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 Roses, Convolvulus, Poppies and Other Flowers in an Urn on a Stone Ledge, by Rachel Ruysch. Deadline is December 9, 2022. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. 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 RUYSCH CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, December 9, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. 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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What a surprise to find this painting one of our most popular challenges so far! It struck a cord with so many of you and we received so many fascinating responses. Thank you as always, to everyone who participated, whether or not your work was chosen this week. These challenges are such a wonderful way to engage with art, experiencing it together with others from around the world. Enjoy this selection of perspectives and talents. The Ekphrastic Review Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité Hélène, like her mother before her, was ‘in service’ to the lord of the manor; at least she had somewhere to live. The mice kept her awake at night, creaking wooden stairs to her chamber in the middle of the night kept her alert, but they always stopped halfway and descended again. They’d be the monster. Only 14, kitchen maid to the formidable cook, Madame Puissant. One late night the steps didn’t stop. Her son was born in the hospice de pauvres, the poorhouse. She called him Émile. By the time Émile was four, they travelled with the saltimbanques. The clown had found her when she was begging at the street corner. Her beauty had startled him. The clown was in love. Hélène was grateful. Émile died of consumption before his fifth birthday. A beautiful thought Freedom, equality, And fellowship 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 six poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS? (Kelsay Books July 2022) and WHISTLING IN THE DARK (Taj Mahal Publishing House July 2022), are both available on Amazon. Her seventh collection, SAUDADE, will be published by Kelsay early 2023. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** les saltimbanques write it. the midgets, ventriloquists. write, a sad clown, acrobats, the jugglers. under the big tent the ringmaster. the clapping, the cheering. in narrative painting. oil on canvas. the middle of a muddy field odour of sawdust and straw. write, an accident in the papers. they heard it, the calliope playing. chimes, bells, a band organ. write, carousel uplit by violet-blue. tinsel glitter and spangle. the cracking of a whip. chimpanzee with leash around its neck. the blindfolded pony trotting in circles. animals refused to perform. steel railroad tracks, dirt roads. added grey taupe to the river. family of acrobats whose child died after a fall. Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a mother, an activist, an educator, literary curator, poet and an editor. Born in Budapest, Hungary, she has also lived in Austria and Germany. Martonfi writes in seven chapbooks, journals across North America and abroad. Curator of the Argo Bookshop Reading Series. Recipient of the Quebec Writers’ Federation 2010 Community Award. Martonfi lives in Montreal, Canada. The Tempest, Inanna Publications, Spring 2022, is her fifth poetry book. ** Wailing Wall A balanced art composed to bring diagonals of blue, soak red, reflecting acrobatic swing - but shed composure, fallen, bled. Sneer ace of spades in circus grin joins daylight owl awaiting death, hug leotard, pale second skin save flush of loins, last bandaged breath. So close to wight, this white of son, thin border in this fairground haunt, witch, cartomante, bohemian, pietà boy at heart, now taunts. Juggle the trumpet, tambourine. last trump to greet with joys or fears, performance dogs claw, paw with whine, site sheer flesh costumes, drapes in tears. Reading their runes, here parents fail, with tricks of trade done, plain wall-slung, exquisite laid by wailing veil, What cost, the moneymaking young? 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 published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ ** No Children Dying First Dog, owl, another dog, mother, father, onlookers, decaying wall without a ball, parched air without any hair, flying cockroaches with stinging broaches and blood and tears, all frozen like hope and fear in loved one's breaths, eyelids just before a doctor confirms life or death. And the devil himself hiding in the nails of the hands of the clock that no one saw or cared for much, as such is the destiny, not harmony of the poor folks’ workday that could not keep at bay the passing of their young boy seemingly an animated toy to earn a few more pence, for the future of that tense and the instruments laying nearby transforming into silence now, giving a final bow to the tarot cards semi circled in tow stealing, sealing their fun noting that realism can’t always be twisted into surrealism at the whims and fancies of the gilded age leading Muckrakers, old and neo, to cry hoarse to sign an infinite covenant with God that regardless of greediness, prankishness, unrighteousness, snobbishness, hopelessness of humans, or time, no one should have their children dying first by any devil himself hiding in the nails of the hands of the clock that no one saw or cared for much, as such. Anita Nahal *Muckrakers: Those involved in exposing the ills of capitalism and big business in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in the US. Anita Nahal is an Indian-American poet, flash fictionist, children’s writer and columnist. Anita has several books of poetry, one of flash fictions, four for children and three edited anthologies to her credit. Her recent books of poetry include What’s wrong with us Kali women, and Kisses at the espresso bar, by Kelsay Books. Two of her books are prescribed in a course on multiculturalism and immigration at the University of the Utrecht, The Netherlands. Anita teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Anita is the daughter of Sahitya Akademi award winning Indian novelist, Chaman Nahal and educationist, Sudarshna Nahal. Anita resides in the US with her son, daughter in law and golden doodle. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal ** Lament for a Child Acrobat I know now how the Madonna wept. I weep. Alone as the barn owl, The scratch of the dog is ignored. Nothing left of me When death nabs the one Once tethered to my body. I weep as I embrace The lost trace of my son Whose mortality stole The star from my soul. You say, he did not speak, But you saw the dance he jigged Sensory seeking In the atmosphere of being. His winged feet flew to the trapeze Without netting. His beat did not cease In the clamor of the tent, But carried the din of Elephant and trumpet howls Into his core to move the crowd. The tumbler. You, Diablo—my shadow-- Flamed in evil, Background voice, extinguisher of sanity. Father, you say. What father would take away A mother’s son? I question my religion. Is that what He wanted from his plan To save the sinful, abandon the innocent? I should have won our argument. To set our son in the window niche For Nuns of Florence to find him, In the foundling wheel for salvation. My Trovatello, the bell rings for you-- Not to unlatch the infant hatch, But to welcome you, D’Angelo, As my arms pass you, To spin through the firmament Into gloved hands of the Ring Master. Cynthia Dorfman Cynthia Dorfman practices ekphrastic writing as a frequent participant in the Smithsonian's National Portrait Gallery writing program. She has been a writer, editor, publications manager, and communications director in the public and private sectors. Her most recent work appears in Red Ogre Review. She lives in Maryland