 Niagara Falls, by Frederic Edwin Church (USA) 1857 Greetings Ekphrastic Writers! I am pleased to serve as a guest editor for this ekphrastic challenge with art by Frederic Edwin Church. Being a native of the Buffalo, New York area, I spent many hours as a child around the Niagara River and Niagara Falls, on both the Canadian and American sides. The power of the great falls always intrigued me while I grew up. I am very interested to see what poems and flash fiction might come out of this piece of art. Special thanks to Lorette for allowing me to be a guest editor and I look forward to all of your submissions. Best Regards, Julie A. Dickson ** Julie A. Dickson has been writing poetry since she was a child, and is especially drawn to poetry prompts including art, music, nature and memories. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, is a push cart nominee, has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor for various publications. Her poetry appears in over 65 journals, including Misfit, Blue Heron Review, Masticadores, Medusa's Kitchen, and The Ekphrastic Review, among others. Full length works are available on Amazon, including her last book, Village Girl: A Story in Verse (Sunrise Press 2023). ** 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 Niagara Falls, by Frederic Edwin Church. Deadline is October 13, 2023. 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 CHURCH 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, October 13, 2023. 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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 Hymen, oh Hyménée! by Juan Luna (Philippines) 1887 Uneasy Epithalamion (after Catullus) Who could enter and not think of blood? Florid cinnabar, dragon’s blood, coagulate Round the atrium, or the blood of sheep That chew the noontide grass to pulp, Soon to be spilled upon the pale floor Marmoreal, mingling with sacred myrtle And its blood-stained fruit. Even the blue silk Of steppe-dyed tapestries ripple with Parthian Bowmen, dark shafts poised to pierce the fluted Pillars. But let the tympani crash in time, The lyre tremble sweetly, io Hymen Hymenaee io! Hesperus guide the uneasy steps of the bride Who slides white and cloudy as lamb’s wool Over the musk-roses pink and maiden-strewn. Bless the carnelian petals wantonly spread Along the gliding path to the marriage bed, And leave not your evening light to cavort With night, but blaze with the torches and tapers Bright, the air thickened with burning myrrh. While the smoldering ram’s-head brazier Smokes and curls, sing io Hymen Hymenaee io! The servants follow with blood-dark wine, The same that once filled Circe’s cup, And changed clear-headed men to swine. Forgive then the bride one last glance, As the matron in vermilion ushers her Across the moon-white marble. Her eyes lock With an auburn-haired maid in clinging dress Of cobalt, or other pestle-crushed pigment. Brought to her knees, fading through the haze, Eurydice phantasmic at the last Orphic gaze. But like a cornered tortoise in a sunken pool, The procession moves blindly forward, inching Towards the soft cream bedding, with only hints Of the stains to come. Sing Hymen, O Hymenaee! Eric Brown Eric Brown is Professor of English at the University of Maine Farmington. His publications include the books Milton on Film and Insect Poetics and essays on Renaissance literature, film adaptation, and animal studies. His creative work has previously appeared in The Sandy River Review and Mississippi Review and was shortlisted for the 2023 Frogmore Poetry Prize. ** Letter To My Brother, Antonio, Before My Certain Passing Dear kapatid na lalaki, I returned from Japan to our once-beautiful island the minute I heard the devastating news: My little brother, youngest of our clan, was cut down, assassinated in the very light of day, by the butangero, murderous thugs sent by Janolino, who denies it all! Antonio, my heart can’t take the thought of you, brazenly fighting until the very end, dying in public, thirty wounds on your body, the bravest of the brave, my little brother, you died without me! I cannot recover. I know what it feels like to murder, although my war was very different from yours. Yet, the outcome is the same: People that died by our hands would still walk this earth, but for being cut down. Do you think of those that died? I suppose not, as your war was a just one, the war for independence from the Americans, drunks and thieves that they were, and still are, and always will be. My war was far less justified, the battle chosen by me, the dead my own. Dear Paz, wife and love of my life, and my hapless Juliana, mother-in-law to a murderous son-in law. Felix, her only son, was wounded, but lives, thank God! As you know, Antonio, they were not my enemies. As you also know, my only enemy was selos, rabid jealousy. Whether or not Paz was unfaithful, she didn’t deserve to die. I miss her sweet breath, her calming presence! But brother, I miss you more. I once read that you were an even greater painter than I, more talented in the natural sense. It may be true, and truer still is that you were always the better man. In the sciences or on the battlefield, you were sure-headed about your course of action. A scholar, chemist, and a general, you squeezed so many lives into your short years! My soul is so full of pride, to be your brother is perhaps my greatest blessing, after being a father. Brother, I shot them through a door! Without aim, trying only to scare Paz, I killed two and maimed another! Can you ever forgive my cowardice? You stood by my side, but you had to think I belonged in that cell. While you took straight aim at your enemy, for our people, I killed two of my very own because of pure rage! I couldn’t bear the mere thought of another man touching my wife. Thank you for minding Andres during my confinement, it was more than I deserved. I believe that winning the Gold Medal in Madrid got me out of that cell. A medal, and my brother among brothers vouching for me! Being a man that was wronged by his wife helped as well, of course. But it doesn’t help me now, brother, while my soul quakes from all of the blundering I’ve done. Allow me this: I learned my craft. I leave behind enough money for Andres, perhaps he will follow in your shoes and not mine. Hopefully, he will have the heart of a lion, the body of a beast,and like you, the mind of a scholar! Bless his motherless heart. Some say you were a hard man, brother, but I know the truth. You loved your men as hard as you led them. In a way, I killed you, too. My biggest life regret was involving you in LaRevolution! My wicked heart is about to burst, brother. I pray to see you again, in the clouds. Your kuya, Juan Luna* Debbie Walker-Lass *Juan Luna died of a heart attack in The Philippines in 1899, soon after the death of his brother, Antonio, who was the Lead General of the Philippine Army. Antonio was assassinated earlier that year. Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Journal, Poetry Quarterly, Haikuniverse, The Light Ekphrastic and Natural Awakenings, Atlanta, among others. She has recently read live for The Poet’s Corner. Debbie loves beachcombing on Tybee Island and hanging out with her husband, Burt, and dog, Maddie. Big love to all Ekphrastic writers. ** Carthage Wedding, 46 BC Weeks after two families agreed to an acceptable dowry of rich farmland and gold coins, Lucretia arrives in a white tunic at the family home of Tiberius where she proceeds to the atrium with her mother. Crimson walls serve as a backdrop for blue silk curtains hung behind the banquet table. A musician clad in a bronze toga plays a wedding song as bridesmaids toss roses, lilies, fruit blossoms, and sage at the bride-to-be. Pheasant, wild boar, and venison grace the buffet accompanied. by olives, grapes, sausage, stuffed dates, and wine. Beyond this elaborate room framed by white columns reflecting on the blue-gray marble floor, the groom awaits her arrival in the reception room. Dr. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Nameless Roads (2019) and Driving Long Distance (forthcoming 2024). His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Upon Peering at Hymen, oh Hyménée! Incense shrouds the hall. Cinnamon, frankincense, a psychoactive calm for the nervousness and cheeriness of the crowd. The vapor veil soothes the bride, her gown muslin-like as she casts a glance at the onlookers. The boy in front raises the burning whitethorn, spiritual protection as the bride continues to be escorted to the groom’s chamber. Cupid, the little one’s power in this month of Juno, could grant Ceres rule over woodlands and make Mars strum the Aeolian lyre, snatching away metres from Ovid. Did the bride have love’s inward fever, its ache of needles? If Zephyrus whisked away the incense, what kind of air would there be? Unnoticed by much of the crowd, at the back of the clamorous hall, a goat silently crumples a lily. Efren Laya Cruzada Efren Laya Cruzada was born in the Philippines and grew up in South Texas. He studied English and American Literature and Creative Writing at New York University. He is the author of Grand Flood: a poem. His work has been published in The Light Ekphrastic, Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, Star*line, and other journals, with work forthcoming in The Tiger Moth Review. Currently, he is working on a poetry collection based on travels throughout Latin America and Asia. His day jobs have included coaching chess, teaching ESL, and writing for blockchain media companies. He now resides in Austin, Texas. ** O Hymen, o Hades Persephone looks back to see Cascades of flowers thrown by puzzled girls, Waving hands a substitute for smiles. The one she loves wears white in mockery: Hand on her head, she shows her disbelief. A sympathetic goddess turns away. Her own dress, coldly white, a travesty, The sunlight on the marble shimmers bright Like winter’s ice while darkness beckons her. The nuptial hymns, joyous on pipe and lyre, Strike funeral notes, don’t dumb the agony Of howls of grief and madness that pervade Her new kingdom. She’s heard them night and day. Behind her veil, she starts to lose her bloom. She can’t believe she must return to shade. Incredulous, she moves towards her groom, Too dazed to feel the stirrings of despair. Romantic, he’s insisted on full rites: Cup bearers proffer her a bridal toast. She looks away, uncertain, helplessly. He fails to understand the irony. The clouds of incense float across the room. Her mother, donned in mourning black, tight lipped, Bodice defiant scarlet, stands straight backed, Declining to surrender willingly Her daughter to the Kingdom of the Dead, Anger smouldering beneath cold dignity. She leads her to the darkness, full of spite. Her empty eyes stare fixedly ahead. She’s angry with her brother, that bold thief, Angry with the bargain that’s been struck, Angry with her for falling for his trick; Refuses to believe Persephone Can ever love the gloomy god of night. Her anger’s visible for all to see. Already the pale blossoms for the bride Lie scattered on the ground, begin to fade Despairingly. Carolyn Thomas Carolyn Thomas is from the Neath valley in South Wales, UK. After a career of teaching in Further, Higher and Adult Education, she is now enjoying the freedom to write. She has published poetry in Impossible Archetype, A Pride of Lions (Coin Operated Press), the UK online Places in Poetry project and collections published by Sunderland University’s Spectral Visions Press. She has reviewed for Stand magazine and her account of life as a gay woman in the 1970s is published in the Honno Press collection, Painting the Beauty Queens Orange. Stereotypically, she still thinks of Wales as home, sports a dragon tattoo and lives with a misanthropic cat. ** Where You Are, There Am I You wore black to my wedding Midnight silk shot with turquoise and amethyst A dark flower haunting the Spring bouquet of pastel-robed ladies They took me from my father’s home Customary to cry out, protest, shriek No play acting required on my part, The transaction not of my choosing Upon entering his home I was to call out the traditional Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia But I glanced back, and saw you Stooped, to pick up a fallen flower Cheeks and eyes reddened Creamy shoulder exposed Sorrow writ large across your face Upon entering his home I called out, while looking back, Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaia Where you are, there am I. Athena Law Athena Law lives in the lush Queensland hinterland and her words have been published online by the Australian Writers Centre, The Ekphrastic Review and Reverie Literary Journal. She likes to tackle baking and gardening projects while she's mulling over the tricky plot points of her first novel. ** She Married For Love Women draw welcome songs at their thresholds as the day breaks and the roses bloom- little girls flutter in shiny silks, their faces lit with lamps. The incense trails, petals shower as the bride walks marking her feet dipped in vermillion and milk with vows of love. Her gaze shifts, eyes search beyond that room. Her mother too had married for love- a man met by chance, against her family. Alas, in love left her pursuit, stayed in regret until death. She led us high, taught us to be us, never cry when children left, when it was our turn. In bitterness She had held, needed to be held. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Quest for the Luna Tear His crime of passion, staggered shots, of wife, her mother, bloody soak; was this of marble, Roman court, arms raised in hail before the strike, Pantheon at each other’s throats? As rites of marriage, mark exclaimed, a spiteful arson, as assumed, lost, found, rejected bid for sale. This favoured loan, once savoured lone, its place, pedestal studio. Heroic, then, quest to display in splendour, Filippino known, this bronze Olympian of art from Paris, first, top-rated class, though even there Plan B ensconced. In Spain, yes, but not capitol - Palarong Pambansa, Madrid - while revolution in the air of France, less racial bias slurs, from chequered launch, returning soul. Of honeymoon, Venetian streets, the playful ludo, lido beat, in melding of subcultures’ themes, what stories in this canvas, bleak, or wear the garlands, so to speak? Acquittal of the favoured man, mere court costs for a cuckold’s fine, the artist’s passion called insane; these women framed, cause he enflamed, injustice claimed in now misnamed. So storeys tall of trompe l’oeil, some garret in a castle wall, what machinations, hidden, stall, the stop-go search to bring him home for nation’s birthday, Holy Grail. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Hymenaios Naxos, the limit of Cretan territory. Beyond, the world belongs to the Hellenes. Should Ariadne pass beyond this sacred boundary, she renounces her right to the throne of Knossos. Theseus knows this, though he pretends that he is taking her to Athens to be his wife. Theseus believes that a husband is owed his wife’s birthright, that thrones are for kings not queens, that women are for taking and abandoning. The ship put in at Naxos to fill the water casks before facing the open sea. The crew made their noisy sacrifices to their gods, and now they are sleeping. Theseus thinks she has stayed ashore alone to look one last time at the stars of her home before giving her life and her stars to him. She tosses a myrtle branch into the little fire, takes deep breaths of the smoke. It hasn’t occurred to Theseus that she might be making magic, calling upon the Mistresses to turn her fate about and release her from the stupid pact she made with him. The smoke curls and dances, becomes misty gauze, tresses of unbound hair, the abandon of women in a trance. Ariadne does not know them for Maenads. They are not part of her culture, but they have been sent by the Mistresses, to disentangle her from this story that is now half-Greek. They sing in husky, breathless voices until they are out of earshot of the ship, and then the song explodes with shrieks of laughter, and joy that tastes of blood. They take her hands and she follows, through groves of olive and oak, bay and myrtle, to a clearing and a pool where a dark-haired man is waiting. The women fawn, licking his name with their tongues, Dionysus, stroking his face, their nails like the claws of wild beasts. He catches at their hands roughly and pulls them away. They throw flowers, their laughter rising to a frenzy. The man smiles at her, his eyes roving, his fingers itching to follow. Ariadne sees just another Greek, though this one claims he is a god. Can she not see? The women laugh, leap, splash into the pool, pulling Dionysis after them. They all drink, their faces flushed red even in the moonlight. The women draw her into a dance—she is the labyrinth dancer after all—but she drinks little, watches for dawn. At first light, Dionysus stumbles to the shore where the sailors are already preparing the ship to leave. Dionysus will send Theseus away, the women say. He will tell him you are his bride. No Greek would dare defy the desires of a god or deny his claim. Ariadne watches him return, his gait unsteady. She smells the wine fumes even in the salt wind. He walks straight to her, and without a word, pulls her to him and kisses her on the mouth. The women shriek with laughter, as musicians appear from among the trees, shadowy and with a feral smell. Dionysus claps his hands, a cup is placed in his fist, wine flows, sticky sweet, and through the gauze mist of the women, a youth appears, languid as a water lily, lying on the bank of the pool. He dips a toe in the water and blows a kiss to Dionysus. The women weave flowers in his hair, drape garlands about his neck. His tunic is awry, slipped over one shoulder. His skin is the colour of bronze, his lips too red and parted. Ariadne’s lip curls. She watches Dionysus, the dance of the women. Musicians play dark, wild tunes, food appears, all wear flowers. Ariadne narrows her eyes. She wants neither Theseus nor his drunken god, but the Maenads are all around her, and she is drawn into the circle, a locked circle. At its centre, Dionysis, heavy with drink urges the boy to his sandaled feet. With a gesture of ennui, the boy reaches out a hand, and someone tosses him a lyre. The women chant, Hymen, Hymenaios! The wedding song! Dionysus calls out, and Ariadne wonders who is the bride. Is it herself or the painted boy, or is it the wild army of Maenads? Sing, Hymen, and stir our blood. The Maenads let their tunics fall to their waists, spread their arms and let gauze, limbs, hair mingle in their uncoordinated dancing. Dionysus touches Hymen’s face, raises his cup to the boy’s lips, laughs when the sweet sticky wine runs down his chin, trickles down his chest. Then he turns his attention to Ariadne. The cup is refilled, he holds it out. With his other hand he beckons to her. The wedding cup. He grins and his teeth flash. I have sent Theseus on his way. He made no protest. Your lover is fickle, Ariadne. ‘My lover is a Greek,’ she replies, pushes the cup away, and begins her dance. None pick up the insult, none notice the thickening of the air, the Cretan air. Hymen strikes a chord on his lyre, and silence falls, all waiting to hear his voice, more lovely than the sweetest birdsong. When the first note falls to the ground, raw and rough, they imagine he is clearing his throat. None hear the growl of the Mistress’s lions. Ariadne dances, and the feral smell grows stronger, but the musicians have slunk back among the trees. The wild women cry out as they merge with skeins of mist rising from the pool, and Dionysus grimaces, spits, and pours black blood from his cup. Ariadne dances the lion dance, sings the lion song, and Hymen, silenced, claps his hands to his mouth. Blood seeps between his fingers. Ariadne hears no more, lets the dance transport her, and when she comes to herself, evening is falling, the glade is empty, and so is the sea. For her, it will always be empty. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone and Black Bough Poetry as well as the Ekphrastic Review. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming among others. She lives in southwest France. She has two poetry chapbooks, thicker than water and birds and other feathers. ** A Backwards Glance O Hymen, O Hymenee, no way but forward now to my altar-bed, my moon-slung chambers! O my daunting bride, ethereal as haunted rose. O Hymen, my bride, fair as fruiting alabaster! Look upon me, my applecheeked bride! Look upon me, with blossom stung! Look upon me, foolish Hymenee! How tender the rose, not to touch. How tender the rose, save this tricky thorn! O Hymen, O Hymenee, O why do those sweet almond eyes bound toward the door? Danielle McMahon Danielle McMahon is a mom of two and occasional poet. Her work has appeared in Lammergeier, Rogue Agent, Storm Cellar, Tales from PA, and F Word. She lives in PA with her family. ** The Ode to New Beginnings their wedding jamboree / the mellifluous echoing of the undulating voices revealing the unmasked merriness / the fragrant aroma waltzing in the air teasing their taste buds / concealing the flaring nostrils with the servers soundlessly tending to the tiddly patrons is little to none / myriad suits hand in hand with their flawlessly attired halves / the whooshing hums of extravagant gowns whispering of the genesis that lies in wait / a boisterous procession ripping the air on the way to the couple’s new home / the rose petals shyly hovering / almost surreal / every impulse converging on the moment ahead / being initiated into womanhood / her hair standing on end / with anticipation / love / excitement / the shimmering lights of chandeliers spritzing abstract contours on the walls / her slim frame floating above the ground, in a trance / with gentleness she has come to know so well as he carries her over the threshold / uplifting sounds diminuendo as eyes meet / behind the closing door the world disappearing / their bodies surrendering, vehemently / an ode to a new beginning Andrea Damic Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express herself, she uses photography to speak for her. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/ ** Keeping it low key Karla wondered how she'd let herself be talked into being 'the bride' for Lexi's photo shoot. Lexi must be the ultimate sweet talker, based on how many friends she'd persuaded to turn up and wear her creations. At least she wasn't wearing one of the toga-like outfits, Karla thought. Now that the New Bride! magazine photographer had finished the shoot the toga girls were letting off steam, as were the three kids Lexi had found somewhere to 'add colour' as she put it. The toga girls were dismantling the photo set props, throwing parts of the floral displays hither and yon, a random phrase that popped into Karla's head. She consoled herself that at least none of her friends would see the pictures. New Bride! was niche, mainly for fantastical or historically themed weddings, and had only a small readership. Just as she was pondering these thoughts Lexi came up to her, smiling, and said, "I've just been looking at the proofs of the shots. There are some stunners in there. I think this collection is the one that will really launch my brand. There's one of you that's so good I'm thinking of putting it on a couple of prime billboard sites, one by the big road junction coming into town and the other above the main road through downtown. How great would that be!" Emily Tee Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction. She's had pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review and elsewhere online, and in print in some publications by Dreich, with more work forthcoming elsewhere. She lives in the UK. ** Hymen, oh Hymen Restorer! While living in Mombasa half a century ago, when dear mother earth was not on fire or flooded, when women's rights were in utero (who knew the birth would be ass-first breech), I shared a house with Red Sue (hennaed hair, Kiwi nurse, hymen restorer par excellence) and Black Sue (Tutsi mother, British father, blue stocking accent, snacker of crickets). Red Sue and Black Sue had lived in Kenya a good decade by the time I washed up on Mombasa's shores ragged from a 'forced' marriage to a roving dick, who said, 'If you don't marry me, I'll kill myself.' I should have said, 'Why don't you?' instead of 'I do.' Back in the intoxicated daze of no rights for women and girls in East Africa, males traded females like cattle, and as their value lay in blood on the sheets, grass mat, what have you, Red Sue and Black Sue offered assurance with virginity kits: herbal teas, syringes, vials of blood. A surety that brides would not be murdered by their young brothers (too young to be prosecuted) the morning after. Five decades later, would the Sues and I see a decrease in femicide? No. Lamentably. No. Across the globe, across cultures, across religions, thousands of women and girls are dishonourably murdered annually. Inexcusable (to so many of us) honour killings, crimes of passion, remain excusable (to so many others). And what dreadful irony in Juan Luna's painting! On a jealous rampage, Luna injured his two brothers-in-law, then shot his mother-in-law and wife to death. French law, circa late 1800s, allowed jealous husbands to commit murder. Luna was acquitted, paid 40 francs in court fees, and moved to Madrid. Donna-Lee Smith lives in a flat in Montreal & an off-grid cabin on a lake & a cottage on Gotland Island in the Baltic as she slouches towards 75 she finds her words spoken written slung increasingly politicised & she finds this deeply satisfying so much so, she wishes to thank tireless Lorette and her editorial coven for their brilliance & unflagging energy  Page from Grimoires Illuminees, by Pierre Richard (France) before 1879 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 Page from Grimoires Illuminee, by Pierre Richard. Deadline is September 29, 2023. 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 RICHARD 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 29, 2023. 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.  Bowie Wall, Brixton London by James Cochran, aka Jimmy C (England) 2013. Click image to visit artist site. Used with artist permission. Dear Ekphrastic Challengees, Thank you all so much for submitting your Bowie pieces to The Ekphrastic Review. I have read and re-read your amazing words with admiration…and then read 'em again, such pleasure! This fascinating challenge has yielded a really beautiful compilation indeed, so: enjoy. Congratulations everyone, and three cheers for TER and the amazing Lorette! Thank you all, be well, Kate Copeland ** Heroes’ Odyssey Now Bowie, ten, a Bromley lad, just as was I, but up the street, a crow’s fly mile at most I’d say. My class desk in a row beside his Burnt Ash School; like Brixton’s fires, the riots of a bile unjust, piles pillars, bricks from racist wiles. Graffiti there, the poet’s tool, and walls, illumined manuscripts bloom words and storeys of new ways; a due home for once aliens, ‘no dogs, blacks, Irish’ labels gone. In inner city, outer strife gives way to carnival of life. They, Wolf Cubs, his gyrations thought were from another planet moves; from group to band, encore, again, most missing, songs of early years; would Bowie sheath or flick that knife, in search from Iggy, Ziggy flame with paranoia of his genes? Space oddity, an odyssey, to find his hunky dory name, androgyny to mask within his clouded eye from fist of friend. Cracked actor, music of the spheres, too many balls hang in the air, sheer stardust coming in to land. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Goblin Queen What if I had stayed, joined the magic dance with you, left my infant brother to be raised by your bat-faced beasts? What if we played Marco Polo in the stone maze and let your voice draw me to you? What if I chained you up in the oubliette, and made you wait, made you beg? What if we had fucked in the tunnel of Helping Hands, and I couldn't tell who or what was caressing me? What if we threw our heads off and swapped them and kissed each-other and ourselves? What if we rode into battle on huge rolling rocks, and drove our enemies into the Bog of Eternal Stench? What if Escher’s floating stairs were a Tetris game we solved? What if the Venetian ballroom shattered into tiny stars around us, and we escaped together back into my suburban bedroom? What if you lost the wig and the leggings, nibbled my ear with your crooked teeth, and showed me modern love? Bayveen O’Connell Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer who has fiction in Centaur Lit, The Ekphrastic Review, Erato, Backwards Trajectory, Switch, Splonk, Janus Literary, MacQueen's Quinterly, The Forge, Fractured Lit, and others. Her micro fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction. Her writing is inspired by history, folklore, art, and travel, and she loves scouting for Sile-na-Gigs in situ. ** Ziggy This face of Bowie amidst cosmic spheres lets him be heard on painted, torchable brick and long after I pass to that stardust. Spare me from languor. The Spotify playlists. Keep my voice raw like the roaring boys bedded like rock stars until their time is up. If you are still listening somewhere amidst the lightning hear my songs, living squirming things echoing on these bricks and screaming. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes grew up listening to Bowie through those many, creative transformations. Like the "Man who fell to earth', he lifted us all to see the stars. ** Call Me Dave David Bowie came to me in a great big dream. I’d just finished talking with Salvador Dali, he’d been teaching me how to make a million by signing empty sheets of paper he’d left all his stuff hanging around. I said Mr. Bowie sorry ‘bout the mess He said hey brother call me Dave He threw his guitar into the air spinning spinning it shattered into a hundred stars. Look isn’t that beautiful he said I had to agree I hadn’t seen anything as beautiful since I’d seen a Sorolla burning in the middle of Madrid. We stayed a while watching the falling stars floating to the ground like butterfly's wings until he caught one in his open white hand and passed it to me smiling from his eyes. Art is nothing more than this he said. Marc Brimble Marc lives in Spain and when he's not teaching English he sits around drinking tea and dreaming. ** Bowie Mural David Bowie wall, duality of the mind, lightning and chaos. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher ** Duality Lightning bolt mural. Living in duality, of vibrating minds. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Bowie Wasn’t Just An Artist, He Was A Lifestyle I knew many people obsessed with recording artists in the late 70s. There was Fran, who punched a girl in the face for disagreeing that The Stones were the greatest Rock ‘N Roll band to ever have existed, period. And Penny, who convinced me to go to a party dressed exactly like her, twin Alice Coopers, garish eyeliner dripping down our excessively painted faces, scaring all the children. But my devotion to Bowie was at another level, way up in the stratosphere with Major Tom, a copilot, trying my best to right the rapidly swirling tin-can airship. Dashing home from the bus stop down the dusty country road with Amy, a semi-willing potential convert to Bowiemania, I dragged her down the hall to my room, where I blasted The Thin White Duke to “10” on my record player, mother and brother be damned, screaming out every nuanced, perfectly set lyric just in case my dumbfounded hostage couldn’t understand. Every. Single. Word. I cut my hair in the front to approximate the feathery style of “Ziggy Stardust,” and wore gold lame’ tops to school. My shoes were huge platforms, an homage to David in cracked rust leather, one of the many items I’d copped from Vital Vintage in “The City.” It was a way of being bigger, more daring, taller even. I stood out in our rural high school, and in retrospect, I wouldn’t change a thing. “All night” Bowie crooned, in his stupendously sonorous mix of Baritone and Tenor, “I want the Young American.” And we were them! We were Young Americans, Amy and me! “Where are the lyrics?” She asked, transfixed. The very next weekend, we hitched to Vital Vintage, twin feathered haircuts blowing in the gritty wind. 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, Poetry Quarterly, Haikuniverse, The Light Ekphrastic and Natural Awakenings, Atlanta, among others. She has recently read live for The Poet’s Corner. Debbie loves beachcombing on Tybee Island and hanging out with her husband, Burt, and dog, Maddie. Big love to all Ekphrastic writers! ** When We Still Had to Adjust the TV Antenna When we still had to adjust the TV antenna I was a child in the 70s-glam rock era audiences loved him almost reverently, David Bowie's songs were otherworldly. People spoke often about his clothes, his hair, Famously, his two-coloured eyes, he had such flair: He'd split particle atoms with a purse of his lips, his fans were junkies; they were all absolute addicts. David was a visual artist, extraordinaire a meteorite from another stratosphere; characteristically charming and debonair a liberating experience back then and there. Said-to-have a voracious sexual appetite. He made love to a groupie, who lost her virginity, called Lori, guess-he-had-to later-expedite: Once he'd said ‘Lori-darling,' can you come with me? What a 'Space Oddity' it must have been when Apollo 11 launched with Neil A. Armstrong, to a new ascension, Oh, someone to follow, some brave Apollo but all I ever got from you was sorrow, sorrow. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies both 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. ** To James Cochran, Regarding Bowie Wall, Brixton London Pop culture you so well declare is common sky of planets where the stars aflame that rise and fall still loom as icons eyes recall that saw first hand the moments dared of brilliance they forever shared as music molded into soul of generations rendered whole by legacy and circumstance entwined uniquely shaping dance becoming step by step defined through luminaries you've enshrined in fittingly theatric art emerging drop by drop from heart. Portly Bard Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Space Oddity "The world is full of magic things patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper." William Butler Yeats "I was born upside down (I'm a star-star)" David Bowie, Blackstar If I could wake up with my head among the planets would I be seduced by cosmic music? Lyrics threaded in a rosary created by the stars? And if I could make a memoir with travel & devotion would I unveil that old black magic, Venus dancing much too close to Mars? * Chaos in the heavens and we were walking down a street in London looking for information: The Golden Dawn and Aleister Crowley who, in the Battle of Blythe Road tried to put an astral siege spell on William Butler Yeats. The result (occult) was mayhem a brawl in 1900 with members of The Golden Dawn; Rider and Waite aligning planets when police came... * And in the modern world where I was doing research for Yeats & The Tarot, my daughter said "Crowley's dangerous, Mom! He uses bad magic! I don't want to go there!" The earth was clearly full of clashes even in the world of mystical perception called the magic of Magick -- good or evil, black and white -- that same ol' same ol' story of earthlings' oppositions -- like immigrants vs. the nouveau riche trying to gentrify Brixton: Survivors of WWII sailed from the Caribbean on the HMT Empire Windrush, bringing the advent of the multi-cultural Windrush Generation to Brixton Market; to Brixton, where David Bowie was born... * 1969, the year my daughter was born; and the year Space Oddity hit the charts -- David Bowie's first big hit, lyrics "born" to commemorate the first walk on the moon, a voyage that questioned terrestrial reality and the laws of universal gravity -- a Challenge to eclectic lineation, Tarot cards and the enchantment of surreality -- the reason I'm writing this poem to investigate critical questions: Do Tarot characters wear space suits? Do lyrics and spirits pass like fireflies in outer space their lights winking on a midnight canvas -- star-stars passing through the stars? Starman giving directions, Detach from station and may God's love be with you! The Empress answering with lyrics from Lucky Star And when I'm lost You'll be my guide, I just