, Lothlorien Poetry journal, Black Poppy Magazine, Poetic Sun, Potato Soup Journal, Spillwords Press, and others. http://sandyrochelle.com ** Hunger in Istanbul A soundless night under a hungry-green moon, devoid of all vulnerable appeal, the sea stalls, reflecting the same ravenous hue, the leaning mast, the lonely house, the 2-man boat trying to find the shore, reach the steady smoke, join two pallid souls waiting to share the catch, four men feasting on one paltry fish—this, for a brief, sumptuous moment, becomes everything. C.L. Fisher I am moved by words, trees, butterflies, art, music, and all forms of truth expression. I am a Christ believer who yearns to create art that glorifies the only One worthy of our praise. You can find my poems and learn more about my faith and love for God’s creations at my blog poeticmeanderings.com. My husband and I reside in a sage-blooming, tumbleweed-moving town in the oilfields of Texas. ** The Hearth Fire of Your Story Your soul’s hearth fire still burns. You carry it with you into the emerald moonglow night, an unknown journey into the next world where you glimmer eternal. Your every word and breath becomes the subtle, undulating ripple on the water’s surface. Each sea vessel holds a memory, like a golden honeycomb candle, the way a living room holds the energy from twenty years of tree trimmings, the way your fingers instinctively knew what notes to play from that Irving Berlin song, the way you embellished sound with extra chords, the way you layered your stories with harmonies, with multi-toned details. You are now floating to distant vistas, the horizon of your life’s cinematic screen still playing the highlights reel. I see you carrying planks of wood, a small pencil behind your ear. I see you moving sesame oil from side to side in a wok, chopped bok choy at the ready. I see you typing up a report, your block letter edits in the margins. Someone kneels in prayer, adding wood, keeping the flame lit, tending to it lovingly with smaller twigs and large branches of devotion. I look down and see my hands working to remember, keeping the story of you burning. Cristina M. R. Norcross Cristina M. R. Norcross of Wisconsin, is the author of 8 poetry collections, founding editor of Blue Heron Review, and is a Pushcart nominee. Her latest book is Beauty in the Broken Places (Kelsay Books, 2019). Her forthcoming chapbook, The Sound of a Collective Pulse, will be released Fall 2021 (Kelsay Books). Cristina’s work appears in: Visual Verse, Your Daily Poem, Verse-Virtual, The Ekphrastic Review, and Pirene’s Fountain, among others, as well as numerous anthologies. She has led community poetry projects, workshops, and has hosted many readings. Cristina is the co-founder of Random Acts of Poetry & Art Day. www.cristinanorcross.com ** The Emerald Epic Emerald skies portend emerald rivers- Water is just a flowing mirror. Thunderclouds tease boats bobbing on lakes, Boats that have been built to return home every night. Even the frail oarsman has sinewy arms from Rowing the boat through cobwebs of lotus that Blush under the green moonlight And fold up like the wings of birds. The moon is green tonight like the Fragrant frangipani; Sunshine is a memory now, strangely becoming Vivid by the day. The moon stands resplendent Like a known stranger farther away today than yesterday. Thunderclouds burst forth, emptying their crypts of vapor, and kitchen fires keep homes warm- homes that the oarsman ferries the passengers to. The sound of thunder is the same in winters and summers; The sound of thunder is the same in Istanbul and the rest of the world. Hail and rain have no birthplace. They move like wanderers through Caliphates, kingdoms, and empires. Why yearn like an alchemist for a gold idyll, While the calligrapher inscribes love sans embellishment With her quill. A painting’s flourish enchants where a photograph would do mere justice. Through the crisp winds Carrying cinders, I wonder- Why write short verse when one can write an epic? Gargi Shivanand Gargi Shivanand is an aspiring researcher based in Hyderabad, India, whose work has previously appeared in Visual Verse. She found it easier to find her voice on paper rather than out loud but was pleasantly surprised when she discovered that expressions of any one kind helped blossom expressions of all kinds. ** For the Ride You leave the witch adding twigs to her fire – delicately, as though their precise placing were significant – and go out onto the water-balcony as she’s directed. You’re already lightheaded from the sweet smoke inside the room; when you step out through warped wooden doors there’s an effervescence in your lower stomach, and by the time you set both hands on the rail, the night has begun to melt. You used to know things about this place at the confluence of two seas. You used to know about that city across the water, its bloodstained glittering history, its changing names - Lygos, Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul – but tonight, none of that counts. Here and now – though here and now is ebbing, already insubstantial, and I/me with it – other confluences are softly forming. You came here expecting symbols, and the night’s replete with them. The full moon, personal favourite of the witch, is for divinity and otherness; the unending dark water is for connection, the unity beneath the surface; the metropolis with its many eyes is for belonging; oh yes, you’re part of humanity even if you deny it! Over there is the caique on which your own hopes have rested. Sometime symbol of departure and crossing, it’s not yet rigged but surely ready; its shadowy pilot waits, who could be Charon or Phlegyas or Urshanabi (from here you can reach east or west across continents, ransack their mythologies at will). And then, drawing the eye, stalling the imagination, the rocky lighthouse-island that stilly, insistently, waits to call you home. You could draw a constellation, a mandala, heavy with meaning, to join up the symbols. It might even prove to be a roadmap of your spiritual life. Going, staying, family, exile, pagan goddess, reassuring ritual, love of home. You