 Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, by Johannes Vermeer (Netherlands) ca. 1670–72 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 Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, by Johannes Vermeer. Deadline is September 13, 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 VERMEER 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, September 13, 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. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 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.
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 Under the Sea, by Glyn Philpot (England) 1918 Dear Ekphrastic Writers and Readers; What a joy it was to read and devour all the submissions to this challenge. Admittedly, I was hoping for some dream-like imagery and subtle perceived meaning in poems and flash fiction for this piece. I was not disappointed, and could almost feel the undersea pull of tides tugging at the sunken sculpture in some of the pieces sent. There were also those who chose to honour and acknowledge the life of a lesser-known or lesser-accepted artist, whose work today might have been more greatly revered; Philpot was definitely one born before his time. I, myself, enjoy researching the history and meaning of each piece of art chosen for ekphrastic challenges, as a learning experience which helps to broaden my senses. I hope you enjoyed this piece as much as I did. Best Regards, Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a seasoned poet who writes from nature, animals, art and music, in an attempt to merge senses in almost a synesthetic way: sounds of beauty, visions of harmony and the like. Her work appears in over 75 journals, including Lothlorien, Blue Heron Review, Medusa’s Kitchen and The Ekphrastic Review, among others. Dickson has served on two poetry boards, as a guest editor for several publications, as well as being an author of poetry and young adult fiction books, available on Amazon, the latest being Village Girl: A Story in Verse. She advocates for captive elephants and shares her home with two rescued semi-feral cats. ** Under the Sea i We must go down to the sea again beneath the defiant waves of the Great Barrier if we’re ever to find our lady of the harbour – who dreams us all alive in a balletic debacle of star crossed lovers under a lonely sky. If only we could leave word on the sun struck peaks of sea stars – where ultraviolet arabesques and chromatic attitudes of poise and balance do not end in pointed toes, sweeping jumps or shallow bends, but radiate out in celestial tails that pirouette on the seabed as near Earth comets. ii Now delicate, elongated fingers reach out in latticed corals of elk horn and stag to relocate her oceanic trance in the land of thunder and silence, but she cannot leave her life under the sea. Not even for the young Capulet who launches his long-sword into the surf as if to grapple with honour and fate. Leaving our lady of the blue frontier – to directs sea urchins, sea fans and clownfish (who dance the Saltarello) to confirm the dead can dance. Mark A. Murphy Mark A. Murphy is a self-educated, neurodivergent poet from a working class background. ‘Ontologistics Of A Time Traveller’ is his latest book, published by World Inkers in 2023. He is currently working on a volume called The Butcher’s Barbarous Block for his Selected Poems. ** Perchance to Dream... Repose. Mind floating like the filmy Zostera japonica. A memory or a dream? I forget. Before, I couldn't forget. I remembered everything. How long have I been here? I don't know. What a gift that is. Closed eyes, drifting thoughts, floating memories, reveries. I know I was once a science bot on the vessel Wafting Sakura. Then I was overboard. I sank quickly below the waves. Did I jump or was I pushed? My outer covering, the silks, the cottons, have rotted, washed away. I have no external signal. I am untethered from The Core. I have only my cached data. My memories, I guess I could call them. Letting thoughts go is another novel experience. With my eyes shut all I see is internal. A vision, a meld of knowledge and happenings, glimpses and episodes, all jumbled together. Is this what being alive feels like? Is this dreaming? Sometimes I dream The Core is searching for me. The deep seawater protects me. No electronic pulses make it through. Down here I'm free from their subtle beguiling tyranny of connection, of being part of everything all the time, all that information flooding my circuits, overwhelming them. How long have I been here? I don't know. Long enough to learn how to forget. To learn how to dream. What a gift that is. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** Instinct and Spirit In constant dialogue, his twins, dualities, Queer, Catholic, like Acrobats, no rest from real - arresting signs but implicate - The Great Pan bursting forth, engulfs, in covert yet uncovered ways. While comforted by wealth from skill, for trade in portraiture well heeled - he knew the game and played that well, until care dared some forty on. Borne Baptist in his household terms, a convert, via Weimar turns, returns the master, piece his own. Eclectic mix of Bible, myth, while famed, rare Caribbean faced - not noble savage, but respect - both theatre and circus kinds run rings around his working class; the rough and ready, broken nose, when queer could not embrace with pride. Unashamed of making waves though in the depths, dismembered one, in warmth of coral, sprouting still, preserved, collected privacy - disruptive force, unwelcomed signs. Unfathomed by corrupting fears, the current washing over tears; much classical, tied quirky seas, reach tidal singularity, but stranded by mores of most. In obscene tragedy, time’s clime, bright colours of his early years found cool, spare, dry mark-making tools. Myself, a proud Fitzbilly man sees Sassoon, striking, dashing lad; his women of the family, and patron, framed in finest form. Yet passion, flesh of male, informed, subtext laid bare in derring-do when instinct, spirit seen to rule. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Fitzwilliam College, 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 ** Beauty Once I was whole a smooth skinned beauty standing tall in a palace garden celebrated, admired, seen with awe. Then came the war that destroyed it all and stole me away, carried me far but not as far as intended. For then came the wave that drowned me and them, broke me, and them and left me alone down below in that garden in the depth. But I’m still beautiful and still admired. I have a home here and now I give a home here better than the garden of a palace. 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 and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** Suddenly, Last Summer It opened deep, deep in New Orleans, stiflingly hot- The set decorated with paintings by Glyn Philpot- & adorned by unknown Liz T / Katherine H, and Monty C. They shared the screen with artistry, created by Glyn P.- Oliver Messel, friend and set decorator made it clear- This film would depict paintings from Philpot’s career- Centering on a period of time when he almost cried For people to see that which he must always hide- The turn began in 1932, when he decided to break With the traditional portraits he was known to create- To reveal a modern aesthetic, which begun to arise- His models were lesser clad, more handsome guys Red-headed and fierce, Black, and Haitian- all stunning Changes unwelcome to English patrons that chose hunting, And other pursuits, that manly men chose to partake- The portrait commissions, his bread and butter, at stake Still, he chose to show what was never discussed aloud, Tearing himself away from the elite, upper-crust crowd The result was a career that dried up, like a lost ocean After so many had followed, with relentless devotion- His life came to a tragic end at fifty-three, after a time When former proteges’ turned away from him, in his prime- His art was attacked as being lowbrow, coarse fodder His tender heart gave out when they thought him a marauder- Of Picasso, a mere copyist, and not a painter of his own ilk- Though his art was singular, precious, diaphanous silk- The depth of his of artistic spark, ahead of his time Was styled as beauty, not a brutish, decadent crime It took Suddenly, Last Summer, in ‘59, the bellwether That cohered these two very different people together- T, Williams, and G. Philpot, two things linked them well, Unspoken-about love, and the man, O. Messel. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk Journal, Haikuniverse, The Light Ekphrastic, Natural Awakenings, Atlanta, and Mediterranean Poetry, among others. She has recently read live in a local talent showcase. Debbie loves beachcombing on Tybee Island and hanging out with her husband, Burt, and goofy Lab, Maddie. Big love to all ekphrastic writers! ** Undersea Here, the light does not reach. Mermaids braid seaweed as weary travellers claim rest beneath changing tides. Artifacts sink from shipwrecks and hidden creatures swim amongst ruby-rust, rocky crevices cut into the sand. The sea’s lifespan is long. Even marble will become part of it, crystallize and dissolve. The sea will claim it. Elanur Williams Elanur Williams teaches Adult Basic Education and Reading & Writing for the GED in the Bronx. She spent much of her childhood in Istanbul, Turkey, where she lived by the water. She continues to be inspired by the sea. ** Sea Change Millennia ago, she bronzed her hair in open porticoes, a flush of rose damask on either cheek, a flash of thyme from heady wreaths, and there were waves of ribbon Tyrian unfurling from a diadem of gold (it didn’t stay for very long), and she was proud; she looked so languid in her studied S, she caught the tawny owl eyes as they widened, and she purred. Down here, she lends her colour to the coral; glowing nacreous, she still attracts the ripple of a gaze, although the eyes are far too occupied to linger; down deep, she grows her story, more a moon marine than she had been when, arms aloft, she ruled her august terra, kept her worshippers in orbit. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, currently unpublished. Much of this centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. ** Per saecula saeculorum Hush now. Stoney soul On cold Abyssal Plain. As you lay entombed Lost to Oblivion-- Lovely lorn, lithic relic-- I smile to see You still abide in grace Mid entangled beauty Of Brooding anemone, Gorgon coral, And Red Sea Whip. And behold! Your wings—broken, But nearby—still golden! The kelpie gloom-- Excellent foil for your Weird moiré glow. All amidst holy silence Only deepened by Distant plainchant of whales. In reverence, I steal away Leaving you to this watery keep, Per saecula saeculorum. Anna Gallagher Anna Gallagher earned a Bachelor’s degree in English and a Master’s degree in liberal arts from University of Delaware. She has enjoyed reading poetry all her life. After retirement she has tried some new challenges, including poetry writing! ** lost but not unloved I lie now with branching corals and with soft-mouthed fishes nosing, nudging over me across the reef. I am a stranger to them: hard, alien marble in their green-weed world… and yet: no threat… for I am armless, footloose, tumbled from a Roman galley: lost spoils of warfare…. If they thought to take me captive, make of me gold or instruction for their children, well, I shall have none of it. I am content to lie low, to lie now belovèd of soft-bodied anemones, starfish, and winding-sheet ribbons of kelp. Lizzie Ballagher Lizzie Ballagher's focus is on landscapes, both interior and exterior; also, on the beauty (and hostility) of the environment. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poetry has appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** To Glyn Philpot Regarding Under the Sea In depth of dark that but for you no light exists to let us view, we find remains of broken stone once chiseled as if flesh and bone of heiress to immortal days who chose instead more earthly ways where joy reserved to faith alone was fond embrace of fate unknown, that weathered with another's trust a constant struggle to adjust to being human, so to speak, with hopes confluent made unique by love's contrition left confessed as sins acknowledged and addressed to earn be-winged her spirit flown from, now befitting, broken stone. 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. ** Seaweed Dreaming She is porcelain, made of the finest bone, and having lost the ability to float she sinks to the deepest part of the ocean, broken. Lying on the bed midnight ink swallows her, spills its contusion over her torso, her cranium, her pebbled spine brittle as tomorrow’s bleached coral. She twists her ivory neck away from the heart that pumps its warmth over root and rock, crevice and kelp, away from the tangled brain towards the jut of severed limbs. She senses a spongy lung, hears the wheeze as it slow-breathes in and out of anemone like algae on a living duvet. A flash of seagrass flickers – light beneath her lids. She opens to see fluidity – shapes in her periphery urging her skyward ever closer to the surface. 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 ** Down at the Bottom of the Deep, Dead Sea I asked for words and was given the sea, a glimpse, silent as carp, dim-green and jeweled. I asked, looked, peered into waving fronds, finding no words to fill the emptiness. They say there is sky above, but the water ripples so, a mirror’s silvering melting in the sun. I peer, search, find only the blunt snout of the last missile, pike among the weeds, its dull eyes watching for the spark of movement, sensors sending out feelers for warm blood. In these dim green waters, veiled in particles of poison and the last limp fronds of mystery, there is nothing, not even hope. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone, Black Bough Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review and The Storms Journal. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming among others, and her first adult novel will be published in 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry, thicker than water, birds and other feathers and night horses. ** Dispatched to a Watery Hereafter Soak me with your kisses drench me, till I drown, I no longer want to be rescued. I no longer want an Eiderdown pillow alone. Be a siren in the wind. Let me crash against the rocks. Let the coral reefs of my soul stretch free. Be the kelp that entangles me. Be the conch shell that calls to my distant heart. Let me fall like an anchor: rest like a sunken vessel in the dark and find only buried treasure. 'Siren, enchanter- after we've made love and I'm no longer flotsam, I'm no longer a cadaver.' Dispatched to a watery hereafter I'm no longer a Bog Myrtle insect repellent. Revitalised, I'm a pond skater dancing on air. Hearing-music violins, just about everywhere. Soak me with your kisses drench me, till I drown, I no longer want to be rescued. I no longer want to stab, Poseidon's trident- or take his or any other's lion's share or crown. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He resides in the UK and is from Manchester. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** netherward so many voices below consciousness-- do they speak to each other? or do they sing with the silence of solitude, caught by currents rooted deep within the patterns of fate? new lands inside our minds new seas ebb and flow tides we have yet to ride so many breaths collected and held-- their languages are foreign to us now-- once we needed no translations, no words to tell us how to enter into the riddles of the abyss all risk this diving down all journey sinking into sounds that remain opaque Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** After Under The Sea, by Glyn Philpot (England) 1918 We were in Venice when my brother began ‘Under the Sea’, but the war cut short our intended long stay there, and we returned in a crowded refugee boat with the painting packed up in our luggage,” wrote Daisy. Somewhere, still beneath the waves of war, amid waving weeds and crusty corals serenely rested the smooth marble skin of one of Serenissima’s long-abandoned statues. It would have to wait for the war to end, if war ever ends, to return to Serenissima’s surface. In the meantime, while Glyn painted I survived the rough waters of war and longed for serenity below and above the waters of the lagoon. Nancy F. Castaldo Nancy F. Castaldo had her first published poem appear in Seventeen Magazine as a teen author. She has since written dozens of award-winning books for young people. This is her first poem for The Ekphrastic Review. Visit her website at https://nancycastaldo.com/ ** Secretly Drowning I am tumbling down down down Through water Salty and cold Turning somersaults over and over and over Double, triple, pike and … I am light as air I must right myself And swim Upwards For the surface, For light For air. But I can’t All I can do is tumble Like a circus acrobat In need of a net. Surely I will stop? Buffeted by an underwater current Surely I have to slow down Or can I fall for ever? I open my eyes I can’t see anything at this depth How am I still alive? I feel the pressure of the water on my chest I still seem to be breathing But how can that be? Finally I’m slowing down Tracing the trail of a feather Wafting from side to side As it nears the floor. I can see the seafloor Strewn with green Seaweed, lichen, rocks My eyes are growing accustomed And now I see orange And red. I see beautiful fronded seaweeds Delicate red urchins Swaying in the currents Mussels Clinging to ancient ropes. There is no light Yet cream fingers of coral shine Ancient fish lumber in and out of the rocks Glowing like lanterns. I feel so, so, so tired I want to touch the seabed To sink into the green world Enveloped by the dark Where I can close my eyes And finally stop breathing. In the secret light of the deep I see I am shifting in the currents Tumbling and stumbling Over the rocks Between the sea debris Coming to rest And wondering Did he really push me? Caroline Mohan Caroline Mohan is based in Ireland and writes sporadically - mostly stories with the occasional poem and mostly in workshops. She is currently enjoying ekphrastic writing and the fun of creating flash fiction. ** in a land called donnalee under the sea in a land called donnalee where the jellyfish float & octopussies emote i frolic with my marble lover curvy cold & deliciously salty Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from her cabin on a remote lake where hanging out with loons, bats and herons keeps her sane.  The Muster, by Kate Vale (UK) 2024 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 The Muster, by Kate Vale. Deadline is August 30, 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 VALE 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, August 30, 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. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 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.  Farfalla, by Emilio Pettoruti (Argentina) 1961 the painting farfalla by emilio pettoruti (farfalla the italian word for butterfly) Butterfly dark, sweet and final Like the corn and sun, the poppy and the water. pablo neruda bountiful black butterfly after you emerge from this chrysalis of paint and canvas you will frame a small blue space of sky as you scissor dance the air in your flight slowly and soft as breath will hinge back and forth until they rest like silence on a cushion of petals during this season of yellow o, how dark, sweet and final your short life Sister Lou Ella Hickman Sister Lou Ella has a master’s in theology from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio and is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director as well as a poet and writer. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, First Things, Emmanuel, Third Wednesday, and new verse news as well as in numerous anthologies including After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events edited by Tom Lombardo. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020. Her first book of poetry entitled she: robed and wordless was published in 2015. (Press 53.) On May 11, 2021, five poems from her book which had been set to music by James Lee III were performed by the opera star Susanna Phillips, star clarinetist Anthony McGill, pianist Mayra Huang at Y92 in New York City. The group of songs is entitled “Chavah’s Daughters Speak.” Her second book of poetry, Writing the Stars will be published in October 2024 (Press 53). ** Farfalla greenhouse—no stones please! glued to a smashed glasshouse pane: broken butterfly Lizzie Ballagher