turn around And you're by my side! & The Magician (aka Starman) (aka David Bowie) (aka The Man Who Fell To Earth) has a few words to say: Some cat was layin' down some rock'n'roll -- Up front with his planetary guitar he's the singer on the wall -- the Bowie Wall -- a painting like a photograph of the musician, larger than life, standing face-forward so he can watch the people on the streets of Brixton. Like an audience, do they stop and imagine they can hear extraterrestrial sound emanating from his memorial his head, surrounded by dancing balls, the planets? Wonder why his face is slashed by colour, awakened by a bolt of lightning? & do they recall his lyrics -- glam rock and graffiti -- pop star, rock star, blackstar -- Planet earth is blue, and there's nothing left to do; I want eagles in my dreams and diamonds in my eyes -- to reach a universe of crystal clarity. Laurie Newendorp Notes: David Bowie was a pioneer in rock music. Influenced by the first moon walk in 1969, "Space Oddity" was his first pop hit. "Blackstar," with the line "I was born upside down (I'm a star-star)" was released two days before he died at 69 in 2016. The Rider-Waite Tarot aligned planets, astrologically, with Tarot characters. The "placement" of some of the smaller planet-balls in the Bowie mural are placed on impulse points and chakra spots on David Bowie's head, a human/astronomical connection. Quotes: Starman, Space Oddity, Blackstar, David Bowie; Lucky Star, Madonna. Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. She studied Yeats and early Irish legend extensively when on her degree path in Creative Writing, Poetry, 1992. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, has ekphrastic poetry that won a place in the Houston Poetry Festival, nominations for the Ekphrastic Reviews Best of The Net; and "Orpheus In The 21st Century" was listed as a Fantastic Ekphrastic. An earlier poem, "Forgive Us", written to memorialize the lives lost during 911, was a runner-up for the Pablo Neruda Prize. ** Sound and Vision "blue, blue, 'lectric blue" lightning flash, I see you too floating orbs, points of light shimmer-glimmer glowing bright it's a galaxy in thrall conductor there, midst it all Jimmy C, no novice he master of iconography depicts the trippiest ace of space to put his drip wall art in place colours, shapes seem to sway Bowie, central, defines the way his come down from Mars, far away "nothing to read, nothing to say blue, blue" Bowie sound and vision true Emily Tee Note: quoted sections are excerpts from "Sound and Vision" on the album "Low" by David Bowie (1977) Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction. She's had pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review for its challenges, in Gypsophila Zine, Aurum Review and elsewhere online, and in print with Dreich Mag, with further work pending in other publications. She lives in the UK. ** “Let's Dance!" It’s the mid-90s, my best mate and I are sitting cross-legged on the carpet of her living room - vinyl all around us like scattered leaves, her dad’s old record player between us like a warming fire. The playlist so far has been Annie, Tina, Debbie Lionel, Lou, and Rod… My mate flips through the collection, lands on an absolute gem. Slips it out its snug sleeve, delicately places it on the deck like a delicious meal on fine china. The needle slowly lowers, brief crackle and static then suddenly and magnificently Ahhhhhh…Ahhhhhh…Ahhhhhh…Ahhhhhh! We’re up on our feet, cotton socks leaping about on soft beige carpet, eyes closed, heads nodding. It’s Sunday evening, we’ve got school tomorrow while colour colour colour colour lights up your face… but this is a proper education. Claire Thom Claire Thom is a Scottish poet based in the south of Spain. She is EIC & founder of The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. She has had poems published by a variety of presses, she was shortlisted for the Erbacce Poetry Prize in 2021, 2022 & 2023, and she is a Touchstone Haiku Award nominee. ** Nothing-Blue a Golden Shovel from the mural, Bowie Wall, by James Cochran, and the song, Space Oddity, by David Bowie Murals roll through the middle of town. Here tagged trains are exhibited, and I am sitting, stooped, idling on the porch, where I am zeroed-in on a red ball floating orbiting a pothole rain filled in. Would it fly out if it had wings? It’s my creative mind thrashing against this tin man skull, rusted, like that tin water can full of rain I dumped on the roses last night, when I saw him on the tracks, a glimpse of a man, guitar slung, pale face full of pain, his body a rail, in came the army issued to fly across the world to another desert. Is this Planet Mars, Hell, or the new St. Giles Rookery? Earth is the next-door neighbour’s backyard; it is wrecked with trash, a rusted swing set, a blue tarp over the roof of the meth shed, and one masking the weed-grow from the street; there’s crude music blaring from red-light cars, nothing but strikethroughs on paper. I am left with cool ashes, empty glass, no mood to write, only questions about what to do. Robert E. Ray Robert E. Ray is a retired public servant. His poetry has been published by Rattle, Wild Roof Journal, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and in five poetry anthologies. Robert is a graduate of Eastern Kentucky University. He lives in rural south Georgia. ** Missing Bowie Ziggy colorful Velcro balls flung at a wall shedding stardust and sparkles falling to the floor Jareth lost in a maze shouting goblins, chasing childhood memories, haze of make believe Major Tom way out in the stars, not stardust but empty space floating alone David let’s dance, across the floor, Jared and Sarah or as himself stardust playing across his feet Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson loves to write poems to prompts as in music, environment and especially ekphrastic. Her work appears in various journals, including Lothlorien, Misfit and The Ekphrastic Review. She has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, advocates for captive elephants and most recently can be found learning dinosaur names with her grandson. ** Starman I think of you often, in summer when the stars are warm, and the skies are blue, (blue, electric) blue, and Mars sings out red and raunchy. I watch the sky, looking for you, floating, not in a tin can, but on all the waves of all the seas and all the beams of light that stream, laughing with dolphins. I think of you when my face is a mess, and planet earth is too, and wonder if we even have five years. Because you can’t say no to beauty, beast or black star. My years are silver now, the golden ones wrapped in tissue paper with my red shoes, but not forgotten, as bright and tremendous as when we danced, because that was all we could do. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone and Black Bough Poetry as well as the Ekphrastic Review. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming and Enchanted Conversation among others. She lives in southwest France. ** Discovering the Door (for David Bowie) Planet Earth is blue, but let’s dance. Put on your red shoes, turn, face the strange. Planet Earth is blue, floats inside the cosmic mind, looking for portals. But let’s dance. Your red lipstick follows my heartbeat-- step through the mirror. Shoes turn, face the strange future that orbits, singing. Stars glitter us home. Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig lives and works in NYC where the strange is a daily occurrence. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** Millions Weep a Fountain, Just in Case of Sunrise Title after David Bowie, "Aladdin Sane" For what is the point of wasting tears when the final day arrives? To cry is to feel, and with good fortune, arise. Millions laugh and trip the light with exactly the same intention. Contemplate Aladdin Sane, Bowie’s post-Ziggy shooting star; face Kabuki brushed with white rice powder, split jagged by a bolt of red paint, head crowned with a glam-rock shag. On a Brixton wall his dissociative stare attracts the curious and fans alike to flock like those to Strawberry Fields. In time, murals fade, become graffiti obscured. Fame rises like soap bubbles, each iridescent sphere complete and intact until a wisp carries it aloft and away, and watchers feel a rumbling thrum under foot, as one by one the fleeting rainbows burst and disappear. Nancy Sobanik Nancy Sobanik is a registered nurse who writes and finds inspiration in the extraordinary beauty of Maine. Publications include Triggerfish Critical Review; Sparks of Calliope; Verse- Virtual; Sheila-Na-Gig ; The Ekphrastic Review and One Art Poetry Journal. Other selections can be found on poetscollective.org and The Maine Poet's Society Stanza. ** June 16th, 2000, Roseland Ballroom, NYC A mural across a wall stared back at me The night Bowie filled the stage Spheres of song tumbled along the ballroom walls Inside the galaxy of Roseland I was there Dancing on the shoulders of time Legs dangling over Jimmy’s shoulders Holding me above the crowd So I could see Waterfalls of lighting lit the band Sweating planets of 3000 bodies Turning pink and blue, yellow too-- Is that a fern dangling from the sky? In pointillist shimmer androgyny abounds With a multi-coloured bolt of lightning My arms rose in the wake of the warbling The crowd was one, then, In a flash radiating out to all of us Bowie pointed over the crowd To me, a dancer elevated in a magical realist dream, And through the pulsing sound system with eyes wide And lips still moist from Rebel, Rebel, he sang out, “See her out there, that’s where I want to be, dancing with you, On those generous shoulders. I love you so.” The waterfalls of lights that night never died, And years later when Bowie returned to stardust, So gracefully saying goodbye, My broad-shouldered friend, now older, like us all, Reminded me of the nod that night to our floating joy, Orbiting and glistening, like a mural rising with our memory Of the night Bowie played for hours painting the walls of Roseland with love. Emily Rubin Emily Rubin’s debut novel, Stalina (2011 HMH/Mariner Books), was a selection in the Amazon Debut Novel Award Contest. Arecipient of a NYSCA 2022 Literary Arts grant, the Sarah Verdone Writer’s Award, a finalist in the International Literary Awards, and a Pushcart Prize nominee. She co-founded Dirty Laundry: Loads of Prose, a reading and performance series that takes place in laundromats around the country. Her short stories and essays have appeared in journals including Good Works Review, Litbreak, Confrontation, IceFLo Press, Poets & Writers, and elsewhere. She founded the Write Treatment Workshops in NYC and upstate NY cancer centres, and has taught fiction for Bard College’s LifeTime Learning Institute and Columbia University’s Narrative Medicine Program. She is working on a novel about urban homesteading and lives in Columbia County, NY. http://emilyrubin.net IG: emilyhrubin ** Tiny Bubbles, In The Air In the heart of Brixton, London, on the grand canvas of a wall, the spirit of David Bowie comes alive through an extraordinary mural by a native-born England, James Cochran, known as Jimmy C. Among the splashes of colour and the cosmic dance through his unique painting technique known as "drip painting," Bowie's visage emerges as a daring and tender tribute. The aerosol spray pain, a medium known for its urban and street art associations, was likely sourced from local art supply stores, contributing to the connection between the artwork and its environment. The purpose of the creation was to celebrate Bowie's legacy and connect it to the local community in Brixton. And there, upon this urban stage, Bowie's makeup design takes on a life of its own. Imagine standing before this colossal portrait. Bowie's eyes, twin galaxies of expression, windows to the cosmos, are adorned with a celestial palette. His eyelids are galaxies painted in swirls of metallic gold, like treasures stolen from the heart of a sun. The universe swirls within his gaze, inviting you to lose yourself in the depths of his artistry. His cheeks - ah, his cheeks - are adorned with ethereal hues reminiscent of nebulae and cosmic dust. Lavenders and lavas blend seamlessly, a testament to his ability to fuse the supernatural and the earthly, the mythical and the mortal. A playground for blushes borrowed from the gardens of distant planets. And let's not forget the alchemical kiss of his lips, bearing the colour of enchantment. A shade that hovers between the blood-red of passion and the soft blush of vulnerability. They are a melody frozen in time. A kiss that lingers in the minds of all who gaze upon this mural. The pièce de résistance is the lightning bolt- a jagged streak of red and blue crashing across his face like a cosmic collision frozen in time, symbolizing transformation, and reinvention. It is a bolt of artistic lightning, a thunderous declaration that here stood an artist who defied convention, an oracle of the avant-garde. The bolt crackles with the electricity of his music, a visual riff echoing through time and space. Bowie's face, a canvas of contradictions, was a masterpiece of rebellion and a declaration of vulnerability. His makeup designs are a symphony of paradoxes, a harmonious collision of the ethereal and the earthbound, the extraterrestrial and the intimate. Every stroke of colour on Jimmy C's delineation reflects Bowie's story—of a man who dared to be different, who reveled in the art of self-expression. Bowie painted not only his face but the very essence of his being. His makeup was a map of his journey through sound and time, a testament to the power of self-expression, and an invitation to all to embrace their inner oddities and flaunt them with fearless pride. As you stand before this tour de force, you can almost hear the echoes of Bowie's music carried by the wind. It's as if his spirit, persona, and art have all converged in this vibrant tribute. The makeup on Bowie's face isn't just pigment; it's a proclamation of creativity, a challenge to norms, and a celebration of individuality. It's a piece of the cosmos transposed onto a city wall, an invitation to explore the extraordinary within each of us. Ultimately, "Bowie Wall" is a vibrant symbol of artistic homage and community connection in the heart of Brixton. Judith Elaine Halek Judith Elaine Halek embarked on her writing expedition through a program called The Write Treatment and other local cancer writing workshops after being diagnosed with Stage III Lymphoma in August 2014. Compiling 350 plus compositions set in motion a collection of the pieces into a memoir