in the winter and in Wisconsin in the summer. ** No Jest “I know my sweet” she crooned, holding me, “it is our life, reading cards juggling, training the dogs” Nothing consoled me. It was no jest for father dressed as fool, me a freak child, and today I fell - the court laughed as if part of the act, but our lot has no home, never enough gold to make a life away from performing, animals are better off, at least fed and loved by us, we are just fool entertainers Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson has been a poet for over 50 years, published in many journals including Open Door, Misfit, Blue Heron Review and Ekphrastic Review. Her full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, shares her home with two rescued feral cats and advocates for captive elephants. She has served on two poetry boards, been a guest editor for three journals and is an avid reader. ** With Each Step Encouraging words turn into pressure, My father's voice is all that I gather. He yells and shouts, nothing seems up to his standard - But the sound of the crowd’s laughter, That’s all that matters. I want to sleep yet I stay busy. Each task is harder than the last, My vision becomes so blurry, That I cannot see my own two hands. I dance and perform at my father’s wishes, For a crowd of eyes, they’re all witnesses. With each step I take, I go higher and higher, Til I am at the very top, the top of the ladder. A thin, silver line is all that I focus, As blue and red lights flourish me from a distance. My feet leave the platform, slowly one after another, My father will be pleased, The crowd is full of rapture. I walk in light joy, a bit of worry - For the ground beneath me - becomes a bit blurry. The cheering gets louder - A boulder in my head, It tips me back and forth - I am leaning toward my death. Ava Swanson Ava Swanson is a tenth-grade student who is very passionate about all things literature. When not drowning herself in knowledge, she enjoys digital art and music. ** The Year I Went Without Having Gustave Dore to My House I entertained the idea. Of a red hoop. For which there wasn’t a start or an end. Of a horn. That tried to make sense of our pain. While an angel drew silence. Up over its mouth. I entertained the idea of a dog. Who knew only to howl. And another who knew only to crawl. Across the stars on your gown. Or gnaw, for hours, on your crown. Of a row of cards. That worried the dust. With what must be. Always read into the dark. I entertained the idea. Of an owl. Who was also a prisoner. Of its own useless wisdom. Of three planets. That circled my head. One for each god. Who showed less and less interest in the dead. I entertained the idea. Of an acrobat. Who’d stood by gravity. For far too long. And so would dawn the red scales of a fish. Until his gills clogged. With this sacrificial blood. Mark DeCarteret Poems from Mark DeCarteret’s manuscript The Year I/We Went Without have been taken by The American Poetry Review, Asheville Poetry Review, BlazeVOX, Guesthouse, Hole in the Head Review, Map Literary, On the Seawall, Plume, South Florida Poetry Journal and Unbroken. ** Death Has Come I watch as a mother gently holds her child in her arms. I have come to take him away from her. Out of the corner of his eye, he has seen me but he refuses to look at me further. Instead, he clutches his mother as tightly as he can. He knows I am here for him and it’s only a matter of time before he submits and I take him with me, just as I have taken many before him. The young boy’s parents intrigue me. They seem to be in despair, especially the father. The mother seems to be comforting her son as he slowly slips away from her grasp. They will both hold on for as long as they can, especially the mother. From my experience a mother almost never has a feeble grasp, they seem to be willing to do anything for their children, even giving their lives to me. I never understood human emotions or why these mortal beings feel the way they do, but nonetheless, they fascinate me. I have seen many different emotions inflict themselves upon many. Whenever a human being is in pain or on the verge of death they have this face of deep anguish. Not only does it affects the person who is dying but those around them. The emotions run so deep for some that it’s as if a spear laced with a deadly toxin has impaled their hearts and this face they make is the result. Nonetheless, the boy’s time is up. He says goodbye to his mother and father and I begin to pry him from their hands. He screams and tugs on his mother's dress not ready to let go. What he doesn’t realize is that within my hands I contain the strength of a lion, no one has ever escaped my grasp. After much struggle, I have taken the boy. Where we will go only I know. There is still much work to be done. Justin Perry Justin Perry is a high school senior at Herriman High School in Utah. In his free time he loves to play chess and the violin. ** At a Flea Market Outside Paris, Kentucky People didn’t talk about war overseas-- or the boy maimed from a gangster’s bad aim. He wasn’t white like the little French boy who bled out the length and width of his mother’s womb. In a plastic frame the poster was marked one dollar, one Euro in today’s France. My wife flipped through used vinyl thirty-threes. (She doesn’t see or look for death in the racks.) We joked about Depeche Mode and big hair. I held the dusty print in the sunlight the glass spiderwebbed, a gooey brown stain on his mom’s foot—a whimper from a boy behind us, begging at a pen of pups for a black and white mutt missing a leg. Someone played that song, Personal Jesus. His mom offered ten dollars. We walked out happy—rain tapping, dripping off the tin roof. Robert E. Ray Robert E. Ray is a retired public servant. His poetry has been published by Rattle, Beyond Words International Literary Magazine, Wild Roof Journal, The Ekphrastic Review and in four poetry anthologies. Robert lives in coastal Georgia. ** The Comfort of a Mother The moon and the owl and the darkness of the night have seen me through my highs and lows have comforted me at 2 am when it feels like no one is there and I am all alone. The darkness protects me from those around, manufacturing a blanket so richly dark much like the ones the saltimbanques spread out before every performance. that it envelopes me warm and close like a mother's arms would. The owl hoots in soft syllables, crooning a melody designed just for me much like the tambourines and trumpets keep the beat for the saltimbanques as they cartwheel and acrobat that carries me to a land far away like a mother's bedtime tales would. The moon seems so distant, shining brighter than everything else around much like the performance of the saltimbanques eclipsing the mundane of the everyday that it radiates a warmth so tender and pure like a mother's goodnight kiss would. Poor substitutes though they are, it is now because of my companions three that I am finally free to move from the light into the comforting dark of Nidra*'s nest. Nivedita Karthik *Nidra is the goddess of sleep in Hindu mythology Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as an senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood, and The many moods of water. ** The Price of a Second Red shining, Blood signifying cradling mother holding close holding tight, feeling the warmth letting go How long will he still be alive, how much money do they have, will the funeral cost too much The cards have been forgotten and the dogs have gone quiet the trumpet is silent the balls have gone still and the tambourine is not ringing Don’t breathe don’t move for the moment could be gone hold on before he could be moved on Your child could be dead she sees his red costume, her blue dress the ground, his white makeup the blood she feels the