could draw it on parchment, carry it next to your skin, take it out and trace its silvered lines with your finger whenever doubt rises to choke you. Wait instead. See, first, how the colours begin to run, see how moon-green bleeds into underlit water, how the water rises, overwhelming the caique, creeping up the sides of the lighthouse, flowing towards the quays and jetties of the distant city, swirling in its streets, up against its walls and towers, extinguishing the witchfire, lapping at the balcony where you no longer stand, because you’ve made your choice and are already on your way to the deep places, to the impossible, luminous realm below. Patience Mackarness Patience Mackarness lives and writes in Brittany, France. Her work has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Every Day Fiction, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Lost Balloon, and elsewhere. She finds art scary. ** Green My home at the world’s edge overlooks a sea that envies me: my life on stilts, my sunsets on the balcony, the slap of green gallons for company. The moon kisses me, and I let it as the last of the boatmen creak to shore, and the clouds absorb their own reflection. The sea is emerald with jealousy, blue-green, indigo, then something darker… I watch it nightly, feel the draw of the woman who waits for me, patient in the bedroom: her amber lamp aglow, the moths on the window that flock to see. The sea envies me, and I feel it, tell it 'hush' before I turn my back to join her, hear it soothe itself with sobs, swallows. It envies me my home, my wife: I let its lullaby caress my life. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught at the University of Wolverhampton for twenty five years, where he ran the Creative Writing Programme. He took early retirement in 2019 to write full time. He is the author of over twenty books, which cover fiction, poetry, and scholarship. His creative work has won and been shortlisted for numerous prizes including The Bedford Prize, The Bridport Prize, The John Clare Poetry Prize, the Ottakars/Faber and Faber Poetry Competition, the Sentinel Poetry Prize, the Sentinal Short Story Prize, and Retreat West Flash Fiction Prize, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net. ** Pilgrimage I went to the country seeking beauty and found nothing but taxidermy shops and insular wooden houses with their porches caving in. The billboards looming over the side of the road changed from the veneered smiles of lawyers and dentists to bold slanting font reminding me that HELL IS REAL and a heartbeat begins nine days after conception. In other words, I was unwelcome. I drove through mountains where the radio played nothing but static, stopped for gas at a station with a single pump and a cooler boasting live bait and tackle. Who first said you can’t outrun yourself by moving from one place to another? I snap at people who ask me for anything when I have already been asked to make peace with the end of the world. And yes, sometimes I cry about it. I am perpetually angry. I sat safely on a bench and considered dipping my feet into a secluded and rocky stretch of the Hudson while I watched a sixty-year-old man take off his clothes and wade in, stark naked. Emily McDonald Emily McDonald is a writer and English teacher living in Baltimore, Maryland. Her poetry has recently appeared in Eunoia Review and SUSAN / The Journal. ** Before Garabet Yazmaciyan Runs With Canvases Under His Arm The house on stilts overlooks water so green you’d think a pickle factory had disgorged its waste Maybe in Kadikoy green pigment was cheap and Garabet, in a hurry covered his world with broad brush strokes the house, the port, the okra boat his unsuspecting wife, her arms deep in scaling fish or maybe filling the lamp — what else could account for the daub of red in the window Garabet, I want to say, put down your brush trim the wick, the flames are hungry for your green house, your littered floor your rags of turps, your powdered pigment the canvases in the corner stretched towards the door Frankie McMillan Frankie McMillan is a poet and short fiction writer from Aotearoa New Zealand. Recent work appears in Best Microfictions 2021 (Pelekinesis) Best Small Fictions 2021 ( Sonder Press), the New Zealand Year Book of Poetry ( Massey University) New World Writing, the Cleaver and Atticus Review. ** Letter with Green Sky I hope to God that you are silver all over. The dock is slick with ghosts and bird leavings, and winter has ballooned into a groaning, glacial brain, an animal of which even the brooding, secular face of St. John the Baptist would approve. I am curious to know where it is you keep your qualms. Mine are strung around the hip and jangle lightly as I walk. You would think they are some kind of dark burgundy, the color of shame, but really, they are a lot like what you cannot see — that is, specifically, the sky which has so thoroughly crushed me into conjuring a reason to bear it. Someone wrote me with the confession that they no longer knew how to look at a flower, and, you, I’ve caught it too — the light beams wobble, fall off the eye and it’s like all that fever had been studiously misplaced. It’s the same with the moon, with trees, with flame. The silver of the waves. Perhaps you wear a rosary around the neck, like they tell you not to. Harbor a flair for rumination. The rowers whoop like prophets; I pocket the smallest echos. Their backs threaten rain. Brenna Courtney Brenna Courtney studies at the University of Virginia. ** The Theatre of Orion for Monika Pisniak after Istanbul, by Garabet Yazmaciyan (Turkey), 1929 C.E. I At this before-the-dawn ante meridiem, the silent pier is our arms-wide-open stage, engulfed by the serene sea-- drunk on the sublime moonlight. The silhouette of moon & its reflection —riding the quiet waves-- bring us in the spotlight at The Theatre of Orion, where Betelgeuse, Bellatria, Saiph, Rigel et al chair the procession. II Mathematica is the language of the stars, you point to the Orion belt. “We’re but of / by / for the stars, you & I,” I gently brush a bunch of annoying audience —a cluster of