documenting how a Stage III diagnosis propelled Judith from surviving to thriving. Peeking through the lens of self-publishing, Judith will be debuting her Heroine’s Journey when the book is ready to birth. Originally born and bred in Minnesota, Judith has nestled in New York City for four-plus decades. ** Coming Down From a Creative High and News of David Bowie for the dazzling incomprehension of what it all means. Maria Popova on artists, creativity and Bowie January 10, 2016 Last night I lit candles and became the midnight sun. A carousel of planets spun around me. The rings of Saturn sparkled with dust; and that face on Mars (formed from red clay) turned pale and became the face of a china girl --. prompting me to write poem after poem invoking the grace of Lady Li Yi'an in her mother of pearl skin and silken gown. I understood how she moved from line to line and how the blank space surrounding the text was sacred as the words. A white flock of birds hovering over her ink-filled universe. And I wondered how long she would stay, or what might happen next. Yet at the momentum's height, dawn broke through the dream spitting out the first sprinklings of the year, while the soul of a musician crossed his final bridge in the damp and mist-swabbed atmosphere. With the rain, I fell to earth inheriting my shadow and the chill, the smell of sour milk and candle smoke. Whatever I let spoil or burn-out before I woke. And now the mirror's overcast with my image, a mood neither dark nor light just a desolate, still gray -- the winter woods, the sea gull on a lake of ice. the ashes of a moment left scattered on my windowsill. Wendy A. Howe Note: Lady Li Yi’an, is one of the most famous poets among Chinese women of high rank who wrote verse during the 12th century. Her poetry is celebrated for its original imagery, emotive language and lyrical pathos. At a time, when women were objectified as beautiful vessels meant to ornament the home and supply an heir, she, as David Bowie said of an artist in one of his last interviews, "steps beyond the water into depths of risk and stays afloat without letting their feet touch bottom". Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell, Eternal Haunted Summer, Silver Blade, The Poetry Salzburg Review, Eye To The Telescope. Carmina Magazine and Corvid Queen. Her most recent work has appeared in Indelible Magazine and Songs of Eretz. ** The Man Who Fell to Earth after the 1976 film starring David Bowie The alien said Yes to disco balls and audio waves and shiny, happy people wearing boots for glam, late-night benders. Maybe we clamor for more saxophone since listening to our tongues only seems to benefit the devil. This is just to say take good notes before returning home. At the library, he said Amen and again to books. We tend to ruin things here when we borrow. We wear wristbands to show we belong to something. Like a hospital or a concert outside at a ranch. The cashier at Cracker Barrel, where breakfast is all day, mentioned belonging. Like places inside us living in celestial space. Also rings to show commitment. Do you have this word? For the sweet everloving. For who we’re gone for. Gravity is different. And those other balls, Yes, look like planets but more like giant ice cream dots. Strawberry. Lemon. Blueberry. And the wall is the bottom curvature of a tangerine cup you hold. Let me show you. Take my hand. Crash landing in New Mexico is rough if you want to ship all that water back. Drought is yellow, a mouth that hardly speaks but its speech has seen plenty of distance. And don’t forget to take note of one, whole life. When we extinguish, we leave behind dust clouds, zigging in and out. John Milkereit John Milkereit resides in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals including Naugatuck River Review, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. He has published two chapbooks (Pudding House Press) and three full-length collections of poems, including most recently from December, A Place Comfortable with Fire (Lamar University Literary Press). ** Ziggy’s Last Act Outside Morley's ch-ch-ch-ch-changes to the architecture, this aerosol impromptu shrine an oddity of dots and colorful spheres floating in a most peculiar way, Bowie’s signature lightning bolt a nod to duality of mind, this fresco, just doors down from 40 Stansfield Road. The artist, was he under pressure or did internal desire move him to create this worldwide phenomenon? Rest easy now, Starman. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino, communications director by day, poet by night, has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, Writing in a Women’s Voice, Global Poemic, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Agape Review, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Panoply, Etched Onyx Magazine, and at wildamorris.blogspot.com. She was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. ** it happens like this in the star dusted multiverse i was drifting on an astral plane when ziggy that special man materialized incandescent inside me except the fiery glow of spiders from mars just beer lights guided us when i floated away they flowed with me i sucked them into my mind i wondered were there laws in the corporeal free world concerning subtle bodies & laws of relativity the stars twinked admiring our astral bodies of light ziggy sang making love with my ego i'm not really female i whispered i'm not really my body i'm just taking my turn looking after it the spiders from mars signed when will it be our turn soon i replied your times are coming ziggy gazed into space from his screwed-up eye this is like a fairy tale he sang in sweet alto tones please forgive me i implored for all that i have done & left undone for all that i am about to do the spiders from mars webbed across my mind please let us forgive you away we floated wondering together as ones do in the bowie regions of their multiverse Donna-Lee Smith (With many a nod of appreciation to David Bowie and James Tate.) Donna-Lee Smith is an old Bowie fan and her ragged old heart did a wee flip when she saw Cochran's piece! ** Ziggy Stardust Erasure Poem  Margo Stutts Toombs
Source: Musixmatch Songwriters: David Bowie - Ziggy Stardust lyrics © Chrysalis Music Ltd., Tintoretto Music, Chrysalis Music Ltd, Rzo Music Ltd Margo Stutts Toombs enjoys creating and preforming flash and poetry. Her work lives in FreezeRay Poetry, Untameable City - Mutabilis Press, the Texas Poetry Calendar, Love over 60: An Anthology of Women’s Poems, The Ekphrastic Review, the Friendswood Library Ekphrastic Poetry Contest, Equinox, and Synkronicity. She performs spoken-word poetry and monologues at fringe festivals, art galleries and anywhere food and beverages are served. Margo loves to craft video poems for film and video festivals. She recently won first place in animation at the Caucasian Short Film Festival in Lake Charles, Louisiana (2023).  Hymen, oh Hyménée! by Juan Luna (Philippines) 1887 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 Hymen, oh Hyméné! by Juan Luna. Deadline is September 15, 2023. 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 LUNA 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 15, 2023. 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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