wind, the dogs breath her clothes, her cold child she hears the crowd, mumbled prayers the final breaths of her child she tastes dirt, salt she smells iron Casey Lumley Casey Lumley is a senior at Herriman High School in Herriman Utah who loves singing in a choral ensemble and loves learning computer science. ** The Acrobats To gain money they have killed their child and in killing him they have found out that they had hearts. Gustave Dore Aflame in the glitter of cloth and sequins, the street performers stop to rest. Leaning against the brick wall of a warehouse, the woman holds her injured child and the man looks down watching his shadow engulf stray feathers and rusted nails -- as if he shed the soft and sharp aspects of his own grief. Two hours earlier, everything seemed fine as they jumped and juggled, sprang into space and somersaulted back to earth never thinking their son would be hurt in the final act. The crowd held their breath as the mother hurled the slender boy into the air; and the father prepared to catch him after his backwards flip -- but failed. He fell to the ground and lay unconscious as blood trickled from his brow into the field with its thinning scalp of grass. Some of the locals rushed to help and wrapped the wound in white strips of linen. With no doctor or clinic nearby, they told the parents to take him home. From a distance, someone yelled, it's heartless to risk a child, A sin committed by a heartless heart. The voice trembled with anger as wings rose from the umbrella pines. Crows clothed the wind like the black corner of a veil and muffled its sound Now the judgment resounds within the father's mind as he looks toward his wife, a bereaved madonna burning through the dusk. And he wonders if that voice belonged to the man he glimpsed sketching them during the show. An artist rumored to have come from Montmartre and often known to wear a silk scarf, to paint his subjects with operatic depth. Or maybe -- the husband's blue eyes water, it was God ( in disguise) etching his soul with acid, leaving an echo of indelible guilt. Wendy Howe 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: The Copperfield Review, Silver Blade Magazine,, The Poetry Salzburg Review, Eye To The Telescope, The Tower Journal and The Orchards Journal. Her most recent work will be forthcoming in Carmina Magazine and Sun Dial Magazine later this year. ** What a Fool! Even though we were mere street performers, we played our roles well. She wore her crown like she’d been born to it, carried herself with grace, never mentioned the father of the child. My only sin – daring fate. She charmed the public. I teased her and the crowd, scooped up coins tossed at our feet. No fool would keep his head after taking such liberties with a real queen. We got by, enough to scrounge up a meal, sometimes a roof over our heads. I should have known. I should have known. A fool and a queen never roll the right dice, never waltz into happily ever after together – just as wee children never take care. Her son slipped doing back flips, banged his head on the cobblestones just before a carriage… She scooped him up, whispered love, rocked him in case he could still hear and feel. She saved her tears for all her tomorrows. Nothing for me to do but sit with her, silent, knowing she’d never risk love again. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she picked up her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in feminism. Retired now, Alarie delights in having more time to read, write poetry, and hang out at The Ekphrastic Review. Her latest poetry collection, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. ** Transition "Now he's crying again. I told you he was way too old to look like a baby. No way were you going to pull off Madonna and child. And who even wears that to a Halloween party? We'll never get that blue curtain back on its rail now." Jimmy spat the words at his wife and slumped down on the bench next to her. "What about you? X-men? That's so ten years ago! Who was supposed to be able to tell you were meant to be a Mystique-Dark Phoenix mash-up? And aren't they both girls anyway?" Jenna was tired and their little boy Kyle was feeling very warm to the touch. Kyle settled and moaned gently as he lay across his mother, drifting into a fretful sleep. The background sound of bickering never stopped these days. Jimmy launched into another rant. "And why have we become minders for all these mangy animals? The owl's Kenny's, the wannabe Harry Potter, that thing pawing your skirt is the dumpy little blonde Dorothy 'Toto' and this mongrel in a turban is supposed to be with Ming the Merciless, AKA Gary from Accounts." "Don't ask me, they just turned up. I always seem to attract the waifs and strays." "Huh." Jimmy's sullen demeanour was accentuated by the sallow make-up. "It's not my fault the boss told me he was letting me go next month. There are too few staff to make the store worth running any more so he said it has to close. Anyway, I'm sure I'll get another job soon. A better paid one as well. I heard the company across town is offering twice the hourly rate and they are desperate for new hires." Jenna was feeling desperate too, worrying about Kyle needing a doctor's appointment and all the expense of that. She held her tongue, reluctant to mention this would be Jimmy's third time laid off this year, and she was already working two part-time jobs in addition to looking after Kyle. The other thing on her mind was the fan of cards at her feet. She'd intended just to play a hand of solitaire in this quiet corner when Jimmy had been living it up on the dance floor, but she'd been tempted to test her hand at an old skill. Jenna's mother had always told her she had the gift, if she wanted to use it, one that had skipped her mother's generation but been handed down through a long line of women seers. Now the cards showed her more than she wanted to know. Some people used a tarot deck but even regular playing cards in the right hands could show the future. The one thing that jumped out loud and clear was that there was a time of transition coming. Jenna couldn't yet get a handle on the shape of it, but back in real life, here and now, were Kyle's sickness and Jimmy's lost job and even the endless arguing between them. Jenna hushed Kyle and held him close. She not only had the second sight but also the strength and bravery of her ancestor women in her bones. The only thing for sure right now was that change was coming and she'd need every ounce of courage to face it. Emily Tee Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction. She's had pieces published online in The Ekphrastic Review and Visual Verse and in print in various publications from Dreich, as well as several poetry anthologies. She lives in England. ** The Mother holds her Son after Les Saltimbanques by Gustave Dore (1874) and remembering a visit to the Scrovegni Chapel, Padua Marjory Woodfield Marjory Woodfield is a New Zealand teacher and writer. She's been published by the BBC, Orbis, The Alchemy Spoon, Ekphrastic Review and others. She won the New Zealand Robert Burns Competition ( 2020), the NZSA Heritage Poetry Prize (2022) and was highly commended in the Erbacce International Poetry Prize (2022). She’s been anthologized by Frogmore Press (Pale Fire), Sonder Press (Best Small Fictions) and Bath Flash Fiction (with one eye on the cows). ** Collateral. You sold your child to Death, swapped his flesh one sliver at a time for coin and now you hold his emaciated body, white and fragile as ancient parchment, to your well-fed breasts, knowing you can have another and those breasts will feed your newest source of gold. You wear your bright blue dress and grand tiara shamelessly and ask the cards why the child is gone so soon while the Devil sits beside you in his suit of blood emblazoned with the final tears stolen from a child born from heaven into hell. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives in Lake Tabourie, NSW. She’s written most of her poetry since 2021 and is completing her Degree in Creative Writing at Curtin University. She has so far been published on Viewlesswings.com, in The Ekphrastic Review, Right Hand Pointing, One Sentence Poems, Star 82 Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, with work forthcoming in Misfit, and two pieces selected for Brushstrokes, the 2022 Ros Spencer Poetry Award Anthology and another two poems to be published in the South Coast Writers Centre Digital Anthology Coast. Her poem ‘Shiver’ has been nominated by the Star 82 Review for Best Spiritual Literature, formerly the Orison Anthology. She recently branched into flash fiction and her first piece was short-listed for the 2022 Berry Writers Festival Award. ** Street Circus Aarohi’s smartwatch beeped on her wrist. She was running late for the interview. The sun overhead glared at her through the windscreen like a traffic policeman does at an errant rule-violator. She was surrounded by a sea of blaring horns. Frustrated fellow commuters waited at the edge of the congestion, cursing under their breath. The noisy congregation took up most of the space on the narrow Avenue Road. From the middle of this crowd, appeared a woman in a soiled turquoise saree. Her skin was pale and her hair needed combing. One of the many golden motifs that littered her saree glinted in the sun. She sang a soft folk tune Aarohi had not heard of. A little grey dog was dressed in a ragged brown gown held together by an indigo-coloured belt in the middle. The woman rapped on the tambourine at quick intervals and the dog danced in step with the beat. A man dressed like a clown in a vermilion costume, played a cornet. Aarohi took a deep breath, closed her eyes and resigned to her fate. She was stuck in the middle of a street circus. She was probably not destined to bag the job she had applied for. A loud cheer from the crowd forced her eyes open. The man had erected poles. Between the poles, a thin rope hung in a slight parabola several feet above the tarred road. A little boy who balanced five pots on his head had begun his perilous walk across the rope. Aarohi waited with bated breath. Was the rope tight enough? Were the poles steady? Was it necessary for the boy to be put into jeopardy? Several onlookers threw coins into an aluminium plate at the foot of the pole .Their tokens of appreciation. Suddenly, a tawny owl flew close to the boy. The boy must have lost concentration. The rope began oscillating wildly in the sky. Three seconds later, he crashed onto the tarred road without a scream. The pots scrunched loudly against the tar before being shattered to smithereens. A terracotta shard hit Aarohi’s windscreen. It took some time for the crowd to realise that this was not part of the stunt. Someone shouted, Call for an ambulance. The woman rushed forward and scooped up the boy in a hug. The man offered her a handkerchief with which she tried to clean the gaping wound on the boy’s head. The dog pawed at her wanting to know what happened to his little playmate. Within minutes, the crowd disappeared without a trace. With their path cleared, the vehicles on the road scrambled to make a move. Aarohi saw the driver ahead cast a curious glance at the weeping parents and proceeded with an insouciant shrug. Nobody had the time, Aarohi realised. In her car’s rear view mirror, she saw a balding man with a rotund stomach get out of his midnight-blue Vento and shake his fist menacingly at her. He was clearly asking her not to block his path. It was a quick moment’s decision when Aarohi clambered out and ushered the hapless trio into the back seat of the car. The dog whimpered its way to the passenger seat in the front. Aarohi put her foot down on the accelerator pedal with all her might. She sped through the empty road, searching for signs of a red cross against a white background. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines such as The Ekphrastic Review, Soul-Lit, The Sunlight Press, Atlas+Alice, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Mothers Always Write, Tiger Moth Review and elsewhere. Her microchap, A Single Moment, has been published by Origami Poems Project. She is also a two-time winner of Wilda Morris's Poetry Challenge. ** Outsider Tonight you hold extremes Of suffering and pleasure Like the sun striking horizontal In winter, remorseless- This clown’s garb cannot relieve. Tonight grief separates us such- Our eyes fill with dead tears. Sitting beside a shadow of worship Wrapped in tenderness of the moment, I beckon your spirit- In the fallen colours of autumn. Arms that stretched to a juggler of fortunes On trapeze in belief, in wonder He could bring down the stars unseen- Bejewel the tiara, set the tent canopy exploding. Tonight I besiege you to look at me- Put us in slumber, friends who sing no more, Who relinquish the floor. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** One Trick Death is working his spindly charm under limelight cowled beneath the straining tent-top’s unbridled joy his tenebrous shape stands buried in canvassed fold bored by his own laughter’s rattle he is scratched into action returning to customary tread soundless, certain shadowed through the brazed serenade of trumpet blown the cheerful yapping of a dancing dog & cosmic sadness’s clowning, he slips unseen between guffaw & sweat of the marvelling mass to turn playful cheer to bleached hue, his frigid breath pushed through perfect teeth, breaks the child’s fine balance father’s catching hand & roused guilt cannot hold those small somersaulting limbs sand and straw no barrier to bleeding internal spilling, filling the big top with awful gasp in his mouth innocence is chewed over spat out thickly into the night air the moon will rise tomorrow, crowds seeking distraction will return without eyes for the vanished boy, who took his last tumble & lies still in a portable wooden box the one trick we all long for cannot be worked no magician can outwit this bony fellow who knows he will dance with us all Simon Parker Simon Parker is a London based writer, performer and teacher. His work been published in The Ekphrastic Review and has been performed at the Lyric Hammersmith Studio, Hackney Empire Studio, The Place, Somerset House, Half Moon Theatre, Southbank Centre, the Totally Thames Festival, and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Simon is an associate artist of Vocal Point Theatre, a theatre company dedicated to telling stories from those not often heard, and providing workshops for the marginalised. He runs creative writing and reading groups for the homeless, socially excluded and vulnerable. If you want to know more go to https://www.simonparkerwriter.com The Purple Velvet Purse I) Exposition: Money, money, money, it’s why we decided to keep him. When Cecille, the Tarot-Card reader, tried to entice him away, swaddling him close to her round, comforting bosom, it took only a short glance across her body, eyes meeting, for us to walk away. As I snatched him from her embrace, his cry a mewling protest, I felt only vindication, Cecille’s tears sealing his fate. Barren Cecille, lusting for the child made me resolute. Like all of our decisions, it was of one accord. We are two of the same, twins separated somehow, then fated together like two sides of the same coin. Both of us were born under the sign of Gemini, light as air but with feet firmly planted in delight, delight that takes money to procure. We ate, drank, danced and sang to one another, for we were flush with talent and lust. Our miserly love, only reserved only for each other, was apparent when