entangled hair, hindering the way-- off your peach-red right cheek & stamp it with a mild kiss. III “This congregation of hazel-brown moles, running up & down the left side of your face, itself resembles the Orion constellation,” I amuse you with my romanticism. Yours too. But yours is cologne-earth brown, you smile back. ~ Look at these sparkling bubbles in the wine. They look like tiny universes, you raise the disposable-cup for a toast. “If we find the courage to burst the bubbles of our preconceived ideas, then there’re many universes awaiting sprouting,” I raise the disposable-cup. IV We would’ve defied E equals MC2. We could’ve fashioned our own equations! Saad Ali Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been educated and brought up in the United Kingdom (UK) and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an existential philosopher, poet, and translator. Ali has authored five books of poetry. His latest collection of poetry is called Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.facebook.com/owlofpines. ** the moon and her voyeur you watched her every night, casting eyes like a fishing line on her form; first a sliver Then a half, three-quarters. now, while she’s pregnant, rotund, swollen-bellied, full. and her blood spills light over the horizon. She cannot cry in pain, she can only squeeze the fabric of the sky. Watch it happen, voyeur-- you’re Alice, peering through the looking glass. Or a furtive-eyed peeping tom, eyes flickering to and away from her plight like candle-lights in the dark. Watch the sky try and sew her together; behold the army of sewing needles; glittering pinpricks strewn carelessly across the horizon. Each is too dull to suture her up: her flesh is so fragile, her skin ripped so deep. She is desperate, she knits her fingers into the sky’s fabric. She, buries her face in it as the blood splatters the sea. you glide underneath her, riverbound, silent as a mouse in your wooden shell; Oars slicing through the churning waters, Thanking her for the ichor that falls on the water, how It lights your way. Kiran Bassi Kiran Bassi is currently a high school senior in Richmond B.C. When she isn’t writing, you can probably find her doing something weird to her hair, drinking green tea or watching really bad zombie movies. (current favourite: Pride, Prejudice & Zombies). You can find "the moon and her voyeur" and more of her other works at writingbykiran.com ** Elusions And yet there were two sources of light. Each beckoning, calling, asking me to recognize their silhouettes of darkness as the true patterns showing me how to reach my journey’s end. Inviting me to join their respective circles, to choose a side, in or out. To open the channels between sea and sky or to burrow into the ashes of earth and fire. What did I know of my destiny? I sailed an empty vessel waiting to be filled, navigating between the spaces held by promises. Whispered words and ghostly hands extended towards the edges I straddled, balanced on the verge of both inhaling and exhaling. My breath could not tell which way pointed to certainty. I tried to recast my shadow onto something else, but I was suspended too tightly inside the directionless void. Everything was impending, flickering like a candle carried by the whims of the gods and goddesses that saturated the water and air. If I held out my arms would they become fins or wings? Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig lives in NYC where she plays with images and words. ** Following the Path Laid Down by the Full Moon What is it about the full moon that makes me and others so prone to trust him? Here I watch the fisherman leaving his home pier, wife standing, watching until he is no longer in view. I wonder how often must sail out from the warmth of his hearth’s cheerful blaze to into a dark unknown. He points his skiff toward the path laid down by the moon. He will fish somewhere along that silver line laid down across the dark jade of night’s waters. And stay until he has enough fish to bring home, until the sun burns hot along the water. I want to jump in and follow the silver path over those green swirls and whirls and move my arms to the rhythm of the water’s flow secure in that same moonlight streak of silver, trusting it’s path will lead to someplace wonderful. Last week the full moon beckoned me from my house. As I watched it rise from behind our neighbours’ houses and hover over the small stream behind us, I walked its path to the water’s edge. Although unable now, at my age to physically follow the path into the water, my imagination could leap into the water.. So, I closed my eyes and let my heart and soul follow the silver path laid down by the full moon into the unknown. I wonder as I wander, what prizes will I catch? Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a poet, author, playwright, short story and essay writer and novelist. In addition she plays with words on stage telling personal and folk stories that often focus on food, family, and strong women. Ekphrastic poetry is a special love of hers. ** Guardian Moon Guardian moon, protect thy brave daughter escaping poverty, ignorance, befoulment; sister borne by abused mother now bidding Godspeed, herself borne by defiled mother now pleading to the gods for mercy—in blackness shattered by brilliant candle whose orange radiance might have beckoned phantoms lurking in the dark waters and forest but could not, as your brilliance casts a veil of luminous green to light the path and quell the evils roiling beneath the stillness. Guardian moon, deliver her and the child she bears, her sibling, at dawn to a safe shore where she can break free from familial corruption, where she can find her voice, her strength, her power, her self. Ann Maureen Rouhi Ann Maureen Rouhi is Filipino by birth, Iranian by marriage, and American by choice. She is a reluctant writer but tries nevertheless so she can tell her life stories.