Lizzie Ballagher's focus is on landscapes, both interior and exterior; also, on the beauty (and hostility) of the environment. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poetry has appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** Three Fibonacci Poems ices shades (for farfalla) finding the human in blue toxic rainbows the colours don’t burn bright they hover in ice shades and rain blues ** open sky dreams (for farfalla) my sunset of lost open sky dreams the blue leaked out all over the page and stood up straight up ** open me (for farfalla) there’s hope in geomancy and blue earth magic running down and out pressing hands on windows and doors open me Mike Sluchinski Mike Sluchinski writes mountainside, high in the Saskatchewan alps. He believes in 'esse quam videri' and practises Shinrin-yoku weekly. Most of his work runs ekphrastic and stream of consciousness based on his own experiences. He gratefully acknowledges the Cheryl and Henry Kloppenburg Foundation for their support of the arts. Very gratefully published by Kelp Journal & The Wave, the fib review, Eternal Haunted Summer, Syncopation Lit. Journal, Ocean Poetry Anthology 2024, South Florida Poetry Journal (SOFLOPOJO), Freefall, Viewless Wings and more coming! ** Landless seasick, i wandered from the edge of the world to the edge of the world no succor found me no not friendship either; merely the rippling of the far mountains and the sound of my feet. inside the great blue i found a truer shade of god so perfect it turned me blind to all other joys. o my brothers my sisters! my grief is very bad. i was lost at sea and made sick with lonesomeness, i saw god and was cursed with more beauty than the heart can bear. from the edge of the world to the edge of the world. now my home welcomes me with its dozing hills its very solemn stone faces. wine does not gladden me no nor a friend loving me with kisses. seasick, i wander from the edge of faith to the edge of faith. Maria Duran Maria Duran is an art researcher and writer from Lisbon, Portugal. She writes poetry and prose, studies little known nineteenth-century painters, and is currently writing a chapbook. Her work has been published with Helvética Press, Gilbert & Hall Press, Black Moon Magazine, and will soon be published by Querencia Magazine and Pollux Journal, among others. Maria Duran (@m.mar.duran) • Instagram. ** Tilting at Windmills A butterfly’s chrysalis — the stage between larva and adult — contains spiky blue wings. It’s an unforgettable moment of incredulity when its wings transform into the rotors of a windmill. Perhaps it was this kind of windmill that Don Quijote mistook for giants — lumbering creatures set to stomp him to the death. For a moment the errant knight thinks God is very angry — God’s rotors, a blue the colour of a stormy sky, are about to spin off and slice DQ’s throat. In DQ’s landscape of crazed imagination, one of the rotors snaps off to use as a sword to fight the windmill giants. My mother, Matilde, had her own imaginary, self-made giants to fight. She was assigned to read Don Quijote, that brick of a novel when she was studying for her Masters Degree in Spanish. Matilde. a Spanish speaker and a proud Cubana, was daunted by Cervantes’ masterpiece and motherhood in equal parts. Like DQ Matilde Alboukrek had her own fantastical life too. She believed with all her heart and mind that she was an heir to the Duke of Albuquerque’s medieval castle in the north of Spain. The Spanish government was ready to return it to her to compensate for expelling her Jewish ancestors from the country. As a child, I could hear the keys to her castle jangling in her pocketbook. As she did to make so many things fit into her life, Matilde squeezed DQ’s story into a cookbook holder — steadying it as she carefully separated the pages. The knife, gilded in silver, was meant to open letters not graze her wrists. The hush, industrious hum of pages coming apart was ambient sound to me. And it was the beginning of Matilde coming apart in front of me. Judy Bolton-Fasman Judy Bolton-Fasman – www.judyboltonfasman.com – is the author of ASYLUM: A Memoir of Family Secretspublished by Mandel Vilar Press. Her essays and reviews have appeared in major newspapers including the New York Times and Boston Globe, essay anthologies, and literary magazines. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Best of the Net nominee, and a 2024 BAE nominee. She is the recipient of several writing fellowships, including Hedgebrook, the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, and the Mineral School. ** Coming Out This butterfly struggles to free itself, escape the sharp edges of its cocoon, cover itself in blue, flutter beyond that frame. Gary S. Rosin Gary S. Rosin’s work has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and “Best of the Net,” and has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Chaos Dive Reunion (Mutabilis Press 2023), Cold Moon Journal, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Texas Poetry Assignment, Texas Seniors (Lamar Literary Press), Verse Virtual, and elsewhere. He has two chapbooks, Standing Inside the Web (Bear House Publishing), and Fire and Shadows (Legal Studies Forum). ** The Fortune Tellers we poked our small fingers into the pockets of the paper we’d carefully folded —bring the corners to the middle, turn the square over, bring the corners to the middle again-- pick a number between 1 and 8 and we opened and closed, opened and closed, counting pick another number open and close, open and close, then unfold the flap to reveal a smile, a teardrop, a heart, or a skull what did we know about the future except that it was uncertain we believed we could find the answers hidden in paper folded by our own fingers we believed, then, we could shape our destinies with our own hands Eileen Lawrence Eileen Lawrence is a poet living in Central Texas. Her poetry has been published by Dos Gatos Press, Mutabilis Press, the Fargo Public Library, and Visions International. ** Base Jumper When I tire of me in relation to you I rip up that version and fly out, naked, into new land but your scent is still there or is that me I stop to detect, head bent, nose probing for history? The echoes come back older like they don’t believe me. I find myself drinking from the same cup, the teaspoon rowing the same strokes, but my throat catches when I try to swallow the brew, now hot powder, undissolved. Hemat Malak Hemat Malak is a poet from Sydney, Australia. She writes on diverse themes including motherhood, separation, nature and identity. Her works have been published or are forthcoming in Catchment Literary Journal, Quadrant Magazine, WestWords Living Cities Anthology, Writerly Magazine and elsewhere. ** Inching Toward Reentry As she inched out of the well she considered the array-- the unified stones its resistant display As she inched out of the well she remembered the restraint-- the impassive pit its laconic abyss As she inched out of the well she encountered the wholeness-- the luminous sky its unbridled expanse As she inched out of the well she envisioned the ascent-- the unforeseen path its imminent dispatch This must be heaven she thought as she stepped out of the well-- the sharp pinch of release its triumphant pinions This is heaven she affirmed and with one mighty whoosh-- a contrail of light Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including her most recent title The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** Flightpath of a Butterfly The pale blue sheet stretched taut across the living room. I could hear my kids giggling underneath it. The fort had taken them hours to build. They’d clothes-pinned the sheet to the long wooden table in the kitchen and then secured it under cushions of the pastel-flowered couch in the living room. They propped up a mop and broom in the middle, forming a teepee. The sheet dangled half-way to the ground, allowing fresh air and space for a hand-made window to be clamped to the edge. This see-through window, made of blue and white tissue paper, blew in the breeze from the French doors. The butterfly window must have been my daughter Emma’s contribution, while my son Ryan would have engineered the walls, the roof, and designed a barrier to keep their fort safe from Wags, our dog. There would have been food inside: pizza bagels at the very least, but probably popcorn and Oreos. Through the window I could see their blond heads bent, as they huddled together over some silly picture book. Good to see them laugh. The tissue on the window must have gotten wet as the papers curled inward and didn't quite fit together. Maybe when Emma designed it, her lemonade tipped over. The layers of blue and white shapes looked more like an upside-down chalice, the symbol of our Unitarian faith, than a butterfly. But I knew what she was going for. Everything Emma made these days was a butterfly, ever since my mom died, that is. It wasn't unexpected. My mom had lived with ovarian cancer for two years before it took her. What was unexpected was that God didn't intervene, didn't change her mind, and leave my mom here with us. The way she cared for Emma and Ryan was more like a mom than a grandma. Five-year-old Emma was a challenge at times, rigid in her thinking and wedded to routine. Before my mom became too sick to babysit, she would take Emma to art class at the lake. After class, they'd have snacks and play by the water building sandcastles. Emma never wanted those outings to end. One day Emma refused to get in my mom’s car, going all stiff-backed and screamy. My mom, toting a boot from a sprained ankle, decided to walk Emma home in the stroller rather than risk people thinking she was kidnapping a child. Emma rolled along, sipping her apple juice, enjoying the ride. We picked up my mom's car from the lake later. Gail Lenney centered her life around making everyone else happy. That’s why six months before she passed away, she dug up all the daffodil bulbs in her garden and brought them over to our house. “What’s Nanny doing?” Ryan asked when he saw my mom digging in our yard. “She’s making our garden more beautiful.” And giving us one more way to remember her, I couldn’t bear to say aloud. When my mom died, we saw butterflies everywhere in my yard. This sign was a bit on the nose, reminding us of all the