we flew! Indeed, we were air-children, floating aloft, over the heads of mere commoners that tossed us a half-weeks wages, imagining themselves high in the atmosphere. Upon the thin wire, or wrapped in rare silks, dangling into free-fall, trusting only one another, complicit in our utterly narcissistic devotion to the exchange. The exchange was a simple proposition: getting the money to leave from any available pocket and into our own purple velvet purse. Cecille at first appeared to be cut from a similar, franc-loving cloth, but alas! She truly had the gift of foresight, and knowing what was coming, what would happen to him at our hands, she begged us on bended knees to give her the child. Her cheeks flushing red, she had offered all she had to give, and though tempted to let the burden go, we had big plans. The future helped us endure the suffering of the present, every hour of lost sleep, every cry. Slipping out at nightfall, we’d sustain ourselves by drinking wine and making love in the moonlight. Ever begrudgingly, we tended to the fragile life. Our hands were our instruments, weary of waiting, waiting for the day that the little bird could pay his way! By flying, of course! A tiny, brittle bird, only by flying could he possibly make our sacrifice worthwhile! The vanity, the sheer excess of it, was absolutely bald. There was simply no way to hide it, and we didn’t even try. 2) Development: We had him on the boards before he was six months old, much to the consternation of our fellows in the troupe. Fortunately for us, the Ringmaster was an avaricious simpleton, content to turn his head for a small pittance. So, we kept on. The child passed between our hands before he could walk, eyes wide with fright or disbelief. His tiny hands, balled into fists, shook at us, and, perhaps, at God, for putting him here, between two hedonistic acrobats. Inside, I knew the truth: a bitch with a dozen pups could have given him more warmth than he got from the two of us together, sad though I am to admit it now! The only time he heard us rejoice was when he finally did it, he finally flew! Holding tightly to the bar, the nets far below, he jumped from me to his laughing, encouraging father. I recall his face: wide and unnatural, with a smile so huge, it swallowed his eyes, his cheeks pinkening with the first blush of weightlessness. Greedily, we watched, vicariously feeling the sensation of first flight while knowing, this was it! This was the big payoff, the peasants would soon stuff our purse to overflowing! The unimaginable draw of a flying baby had become real! Call me the fool, I deserve worse. 3) Recapitulation: The flight was short, uneventful at first. I pushed, his father, suited up like the jester he surely was, caught him, then sent him back. I watched intently, waiting to catch him, already feeling victorious, and…what was that stab in my heart, a sudden stoppage of blood that gripped me like a vise? Oh mon Dieo! Was it fear? Or love? I couldn’t tell. Struck with precognition, I struggled to see anything for a moment. Then clarity: I saw, or imagined I saw, the bent and pleading visage of Cecille. And so he slipped. His tiny hands uselessly grabbed the air, as he fell down, down, down, into the useless net, made only for adults. We did everything together, and this was no exception. The tears in his father’s eyes told me he, too, had felt a puncture, a frightening exposition of what was forthcoming, and the perfect love. That was there too, for both of us, much too little, much too late. In vain, we scurried with him through the streets to the clinic, in vain we waited to hear what we already knew: internal bleeding and a snapped neck. A gift we neither appreciated, nor even knew we had, was gone: gone into the atmosphere, the heavens, the precious air. Afterward: Months of heights never before imagined, recklessness grew outsized and our coffers prospered, the purple purse stuffed to overflowing. Our house was packed with wheat and cheese, but the wires wore thin, always thinner, until the cowards way out beckoned, came closer, overtook us. But first. Not redemption, but practicality. My young sister was wide with child, her man a mercenary, seldom in town, usually surly with drink. She didn’t want the child, but here she was. We called her through a messenger before the poison finished taking hold. For her, a purple velvet purse, an address. For her, care until the child came. For Cecille, another chance. Or maybe the love of her own flesh and blood would reach my sister long before it came for us two. Two cowards, a fool and a jester, eternally reaching out for his hands. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, artist, literary essayist, and fiction writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in several journals and magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Universe, The Light Ekphrastic (forthcoming) and Natural Awakenings, Atlanta. After a long career in Supported Employment and Mental Health, Debbie spends her time reading, writing, working on mixed-media pieces, and beachcombing. ** Les Saltimbanques Marian clutched her child tightly and kissed his forehead to soothe his fears. She did her best to settle her own terror, but the weeping of her child was beginning to seep into the cracks of her facade. She set him down and turned to face the man beside her. “Well, Lucien,” she said, her voice shaking and cracking. “You’ve won. My soul is yours to take.” She stood, wiping her eyes dry of tears and petting the tawny that sat on the bench. It cooed and looked at her with its quizzical eyes, its head tilting slightly. “Yes,” Lucien said. “Yes, I suppose it is…” He was staring at Marian’s child solemnly, seeming lost in thought. He noticed Marian gazing at him, and he cleared his throat, standing to address her. “I have thought deeply about this situation, miss Marian. It is evident that your child is without a father. Am I correct in that inference?” Marian was taken aback. She hadn’t thought that the man would be capable of such emotional thought. “Yes, your grace. He is.” Lucien nodded carefully, looking at the child again. “I will grant you one hour to say your goodbyes, and one more to find this boy a loving home. Should you need my assistance in the latter, you will have my help at your disposal.” He looked at Marian again. “You should use this time wisely, young one. I am not so forgiving in every case.” Marian’s heart was leaping and bounding, both out of joy and of fear. Could this be a trick? Could Lucien be telling her a cruel joke? But… no, his eyes were genuine, and there was no hint of a smile. He was genuinely sorry for Marian’s child. She bit back a sob, tears beginning to stream down her face, and hugged the man. He was no devil; simply a sympathetic man who had lost his way, and wanted to set things as right as he could. Lucien’s eyes went wide, and he stood motionless for a moment before awkwardly wrapping one arm around the woman. He squeezed gently and let go, gesturing for her to take the child and walk away. At that moment, he decided that he wouldn’t enforce the deal he had made with her. He made a mental note to burn the contract, and, at the end of the first hour he had given the woman, send a message to notify her. As she walked away, he noticed that his cheek was wet. He wiped it, finding a trail of water trickling down from his eye. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of the man’s lips before he turned and vanished into a nearby alley. Lucien—the Devil himself—had shed a tear. Cody Graham Cody Graham is 18, and a senior at Herriman High School. Join The Ekphrastic Review live on zoom for a wine and art write night with Frida Kahlo. The magnificent Mexican artist is known for her passionate love marriage to Diego Rivera, her lifelong illnesses, and for her determination to live life on her own terms. We will relax together, discuss Frida's artwork, and use it to inspire our own writing, whether poetry or fiction.