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 Planet Set, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 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 Planet Set, by Joseph Cornell. Deadline is September 3, 2021 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click above 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 CORNELL WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, September 3, 2021. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  The Poet, by Lily Prigioniero (Italy, b. USA) 2021 Guest Editor's Note When I accepted the task of being a guest judge for the ekphrastic challenge, I never could have imagined how gratifying it would be to read all the submissions inspired by my painting. But getting the list down to these remaining has been the biggest challenge of all, and made me appreciate the daunting task editors must have to face in their daily routines in the selection process. If you scroll down looking for the poem or story you submitted and don’t see it, keep in mind that every entry I read gave my painting incredible worth, and I thank every one of you for being inspired by this challenge. Although I kept adding to the list of poems published here as they came through, I still had to eliminate so many. I gave myself some guidelines for the task to make it easier: I looked for originality through metaphor, how those metaphors were presented, if the poem suggested fine-tuning, editing, or attention to form (new or established). I also wanted to see if the poem could stand on its own, if it connected more to the image rather than to the title of the painting (I think the challenge would have been very different had the painting been Untitled.). All the submissions opened my eyes to a thought that has been in the back of my mind lately. Coming from the Florentine school of ancient artistic techniques, I’ve often felt that realistic or figurative art isn’t always appreciated in the contemporary art scene, just as poetry (or the poet in this case) is often placed in the margins of popular culture. Although mainstream literary magazines are what keep our literary scene afloat, those gems of poems that you can find in self-published chap-books, or little known on-line journals or blogs, can throw you for a punch with amazing literature and imagery. We have many venues available to us today, and there are so many profound thoughts and excellent writing out there that we as writers of all genres can consider ourselves part of the wondrous universality of the human voice. I want to thank the editor of The Ekphrastic Review, Lorette Luzajic, for giving me the opportunity to be a judge for the Ekphrastic Challenge, and a special thanks to everyone who submitted for taking the time to be inspired by the image that so inspired me to paint it. Lily Prigioniero ** Alice Trains Up the New Girl OK so, once you got the front cleaned out, just take another look around, make sure you got your salt & pepper filled, everythin' wiped down, and you're just about done. That there's David, you don't gotta worry about him. That's mosta what he does, sit there lookin' out the window. Reads a book sometimes, or the Sunday paper. I think he's some kinda writer or poet or somethin', that's what Grace says anyways. He's got this little notebook he writes in sometimes. He don't talk a whole lot but he's nice when he does. Gets the same thing usually, never complains, tips pretty good. There's somethin', I dunno, kinda sad about him. I mean that ain't even the right word. It's like...I dunno...you ever been out walkin' when it's gonna rain and the sun's goin' down? And there's like these little patches where you can still see some sky? That's kinda how it is with him I think. I mean I dunno, I'm just talkin' shit. C'mere, lemme show ya how to refill the syrups without gettin' all sticky. Scott Renzoni Scott Renzoni is a poet and actor from Vermont, now based in the Berkshires. Previous poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Connecticut Poetry Review, Anathema Review, KGB Bar Online Literary Review, and others. He has appeared on stages in Vermont, New York, Massachusetts, and North Carolina. Renzo is a four-time "Jeopardy!" champion and, for a time this summer, sold used books. ** Poetry in the Chess Cafe “Poetry is like chess” the old man said to me. He was sitting in the corner of a diner looking vacantly through the window at the sunlit city street. “Not only in the sense” he continued quietly “of the length of time you need to think. But also there's an instinct - the right move or the right word can arise it seems from nowhere and inspiration is all around. For example, I am no past Grand Master so why do I talk of chess?” He looked downwards at the floor where the black legs of the diner chairs stood quietly on black and white tiled squares. “Perhaps we are but pawns” he said “but that is just the starting point for another poem another day.” He nodded briefly at me then turned his gaze back to the street. Juliet Wilson Juliet is an adult education tutor and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. Her poetry has been widely published in journals, online and even baked into cupcakes. She blogs at http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com and can be found on Twitter @craftygreenpoet. ** Poetry Cafe can you conceive of a Poet running a cafe? you’ll get what you get. when they can find the inspiration. I know you ordered poached eggs on dry toast. but imagine mushrooms! such a metaphor for childhood - before that first kiss brought you out into the world of new possibilities; garlic, olive oil, the taste of Aphrodite, the sea lightly brushed by summer. 