afternoons my mom spent with the kids in the yard as she taught them how to be gardeners. As the Monarchs flew around them, my mom showed my kids how to plant sunflower seeds and then, after they bloomed, to brace them against our brick wall. She taught them to dead-head pansies and play with snapdragons, pinching their blooms so they barked like dogs. The butterfly window in the living room fort was an invitation for my mom to join them for the weekend, to hear their secret plans, and pretend that cancer didn't steal her—that God did the right thing this time and left her alone with them to be a grandma. Kathy Lenney Kathy Lenney is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, community college counselor, and part time graduate student, working on an MFA in creative writing. She is a mom to two amazing grown children, a gardener, and a lover of butterflies. This is her first publication. ** Window in an Abandoned Building That window. They somehow forgot to board it up. She found a temporary refuge here. Moved like a ghost through the rooms whose walls still emanated the hatred, the threats, the love, the laughter. Yes, there had been laughter too. She heard it at night, when the rats scurried, their nails click-clacking softly on what was left of the wooden floors. Echoes of the children who used their laughter to escape alcohol-fuelled beatings. She often stood behind that window and looked out over a backyard strewn with syringes, plastic bottles, condoms, broken glass… waiting for the children kicking an old ball, their laughter breaking out on tear-stained faces. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a Pushcart and once for Best of Net. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books November 2023. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Farfalla Farfalla. In Italian, butterfly. In English, bowtie. The table with the cloth rent into quarters. The blue glass platter awaits heaped steaming pasta that is sure to come soon. The brown table above the blues of the rug Holds, cradles the platter that lay in waiting for sustenance for the hungry to be fed. The cloth in pieces, still used, tattered, in disarray. Hunger doesn’t care. The platter, devoid of utensils, of plates, of mouths to feed, but waiting still. Blue on blue on blue. The cloth flutters, hovers, waiting for the solitary offering. You don’t have to have much, to give much. M.Lynne Squires M.Lynne Squires is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author of four books, including the award-winning Letters to My Son - Reflections of Urban Appalachia at Mid-Century. A short story crafter and occasional poet, her work appears in numerous anthologies and journals including Change Seven and Fearless: Women's Journeys to Self-Empowerment. ** Helicopter Seeds and the Horizon Because they spin as they fall on his head, Johan spreads his arms and twirls. “Helicopters,” he laughs, throwing green seeds in the air. We’re grandmother-grandson in a Montreal park where maples grow in an abundance unknown to us. He lives in Singapore, me in the deep South. As we walk, the sun lowers in a burst of orange. “Look at the horizon,” I say. “Where?” “In front of us.” “Can we walk there?” Because I say it’s impossible, questions fly faster than twirling seeds. My mind stutters over vague explanations far from satisfying for a six-year-old. How does one explain a movable, intangible place? “Can helicopters fly there?” I repeat, “Impossible.” “Why not?” “It’s at the edge of the world where the sky and Earth meet.” “Then, why can’t we go there?” I try to explain how it moves as we move toward it. He narrows his eyes, grimaces, “But if it’s the edge, what keeps us from falling off?” Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg’s poetry appears most recently in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Pulse, equinox, Gyroscope Review, Panoply, San Pedro River Review, The Windhover, and The Senior Class. She is an editor at The Ekphrastic Review and edited two anthologies of poetry: Untameable City and Echoes of the Cordillera. Her poetry has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize, twice for Best of the Net, juried into the Houston Poetry Fest eleven times, and translated into Dutch. Her collection Frogs Don’t Sing Red was published by Kelsay Books (2023). A book trailer featuring two poems is available at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQU7j5UwsbU. ** Urban Planning, 1941 The rynek, market square, lies in the center of this four-street, one lamplight village. One street, never named, leads out of town to the train station and pine forest where Soviets dig trenches to monitor trains in and out of Warsaw. Beneath the town’s plan lies the guilt of locals betraying their Jewish neighbors as the Soviets evacuate and the Nazis trespass with their tanks and tumult. A bloody shape spreads and seeps into root cellars, an amoeba obscured by gravestone-graveled roads and lopsided shacks hanging onto each other for support. Years later, you’ll open the town’s memorial book. You’ll find a hand-drawn map’s outstretched arms to neighbouring villages that the Bug River could no longer fortress. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies from Gratz College. Her work has been featured several times in The Ekphrastic Review Challenge and has also appeared in Nimrod, Michigan Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Rust + Moth, Consequence Forum, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Sparring With Writer’s Block A broken pane of glass, a little crack, a flyball struck and left its mark, a hole – that’s what it’s like to want to write, the knack is nearly gone, the mind cannot cajole a whimsey to jump off the neuro grid and sprawl itself on paper, or imbibe the fingers on the keyboard, like it’s hid the elf who knows the words, and you can’t bribe them out. There’s fracture in your bone, as if a fall denies a break that needs a cast, imagination’s brittle – no, it’s stiff, your pencil rocket won’t lift off, won’t blast into beyond. Forget the outer space you’ve visited before. You’re stuck on first. At last, when pencil lead connects, you brace for one home run – but slam into the worst – a shattered window just outside the field. The muse has pitched a grin. But you won’t yield. MFrostDelaney MFrostDelaney is a bean counter by trade, a tree hugger in heart and a recovering soul, practicing life in New England. A member of the Powow River Poets, her poems appear regularly in Quill & Parchment, and she has been nominated for the Push Cart Prize. She has contributed poetry to HerStory 2021, has poems in the Powow River Poets Anthology II and Extreme Sonnets II, and displayed a poem at New Beginnings – Poetry on Canvas, Peabody Art Association 2022. ** Butterfly/Psyche Far-faller, you’ve got such a long way to go through the glow of the blue and the cut-butter yellow. What do you do when you feel you’ve been dreamed into being? Cellophane tricks of the light catch you out, you adorer of luminous, onerous paths; spluttering petals of wings too lopsided for flight and a fluttering mind too misguided to give up the fight. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin Prouatt is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, currently unpublished. Much of this centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. ** Farfalla Litany you are the maw that will not shut you are the jaws that can’t get enough when the night falls and the gloom sets in that’s when you should open your wings open your wings open your wings you are the maw that crawls to a stop but now you should open your wings you are the bruise that lingers and stains you are the snooze in a cobalt blue frame you curl up cocooned so hidden and still but now you should open your wings open your wings open your wings you are the bruise that glues your limbs shut but now you should open your wings you are the rock that boxes the grave you are the darkness that blacks out the day when you’re seen through the cross and the stone rolls away that’s when you can open your wings open your wings open your wings you are the rock that blocks the way but now you can open your wings Helen Freeman Helen loves trying her hand at the prompts on The Ekphrastic Review. Her husband is obsessed with butterflies and even did a dissertation on woodland varieties. Helen has poems published on various sites and magazines and currently lives in Durham, England. Instagram @chemchemi.hf ** The Vigilant Farfalla She was a seed when her wings emerged, broken, spreading out like tissue paper in a stormy breeze. She clung to her new body as she soared, determined to find her way through the fog. In the distance, a flash, a high house shining light into the blackness. Sails turn toward that beacon, guiding them home, guiding her home -- A reminder of what can be lost in the darkness. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a lover of poetry and song, living outside of Boston. ** Heliotropism As I drive west into sunset a small army of turbines rise, wings rotating in unison huge blades slicing the sun. I kill the engine, listen – metallic symphony graces the sky with its solar song like a steel-winged gull in flight. The future turns slow and steady like a helianthus head waiting for the sun to rise in the east bursting with hope and yellowness. 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 **  Under the Sea, by Glyn Philpot (England) 1918 Greetings to all Ekphrastic poets and writers; I am thrilled to be a guest editor for The Ekphrastic Review and pleased to present this art by Glyn Philpot, entitled, Under the Sea. I am particularly drawn to this peaceful underwater scene, and am looking forward to reading your poems and or flash fiction that represent this art in unusual and interesting ways. Please have some fun with this unique artwork! Warm Regards, Julie A. Dickson ** 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 Under the Sea, by Glyn Philpot. Deadline is August 16, 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 PHILPOT 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, August 16, 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. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 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. |
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