Click on image above to sign up, or to purchase gift certificates for our workshops to give as holiday gifts. 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 Guernica, by Pablo Picasso. Deadline is November 25, 2022. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. 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 PICASSO CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your piece. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, November 25, 2022. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we will no longer send out sorry notices or yes letters. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. 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. Dear Readers and Writers, Just a friendly editorial note to say thank you for being part of The Ekphrastic Review. Just by reading the poetry and stories in this journal, you are generously supporting the work of these wonderful writers! If we are small compared to massive news media outlets or best-selling mainstream novel publishers, these words still matter. We are participating in so many layers of communication, between artists from all over the world, from different times, between writers and readers. Each artwork chosen for these challenge prompts aims to provide variety, mystery, and inspiration to writers, to take your writing in unexpected directions. Whether you let the work speak to you viscerally or stimulate free associations, or you play detective and look for any backstory that might get woven into your words, my goal is always to give you a rich experience. Encounters with art are the blood of ekphrasis, and define our whole raison d'être here at the Review. Whether your work is selected this time or next, or not, we strive to include a variety of perspectives and approaches to every painting. We strive to welcome new voices and honour faithful participants, too. It is not possible to publish every entry, every time, but we are so grateful to every one of you for participating in this journey as part of this community. If the work of writing and writers, or artists, means something to you, we ask you please to share these challenge pages and The Ekphrastic Review in general on your Facebook or Twitter pages and in your newsletters, groups, and beyond. Every additional reader matters to a writer. This small action that you may not even think about is huge. Every time you've mentioned a poetry book on your page or shared a writer's post, you have participated in the support of creation, expression, and dialogue. THANK YOU. We also invite you to spread the love and invite someone into ekphrasis by giving an ekphrastic workshop to a friend, to a young writer, or to someone who may not have the means to participate. Our single-session Zoom workshops generate amazing conversations about art and artists and they're fun, too, with a variety of creative writing exercises. They are about connection, creativity, and conversation. We have gift certificates for the holidays that can be redeemed for any workshop in 2023. There will be sessions on single artists, on various themes in art, and wine and art write nights. One of the gift certificates is to give away, and one is to join as a friend at a discount. We also have a collage themed workshop coming very soon, and a Frida Kahlo night for wine and art. These workshops have nurtured ekphrastic writing, grown our community, and helped this journal survive. THANK YOU. love, Lorette Anne Graue Anne Graue is the author of Full and Plum-Colored Velvet, (Woodley Press, 2020) and Fig Tree in Winter (Dancing Girl Press, 2017) and has poetry in SWWIM Every Day, Verse Daily, Rivet Journal, Mom Egg Review, Flint Hills Review, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, and in print anthologies, including The Book of Donuts (Terrapin Books, 2017) and Coffee Poems (World Enough Writers, 2019). Her book reviews appear in FF2 Media, Adroit, Green Mountains Review, Glass Poetry Journal, and The Kenyon Review. She is a poetry editor for The Westchester Review. ** Hope Radiating strength and virtue with every step he took, He slowly healed our broken community, Shaping it into one never before seen. He was created free of sin and He wanted that for us too, For the shackles of sin to be no more. Out of love for his brothers and sisters He promised to undergo the excruciating death of crucifixion, finally liberating us from its restraints. Honoring his promise, he was nailed to the cross. His mother’s presence emitted a hopeful glow, One that spread to those around her. Gazing at her with weary eyes, He laid down his life Becoming enveloped with love And the pain was no more. Evelyn Sanchez Evelyn Sanchez is a senior at Miss Porter's School in Farmington, CT. She is taking an Advanced Latin course about the Aeneid and has been studying the ancient ekphrases that occur throughout the epic poem. ** The Miracle Man Somehow, almost four hundred years ago, you created A grand Baroque crucifixion icon in the Spanish style With the whole cast of characters included, Golden light glowing on the Trinity, The Holy Mother, enrobed in lapis blue, her hands upheld in prayer, And cochineal blood mixed with groveling Magdalene’s tears In the dark dirt at the foot of the cross. The four corners are lost in mysterious darkness, And shadows linger on the human faces too, Visages that will never smile. Somehow, this holy icon gave birth to a healing miracle, Then engendered more miracles Then a religious festival, the largest on earth Still alive in Lima in the high cold mountains at the end of the world-- Processions in the streets with your masterpiece held high, And thousands of followers, purple decorations everywhere, special snacks and pastries, Even bull fights, and masses every day Turning remote Lima into an October carnival better than Mardi Gras. But everyone seems to have forgotten you. Who were you anyway? What was your name? Benito? Pedro? Surely you had an Angolan name in your homeland Before the Portuguese slave traders sold you to a Spaniard with a Huge gold crucifix around his neck, an image of a wounded man, bleeding, dying. As your captor hauled you in chains to his smelly galleon, filled with gold and slaves, You looked into that necklace as a mirror, and saw a suffering man, like you. Your mother, dressed in blue cloth, dyed with indigo from the fields, Stood on the dock tall and dignified, not screaming and cursing The demon who dragged you away, but chanting a blessing for you in your new life, The girl you loved since childhood, standing beside her, red flowers in her hair. You saw many Spaniards in the years to come, and they all wore A heavy chain around their necks and a gold crucifix, the totem of their tribe As though they were the slaves in chains of the wounded man. Did one of the other slaves tell you that the man on the cross came back to life? And did you later learn that this re-born man was a miracle worker? There is nothing a slave needs more than a miracle, and painting was yours. Did the holy women’s blessing chant echo in your ears as your scarred hands Worked with the brushes, the colours, the shadings of darkness and light And you came to recognize the wounded man who came back to life, El Señor De Los Milagros, as your twin? Rose Anna Higashi Rose Anna Higashi is a retired professor of English Literature, Japanese Literature, Poetry and Creative Writing. Her poetry journal, Blue Wings, was published by Paulist Press. In 2022, her poems have appeared in The Avocet, PoetsOnline, The Ekphrastic Review, The Agape Review and The Catholic Poetry Room. Many of her lyric poems and