10am. Is it too early for a chilled Rose, briefly frozen grapes and cheese? French of course. that mixture of earth and decay, after all, isn't that what love is, decay, can it ever transcend the first touch of fingers, shock of eyes meeting eyes, isn't it just a journey into the soil from there? Best not to hang around the wood panelled, checked floored room. just order blueberry pie, double macchiato to go. Martin Cordrey ** Wait In the corner of my local bistro they let me think, puzzle, ponder, behind the open facade of sound and vista. Clouds take off and I stall here with unhurried words, feet under sea level and a heaven high life around me. I never forget to greet the salved morning and wipe the daze from the window, eyes vexed as if beaten to sleep by sand. Truly, the words stopped coming a long time ago and I called, summoned, stole. Empty houses froze to their shutters, shreds of paper took wing through a long-lived summer, the wind fell out with my coat, crying out with arms open. I return, every day, and face and try. The room moving, the stove softly coughs and tea turns bitter, the window shivers. My hands wait in the middle of silence for the luck that never lies at the end of the road, it rests alongside and rises, in sweet names that guarantee. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland started absorbing stories ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching and translating some silvery languages while her love for art, water and writing led her to poetry...with several publications sealed already! She was born in Rotterdam some 51 ages ago and adores housesitting in the UK, America and Spain. ** Myra for Saad, Neruda and Rumi When these eyes will have tasted their last salt; like oysters that keep their shells afloat, I will buoy from sinking your name in the beds of their tongues – when the word when stops applying to my days – my sense of time on the brim of winds – at mercy of broken ships at mercy of mapless waves; you will know from the shivers that will arrest your throat, like a bird gasping for breath through beak caught in a fractal; from the pit I will rise to your lips yet your voice will be a lump of soil entangled between wet roots; I don't lay upon you curses but when you took my heart and treated it with your wounds, you didn't pause to see how it grew into a bush of lilies – kaffirs of peach cups beaded with honey-dew – you severed and stitched with the proficiency of a lover; when the word when will become a metronome in my navigation to the Divine, you will find me waiting in the loop of your glances that migrated like hands of time – swift and fierce, devoted and mellow, bruising web of myrtle-stars – see me here, how my skin sags in pockets of heaven – a notion you exist as mine – unbound by greed for a rank among saints; I don't lay upon you verses but when the word when unshackles from the wall of eternity, find me within your swirling flame alighting this route – the melting of your soul to the soldering of mine. Sheikha A. Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her works appear in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Recent publications are Strange Horizons, Pedestal Magazine, Atlantean Publishing, Alban Lake Publishing, and elsewhere. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Greek, Arabic, Italian, Albanian and Persian. She has also appeared in Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love anthology that has been nominated for a Pulitzer. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com ** After Lunch Menu we would meet every Shabbat after second meals had gone from the bistro on the boulevard next her studio, her home we would sit by the window on the chaise longue yet cower from life passing over cobbles screeching and screaming we would talk about heritage of forefathers’ flight from the east overcoming prejudice and persecution over writing about wrong we would mourn families departed to the plains north in Poland on a train leaving after dark on a journey of no return we would come back to books with few publishers, few readers full of double entendre and images clandestine we would review each other’s drafts critiquing and commenting proffering words of encouragement to words crafted of truth we would hover machinations over life converted into verse in iambic pentameter with rhythm but little rhyme we would sip caffè complemented by al dente nibbles with foibles eradicated by second versions or perhaps even thirds we would set targets, assign tasks like employer and employee like lover and the beloved she confided last time we would meet up this Shabbat but no show, no sign while her studio is shuttered with a swastika dabbed on the door Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by many literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Belgium, Italy, India, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been part of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the fortnightly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019. ** What We Ask The evenings discovering us from the rest Contemplating what it would be like from the eighth floor hospital bed. Far buildings miniaturized, changing in fading light Like Monet's experiments with cathedral drawings. Darkening trees reappearing under the street lights, Sky engraving the blue with golden lines and An efflorescent peach hesitantly turning grey. No, it cannot end with the evening star yet to climb. What we ask are a few lines For the moments to live, day dreams to survive, Debates to be etched, writers to pass through As if it was Cafe de Flore, year after year, day after day. It is here that we find our truth, A place of warmth and a life like any other. Abha Das Sarma Abha Das Salma: "An engineer and management consultant by profession, I enjoy writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), my poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent my growing up years in small towns of northern India, I currently live in Bengaluru." ** No Checkmate He will be disappointed, my father who waits somewhat impatiently, poet gleaning fodder from errant daughter – he does not approve of any life unlike his that consists of hard work, education the highest priority. His classes absorb words of valor, what does it matter? His daughter is in a minority, unpublished, no daddy’s girl, she chose to forego navy, armed forces not her destiny, that he was a scholarly officer, correspondent of war she doubly disappoints, not writing and now ditching their monthly luncheon, feels his judgment, held like invisible truncheon over her until the time when daughter avoids the diner, checkered floor mock chessboard of her life, king waiting to knock pawns from his path like nothing could barr his way, until he realizes his mistake; today she finally threw the game. Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a Poet who loves writing to prompts, whether visual or written words. Her muses are water, nature, teen issues and current events. Dickson's poetry has appeared in various journals including Proems, Misfit, Sledgehammer, Avocet, Open Words and The Ekphrastic Review. She is a Push Cart nominee who serves on the board of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. Her full length works are available on Amazon. ** Poem for The Poet I see you, sir across the way. In seeing you, in watching you I became you. We will all become you. Life will disappoint Dreams will dissolve and All that will remain All that ever was is tea, quiet and stillness. Tristan Marajh Tristan Marajh's work appears or is upcoming in Firewords Magazine, The Bombay Review, Dreamers Creative Writing Magazine, The Nashwaak Review and others. He is a winner in the Scugog Arts Council's Ekphrastic Writing Competition (fiction); his brief conversation with fellow winner Eleni Gouliaras (poetry) can be read in The Ekphrastic Review here. ** The Poet While he waits for another cup of coffee he stares—the waitress has no idea he’s regretting an em dash in the first quatrain of his most recent poem, the one about the time he stood on a stool next to his mother, his cheek touching the cool skin of her arm as she deftly pulls flour into egg yolks, stirs with her fingers and kneads the dough, then rolls it through the press—parchment thin-- and how it glows when she holds it up to the window where the red bougainvillea sway—in nearly the same manner he walked through the doorway today faltering, the moment he remembered how that same shade of red had matched the colour of his small shoes—and her lips. Gwendolyn Soper Gwendolyn Soper is 1 part poet, 1 part commentary writer, 1 part soprano (formerly with the Boston Symphony Orchestra Chorus, Utah Chamber Artists, and Utah Light Opera), 4 parts grandmother, and 1 part beekeeper in rural Utah. ** Legacy Like painter pausing flooding light the poet hears reflected plight to speak to moment lest it pass becoming shelved like emptied glass that's lost to those it might have served by being message verse preserved and proof prophetic, conscious mind believed its soul could be entwined in future it would not behold that was in wizened eyes foretold by pattern laid of perfect squares and disarray of empty chairs -- the order and the chaos left by those who've gone to those bereft. 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. ** The Poet and the Artist I sit with my sketchbook. He with his thoughts. Even without paper, I can tell he’s recording, debating. We often occupy the same quiet. I live in this moment, capturing this space, the light of this hour. He disappears into another dimension. Entering customers might marvel why it takes so long to choose a sandwich or ice cream cone. They don’t know the ineffable taste of inspiration. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, and graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. Thanks to fellow poets, who generously share the hottest poetry news, Alarie visited The Ekphrastic Review a few months after its birth and decided to move in to stay. She is a consultant for prizes, occasional judge, and received one of the first Fantastic Ekphrastic Awards in 2020.Please check out her three poetry collections on the Ekphrastic Bookshelf. ** Il Poeta I’m dying empty, Having climbed past Middle age and now, In this sun-latticed Space, where hope And language end, Memory enters and I try to reconcile all That’s passed with What little remains, Weighing how I might Yet remake this life Of bad beginnings into Something worthy Of remembering. But Math becomes even More daunting as we Age and it seems so Much more has been Subtracted, like the Way a winter’s silence Within a balsam-blue Wood steadily and Irretrievably deepens Such that sounds become Something rare and Unsettling, like the Voice inside my mis- Shapened heart, even As days shorten and Descend, as they must, Towards a cold and Certain darkness. John Muro John Muro is a life-long resident of Connecticut, and a graduate of Trinity College, Wesleyan University and the University of Connecticut. He has a life-long passion for art, and worked at the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, Connecticut earlier in his career. John’s first book of poems, In the Lilac Hour, was published last fall by Antrim House, and it is available on Amazon. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous literary journals, including Moria, Euphony, River Heron, Sheepshead, The Writer Shed Press and the French Literary Review. ** The Poet in the Cafe How long, exactly, does it take to make a god- damned BLT? Sigh. Johnny Eaton Johnny Eaton is a writer, songwriter, cartographer, actor, and artist living in the Outaouais, Quebec, Canada. His poetry has been published in Blackfly Literary Magazine and Seven Mondays Journal. He's just getting back into poetry after a long hiatus. Isn't it great that this is longer than his poem? ** Waiting On A Muse Without the hum of voices sharing news, A café is an uninspiring place, If where its owner planned to meet his muse. This poet wears a disappointed face—— It's past the time she said she would be here ... No smartphone rings——his poet's place is pro Good conversation, smartphones interfere ... Old phones, though here, are silent——she won't show. Nor will the old-time patrons who once came. A café host who nurtured têtê-à-tête May reminisce, but times are not the same, Upturned by Covid and the internet ... So he'll close down, and write of days long gone—— Ennui may be the muse he waited on! Mike Mesterton-Gibbons Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University. His acrostic sonnets have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. ** Art is Everywhere The poet feels it. A queue of objects d'art along the top-shelf of his mind all mean something: a china cat that comes alive in dreams, its brittle whiskers testing distance; a goblet never meant for wine, toasting its existence with sips of air. Art is everywhere. The poet feels it, interlocking fingers to greet himself in reverie. A blue cotton blazer hugs him like the sky as chairs challenge tables on the chessboard floor, contemplating gambits: an infinity of strategies, or one, like once upon a time... Brown fades to beige in lemon light, the sun warming windows chilled by night: he watches it illuminate a sugar bowl, its heaped cubes of crystal, becoming white. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught at the University of Wolverhampton for twenty five years, where he ran the Creative Writing Programme. He took early retirement in 2019 to write full time. He is the author of over twenty books, which cover fiction, poetry, and scholarship. His work has won a number of prizes including the Ottakars/Faber and Faber Poetry Competition, The John Clare Poetry Prize, and the Sentinel Poetry Prize. His academic work includes books on Philip Roth, Allen Ginsberg, Lydia Davis, narratology, and the philosophy of humour. ** Haiku Space Chairs tango dream - perfect legs clasp like his hands, an ambushed poet. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas is author of a British Library Publication, a poetry pilgrim, a Sanskrit student. Her poems appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Beckindale Poetry Journal, Poetrywivenhoe and Caged Blossoms. ** Haiku The old man's journey ends when a loved one has gone in early summer. 在りし日の君を想ひて浅き夏 Toshiji Kawagoe Toshiji Kawagoe, Ph.D. is a professor at Future University Hakodate. He lives in Hokkaido, Japan. His poems in ancient Chinese have been published in the anthologies of Chinese poetry and his science fiction short stories in S-F Magazine and Anotherealm. His academic works in economics are also published in many books and academic journals. ** The Poet Isn't Here The poet doesn't linger in cafes. The poet doesn't write about coffee. The poet isn't inside today's stale menu. The poet doesn't make a virtue of being alone. The poet isn't soaked in cynicism, a listless teabag. The poet took their chess pieces from this floor, caught the bus, is on a long journey, won't be back. Don't forget the tip. Osculum of a Purse Sponge Osculum of a Purse Sponge is currently underwater ** A Quiet Place Away from Home Grandpa often came to the diner in Laurens before people hustled to their jobs or after they finished their chores on their farms near Rush or Pickerel Lake. Most mornings he arrived before sunrise and shared fishing news with other grandpas, men with very little hair, and pretty women served them coffee as black as Iowa mud poured from a glass pitcher. He said he’d introduce me if I could wake early. Vacation at Grandma and Grandpa’s helped me collect extra sleep for when I had to return home. It was tough for a ten-year-old to sleep when Mom and Dad fought. Grandma could make coffee at home, but I think Grandpa needed quiet time, too. I ran past his rusty pickup truck to the new air-conditioned Cadillac they bought after the farm auction. I climbed onto the leather seat, snapped the belt, and drank the cool silence with him the twelve blocks to town. Main Street was empty except for two cars and a bright blue pickup with a load of straw in the back. Someone turned on a light at the Ben Franklin Store, but most owners were probably sleeping. Grandpa flung wide the heavy door and motioned. “Ladies first.” I giggled. He made me feel ten feet tall. A bell chirped overhead. Hanging from a wire string the tarnished bell screeched like a violin someone forgot to tune. But the tiny café smelled like Grandma’s kitchen when she’d baked chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon rolls on the same morning. A woman with a flowery embroidered apron hugged me. “Hello, doll. You like our canary? Take a seat and I’ll be right back to take your order.” “Are you Daisy?” “Why, yes.” She glanced at Grandpa, then at me. “Now, how did you know that?” The woman’s voice sang, and her hands swept across the room. She twirled, and in one motion lifted the coffee pot, hung two cups on one finger, and glided back to our table. Mini packets of sugar beckoned. The menu was artistic with handwritten words and flowers matching Daisy’s apron. “Ten cents for coffee?” I asked. Daisy winked again. “Five cents for him.” “It’s fifty cents where I live.” I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Grandpa patted my arm. “Black. And a box o’ sugar cubes.” His eyes twinkled as the sun brightened the room. He put his finger to his lips. “Don’t tell your grandma.” He blinked both eyes, pressed his lips together, and made his expression that meant, And that’s that. “Can I just have sugar cubes?” Grandpa’s laughter filled the room. Daisy pocketed her order pad. “Sure thing, sweetie. One box of sugar cubes coming up.” He scraped his fingernails on the tablecloth. No one scolded him here. Grandpa gazed through the huge wall of windows framed by checkered black and white curtains that matched the floor. “Do those red chairs spin?” I pointed to the tall counter near the sweets. He looked away from the window, blinked again, and nodded. I stepped on the black squares, pretending the white ones were water, and climbed on a tall round stool and spun in grand circles. “Be careful, doll,” Daisy warned. I grabbed the table to stop, but my head kept spinning like I was on the teacup ride at the Iowa State Fair. Grandpa’s worry lines appeared. He was tapping his fingernails on the fabric and played a tune I didn’t recognize. He saw me staring and the lines on his forehead softened. Wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes. Just like that—his grin made him stop tapping and brought his twinkle back. Like a beautiful sunny day, the blue sky sparkled in his eyes. Grandpa and the bell greeted the men one by one as they arrived. A grunt or two, sips of the muddy coffee, and the gurgling pot blended with the chatter of friends. Conversations hinted at family. Most had a wife and kids, but all voices rose in a crescendo when they shared their fishing