haiku can be viewed on her website: myteaplanner.com, which also publishes her monthly blog, Tea and Travels. Rose Anna lives in rural Hawaii with Wayne, her husband of nearly sixty years. ** The Cloth The perizoma and tear drinking handkerchief were cut from the same cloth, divided down the middle into seemingly independent realities. Within him an unknowing turns the cloth into a shroud, sorrow and shame softening to a rain and in her hands a cloud. A backdrop of gathering night, dark clouds merge in the gloaming-- a singular cloth becomes a canvas for an artist. Christopher Martin Christopher Martin: "I am a poet/lyricist and Buddhist living on the North East coast of England. My work has featured in various publications and competitions. I am currently working on my debut collection, due out 23/24 with the Black Cat Poetry Press." ** From Lima to St. Mary's School -a sestina bursts and blooms and a sky fired by clouds childhood rises and quakes Stop! with sorrow gaze up gaze down there is no reflection some may find comical this search for peace shades of red on red on red on red pain they were as always there to take those prayers small child uses the earth to make his prayer he can’t be seen there might be in the clouds or being hidden in robes of deep pain so what? others here were downed by sorrow colored clothes and folded hands don’t mean peace look again! tell me there’s a reflection the columns shed the only reflection a shame there was no other place for prayer above the christ hovered the dove of peace the only light an orb in auburn clouds the sense in this work is the same sorrow as the walls of St. Mary’s walls of pain the father the son their plan of great pain holy spirit sings whites of reflection there was confusion amid the sorrow what could they use for clarity but prayer though we know that at the end under clouds we know there were two marys who brought peace Magadalene and Nazareth embraced peace with impossible and angering pain a child I was swaddled years in clouds god omnipresent yet no reflection god’s sky was the sepia of our prayers the mahogany of our young sorrow yes this painting brings up all the sorrow but that is not to say there was no peace an altar boy at st mary’s school prayers memorized stations of the cross all pain we children taught the grace of reflection taught that one day we’d ascend through the clouds encompassing the sorrow of the clouds the days of peace and mary’s reflection st mary’s prayers and years to handle pain John L. Stanizzi John L. Stanizzi is author of many collections including Ecstasy Among Ghosts. Besides The Ekphrastic Review, John’s work has been widely published including in Prairie Schooner, The New York Quarterly, Rattle, and many others. His work has been translated into Italian, including in El Ghibli, The Journal of Italian Translations Bonafini, Poetarium, and others. His translator is the Italian poet, Angela D’Ambra. A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and New England Poet of the Year (1998), John has just been awarded an Artist Fellowship in Creative Non-Fiction from the Connecticut Office of the Arts and Culture for work on his new memoir. He teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, Connecticut, and lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry, CT. https://www.johnlstanizzi.com ** No Doubt (a fibonacci poem) God is watching the tableau below. Does He see or care about the suffering of the crucified soul bleeding, groaning on the cross. Women nearby watch, stay close, feel nearly as much pain as the dying man, hear his plea: forgiveness for all. Delivered, every word heard. Tina Hacker Tina Hacker’s newest poetry collection is titled Golems, published by Kelsay Books. The poems are based on the magical mud and clay creature from Jewish folklore who is conjured from the earth to accomplish a task. After fulfilling it and often having a good time, the golem returns to the earth. Tina has authored two previous collections of poetry: Listening to Night Whistles and Cutting it. In 2016 she was named a Muse of The Writers Place in Kansas City, MO, and currently serves as the poetry editor for Veterans’ Voices, a national magazine of writing by military veterans. Tina has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize four times. ** The Women Stayed In the midst of death’s horror defying priests and fierce centurions two women stayed, braved it all to be sure his spirit would not be alone as it left this earth, left the body broken for our sins. Faces brown like the slave who painted it, a humble man acknowledged them, showing the world women stayed and braved, as even now women, girls march, heads uncovered for a girl whose death they could not attend, march for freedom to live, to speak for the right to live a life unburdened by today’s centurions Like the women at the cross, it is our mission not just to watch and wait but to speak and act to defy evil when we see it, to remain faithful until the end so the world can witness resurrection. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She performs tales featuring food, family, and strong women. Her essays, poems, and fiction are in or soon will be appearing in The Ekphrastic Review, Pinesong, Brass Bell, Verse Visual, anti-heroin chic, Gargoyle, Silver Birch, Ovunquesiamo, Verse Virtual, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Yellow Mama, and others. She’s a 2022 Pushcart nominee, received Best of Micro Fiction, 2021 (Haunted Waters), nominee for Best of the Net, 2023 and was a 2022 runner up in Frost Foundation Poetry Competition. Her first chapbook, Languid Lusciousness with Lemon came out in 2017 from Finishing Line Press. Her second chapbook, Feathers on Stone, is coming in late 2022 from Main Street Rag. ** Brush with Death So how compute ‘Adobe’ word, so far from mudbrick, Spanish name? But rammed earth term must bear its load, through water, straw and earthy dung. That soil of sand with silt or clay, and straw - it binds, not breaking back - those bricks dry on an even keel - no cracking, shrinkage in the wall. So rooted, firmly in the earth, Angolan slaves who brush with death would raise the Christ, redemption hope, that vision reaching through the pain. ‘The Lord of Miracles’, renamed, an altar piece to alter peace, yet stood assured as quakes shook world; how was its reputation gained, from wishful thinking, bonded men? And still today, the festivals shift focus from the trembling known to what might be in heaven’s orb - so much to bear in deep Peru. Street celebrations of the crowds; scene linked back to the chains that bound; new tremors warded off from ground - the daily grind, mass chasm bridged. 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 published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ ** Miracles I Nails pierce through palms that healed the poor, hammer through hands that blessed, broke bread, scald through feet shod with Earth’s sawdust—so to raise the dead. II Under clouds’ turmoil, below the hover-shadow of a sacred bird, rooted in clay yet hung from the stars, the Lord of miracles is manacled to a cross, pinned by the indignation of Pharisee and Sadducee, spiked by rank hypocrisy of Roman rulers. He has no feet to run away, no hands to raise with pleas of Cease! Instead, He’s bound and broken, head bowed down, quivering as the world shakes, as the whole Earth quakes below heaven’s high, high arch, and darkness floods all cosmic space. III Through the blood-blurred wilderness of his distress, Christ sees their piteous faces; looks deep into their treasuries—loves and lives and memories-- sees beyond their modest shawls, their homespun veils: not to damn them (Neither do I condemn you), nor to show contempt (This woman welcomed me with tears for water to wash my weary feet, with hair for a towel to dry them), but to offer love not ever shown before to women in this way. In His mild eyes, they’re beautiful, these Marys of Jerusalem. In His listening ears they murmur love truer than any mourning doves’. IV The Temple curtain tears in two. Earth’s bedrock shatters. The Maker of the universe has now unmade Himself to raise us to the miracles of life, eternal life. Lizzie Ballagher British by birth, Ballagher has lived and worked over seven decades on both sides of the Irish Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, often near coastlands. Never having had a collection of her landscape poetry published, Ballagher is currently working on a sequence of poems about Exmoor (UK). Recently one of these was chosen as winner in Poetry on the Lake's 2022 formal category with a pantoum about Tarr Steps in mid-Exmoor: https://www.poetryonthelake.org/competition ** Afterward, The Pieta They do not lay Him in my lap; they throw Him dead at my feet in a merciless pose, the immodesty of His groin cloth—displaced, genitalia exposed. My child, my Jesu. I rush to cover Him. My blue veil turning violet where it hits His hands, His feet, His side… I, the while, careful to keep my eyes downcast—as not to stir suspicion. I nod for John to assist me... Joseph’s makeshift stretcher waiting to spirit Him home. His wife, Magdalene, remains frozen and immovable. “I’ll take you with me,” I whisper, “until he returns to claim you.” A 2023 Best of the Net poetry nominee by The Ekphrastic Review, Keith Hoerner’s work has been anthologized often. He has been published in 100+ literary journals across five continents and is founding editor of the Webby / Communicator Award recognized Dribble Drabble Review, in addition to a Best Book / American Writing Award Finalist. ** thaumaturgy the interior is impossible to describe—it never reveals itself, remains always turned inside out—desire travels through it furtively, a passenger blindfolded to the hidden landscapes, the locations of both boundaries and doors, embedded and concurrently refused both entry and exit-- totally submerged by secrets, drowning in the unexplained 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/. ** Swell of Faith Becoming Wall In poor indentured neighbourhood, a house of friars stalwart stood as message that the soul was free and sacrifice was priceless fee for seed of opportunity to bloom as blessed community... ...and thus within, on wall of clay, an artist humble would portray the sacrifice unrecognized that would so precious be so prized as proof of everlasting hope the dawn renews for those who cope with shackles holding spirit fast to yesterday's repeated past... ...and so its home became enshrined as oracle where hearts divined the courage to make dreams persist where means were meager to enlist... ...and then, it seemed as no surprise, when quaking earth became demise of heaven's house, the wall would stand where still the art of humble hand remained as beacon left to see a future brighter yet to be... ...where grateful hearts would recreate the art in oils to venerate as icon of a festive feast to honor hope among the least who line the streets where nature's wrath became its restoration path and celebrate foundation laid where fear will never more dissuade... ...the swell of faith becoming wall of souls embraced resisting fall. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Que Es El Milagro? What is the miracle? Is it that a beautiful mural was painted on an adobe wall by an African slave? Is it that after the earthquake, when almost all had been destroyed, the adobe wall remained intact despite the surrounding monastery being rubble? Is it the number of miracles attributed to the painting? Or is it that almost three centuries on the people of Lima venerate it still? The real miracle is exactly what is seen. Pure, unconditional Love nailed to a cross. Forgiveness and Redemption nailed to a cross. Free Salvation and eternal life for all who seek it. Este es el verdadero milagro! Stephen Poole Stephen Poole served for 31 years in the Metropolitan Police in London, England. As a freelance journalist his articles and interviews have appeared in a variety of British county and national magazines. His poetry has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry on the Lake, LPP Magazine and four anthologies with a fifth anthology due to publish more of his work soon. ** Mary Magdalene "...the inner life---the imagination or the spirit---is not some trick of culture, or upbringing or even genetics, but an actual different order of reality....so that when they looked at love---as when they looked at literature or prayer---they were like children baffled by one of those optical illusion drawings: They saw the two profiled faces but couldn't make out the grail formed in between." Andrew Klavan, Shotgun Alley "....all souls, turned toward one another, while we pass through a softer wind." John Freeman, Wind, Trees And when the white dove appeared above Christ's head in a painting, its haloed wings spread over your cross, mi companero--in--love and adversity I prayed to El Señor de los Milagros for a miracle; for your beloved hand to break free of pain --- the nails biting your flesh --- so I could feel your blessing touch my bowed head as I knelt down near your feet as your body hung, crucified, como un ciero, hunted and killed. Away from this place of sorrow --- of hatred and hypocrisy --- there is a country with a magical legend about Lovers, how they were protected by the spirit of a Great White Hart a magical being from the family of Cervidae who watched from deep within the ancient forest when they met there, clandestine, beneath trees in a clearing, the stag's eyes filled with compassion beneath his massive crown of horns. Some say women with red hair are witches, filled with sexual need but you loved me, believed I was the girl whose fiery passion could not save you. Death calls, now, from gnarled branches and golden columns of Cathedrals nature sinned against, though I carried ripe berries to a woodland altar, and Mary your mother, will wear a sky-blue cloak for eternity, surrounded by a court of clouds; while I, a sorry sister, will dress in black, hidden by bias, controversial in biblical literature though I cherish drops of your blood, like freckles on my cheeks, mingled with the salt of tears when the night is my diminished companion until you rise, emanating sunlight and I reach the safety of a foreign shore carrying our future. Anonymous, I will look for lavender, purple as a bruise healing in the red earth of Provence where your soul is my chosen landscape --- votre ame est un paysage choisi --- and that beneficent light called sun and moon are perpetual children, free of sin even in twilight, our collateral fruit, free roots in a vineyard with Blue Apples. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Her recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020,
explores the relationship between art and life in dreams, surreality and poetry. Honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review, her poems have been nominated for the Pablo Neruda Prize and Best of The Net. She received second place in the Houston Poetry Fest's Ekphrastic Contest, and she has been listed by The Ekphrastic Review as a Fantastic Ekphrastic. Mary Magdalene is designated the Patron Saint of women. Along with enigmatic references to her secret and controversial existence, she is associated with the words "Blue Apples" found on tombstones in southern France where there is a basilica dedicated to her in a medieval town outside Aix-en-Provence. Beneath a crypt in the church, there is a glass dome said to contain the relic of her skull. ** |
Challenges
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