tales. I wanted to save every word and pack them in my suitcase. To ask why each one gathered here every morning. To know if the other wives fused about their husbands. And to listen to sad accounts of having to sell their farms and land. Peace graced Grandpa’s face. He told me that many men came to America through Ellis Island just like he had, from places all around the world. From Sweden, Germany, or other countries across the ocean, they came to the farmlands of Iowa. They dug ditches, laid tile, or plowed fields to earn a living until they could buy a farm. This land required back-breaking work, he’d said, but work offered rest each night, with a wife who’d worked as hard in the kitchen as he had in the fields. Maybe that’s why Grandma scolded him. Maybe she felt unneeded in town. Or unloved. Filled with breakfast and stories, I closed the box of sugar cubes. He held out his work-worn hand. “Well, Grandma’s waitin’. Better git goin’.” My ten-year-old hand in his sandpaper grip felt warm and safe. Loved. ** I’m married now, and older than Grandpa was that summer. But I know better why he went to the diner after I had children of my own. Sometimes silence feels right. Some days I need to escape. And I, like Grandma, sometimes nag my family. “I just went to the grocery store,” or “I can make you a mocha Frappuccino for much less than Starbucks.” I wish I hadn’t said those out loud, either. The din of small talk buzzing beyond my earbuds at Café Diem helps ground me. That’s worth more than any price for coffee. And if time travel were possible, a million, billion dollars wouldn’t keep me from a trip to Grandpa’s quiet place. To sit once more and not say anything at all. To see blue skies twinkling in Grandpa’s eyes. Patricia Tiffany Morris Patricia Tiffany Morris sketches ideas in her sleep, that is, when she finds time to sleep. She gravitates toward inspirational messages, encouraging others to find hope in Christ. An eclectic creative with a geeky-tech affinity and a poet with three names, Patricia adores Pinterest,Instagram, and hashtags, but finds Twitter quirky. She owns Tiffany Inks Studio LLC, the publisher of Journaling Scribbles, artwork, and custom logos. TISLLC provides tech troubleshooting, tutorials, and specialty services for writers. ** Letting Go He stared out the window into the empty street lit only by the flicker of gaslights. The restaurant was empty and so was the page before him. Blank. Nothing. “Another whiskey,” he called across the empty dining room to the waiter. “Bar’s closed, sir. I can get you a cup of coffee if you’d like.” The old man shook his head and dropped his chin to his chest. He wanted to dull his senses, not awaken them. So much to say yet not a word came to mind beyond her name. “Evie, Evie, Evie.” Their lives had been linked, bonded, after sixty-three years. She was not his other half. They were together as one. Today she would nurture the earth. Tomorrow he would join her. But first he was to deliver a stirring eulogy as he’d done for so many of his congregants who had passed away through the years. The door squeaked open. He didn’t look up, but heard the footsteps approaching. “Dad.” He heard Marilyn’s soft voice and felt her warm hand touch his resting on the table. “Dad,” she repeated. “Let’s go home.” “But I didn’t …” “I know. I’ve got this one.” He looked up. Smile lines deepened on his face. “Evie,” he said staring into his daughter’s eyes. Barbara Schilling Hurwitz Barbara Schilling Hurwitz is a veteran teacher who has found a new voice through creative writing. Her short stories have appeared in many online and print journals including Montgomery Magazine, America Writers Review 2020, The Drabble, Potato Soup, Fewer than 500, Microfiction Monday and several Pure Slush anthologies. She enjoys reading, paper crafts, travel and time spent with family.  Istanbul, by Garabet Yazmaciyan (Turkey) by 1929 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 Istanbul, by Garabet Yazmaciyan. Deadline is August 20, 2021 . You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Helping the editor share the time and expenses involved is very much appreciated. There is an easy button to click below to share a five spot through PayPal or credit card. Thank you. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to 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 YAZMACIYAN WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, August 20, 2021. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. Please note, some selected responses may also be chosen for our newly born podcast, TERcets, with host Brian Salmons. Your submission implies permission should he decide to read yours. If that happens, you will be notified and sent a link to share. Thank you! 14. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send Spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! We send a newsletter zero to two times a month, with hopes of more consistency in the future. It updates you on challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, the podcast, and more. You can cancel at any time, of course, but may find yourself back on the list after another submission. We hope you don't cancel because we like to stay in touch occasionally! 15. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 16. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 17. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  If you enjoyed this moon themed art prompt, there are forty more in this Moon Gazing ebook. There is no specific contest attached to Moon Gazing, but we have carefully curated a gorgeous selection of moon paintings to inspire your ekphrastic writing practice, whether poetry, flash fiction, CNF, or any other forms you enjoy. Your ebook purchases are helping to make this journal sustainable, support our expenses and the time commitment involved. We have also started having contests with cash prizes, allowing us to pay writers occasionally. We are incredibly grateful for your support.  Enter our ekphrastic flash fiction summer contest. Click on fish above for details.
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