 CAN/CAN‘T by Pascal Möhlmann (Switzerland) 2024 Can You? Arms reaching out Pink, beautiful You can Arms reaching out Green, ugly You can’t Make up your mind Think again You can Antje Bothin Antje Bothin loves writing poetry. She lives in Scotland and has recently authored an inspiring book on a treasure hunt around Iceland. Her poems were published in several international anthologies. When not being creative, she can be found doing voluntary work in nature or drinking tea. ** Beggars As if their life were draining away, Wounds on their arms, Beggars show how life could do harm. Hands outstretched towards Infinity, Desperate hands, Full of hope. Quest for a small piece of happiness, Quest for a small piece of freedom. Heads hypnotized by a low and false light. A disappointed man turns his back On this hypocrite donor And secretly informs his pals Not to believe in artificial promises, But to believe in themselves. Jean Bourque Jean Bourque lives in Montreal, province of Quebec. He is French-speaking and a retired specialist teacher. As a retiree, one of his plans is to learn English. A new friend, Donna-Lee Smith, with whom he has the pleasure of chatting, introduced him to The Ekphrastic Review. Jean met Donna-Lee at the Conversation Exchange program that pairs up Francophones with Anglophones in the McGill Community for Lifelong Learning. This is his second challenge submission. ** Dream or Reality? Sporadic colours, green and pink cover the hordes of people. Arms reach out in desperation for something or someone and yell: “Can’t, can’t! I find it distracting and frightening. My body trembles as I watch the crowd grow in abundance and the chants become louder. I try to move, but my feet won’t lift from the ground, and the sweat pours down my neck as my heart pounds profusely. I realize the multitude of hands are coming for me. I try to run, but I still can’t move, and I have no voice to scream. Suddenly, I feel a touch and shudder. “Wake up, Char, you’re having a bad dream.” I open my eyes, and my boyfriend is leaning over, his hand on my shoulder. “Rob, I had the strangest dream.” When my eyes focus, the air is filled with green and pink. 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. ** Cordelia Imagine Goneril and Regan lurid green I am the colour of dawn Look carefully at my eyes Full of wonder and dismay Father in the foreground slips into madness I am daughter I am fool Between self and family I can barely/I can't even Lara Dolphin A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids. Her chapbooks include In Search Of The Wondrous Whole (Alien Buddha Press), Chronicle Of Lost Moments (Dancing Girl Press), and At Last a Valley (Blue Jade Press). ** Whispers Psst listen hear me. Psst look see me look this way. Psst I will gift you it all put everything in a blue bag ready for your hands to grasp. Psst you’re still not listening, you’re looking away. Psst Hey, you all in all your colours your faces not the same but still you face the same way away. Psst the bag has gone. I threw it away. Lynn White Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today competition and has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com ** The Beckoning Come pray with me I'll feed your addiction to the Valkyries Come play with me I'll whisper my love against your wisdom Come stay with me I'll mend your flesh in silver tones Come away with me I'll seed my weeping into your bones Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith occasionally writes from a Viking graveyard on Gotland Island awash by the Baltic Sea. ** The Painterly Function of Arms, Hands, Squash, and Modal Verbs 1. Where rumours linger arms reach beseech relief unite in resemblance stretch to receive the blush of compassionate light. 2. Where rumours linger the roundness of colour arrests the eye amplifies the pumpkin in Caribbean blue as the bottle gourd listens in lateral repose its sage ear tilts to take heed. Here the artist whispers spreads suspicion expresses uncertainty to his still life. 3. Where rumours linger you reach for answers beseech relief lean toward the possibilities of modal verbs. You can and will persist midst brushes with can’t find comfort in your abilities and the wish to receive the blush of compassionate light the unseen companion who perseveres when the voice of doubt strikes. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** What Haunts My Eyes Isn’t Can/Can’t What haunts my eyes isn’t can/can’t How much money or alms can be earned for wages? What haunts my eyes is why I too can’t fly. Lord knows I’m green with envy at times. Working for loose change—petals blowing on the tide A brush stroke here or two that catches the gospel. I sing for the bees and sleep on a cactus bed. I guess this easel is about to flower and suck me in. What haunts my eyes isn’t can/can’t It’s a tear I can’t somehow wipe away at a wine bar. What haunts my eyes isn’t that it’s my birthday today. And I haven’t figured it all out yet. What haunts my eyes is I want to bare my soul and undress. And remove every falsehood till I’m broken and found But secretly I believe I am not that gifted. Or even that proud, look, I wear no garb of gold. What haunts my eyes is a memory of when you were mine. And we interconnected like a jasmine vine in the dew. And secretly you were mine like a flash of lightning. Posing in the nude, Burning my fingers like only you could ever do. Oh, Picasso had two wives. And dozens of lovers they did as Picasso’s muses Six mistresses lit a torch to his Rose Period and set it aflame. But I am not a pretender. I want to whisper, Darling, we’ll meet later. Sooner or later after the turpentine dries And the jasmine flowers fade from sight. There’ll be no can/can’t see you later. Whatever haunts my eyes, I hope it's you when I look back. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Can vs Can’t - Interpretation (a villanelle) Chance synchronizes interconnected Can vs Can’t red verses green as arms semáforos like cabriole points up to ‘xx’ vs ’x y’ as signals slant volcanic clashed abstract red contrast. Hauteur, y tu picaros chance synchronizes interconnected Can vs. Can’t brushes surreptitious angst, joy reverses chiaroscuro like cabriole points up ‘xx’ vs. ‘xy’ objects slant?! engagé faces in shock surceased as ingenuous belief cerulean bag of kudos. Synchronicity chanced interconnected Can vs. Can’t , Equivocating comic iconoclast clarity in the extreme so seems malapropos rhyme without reason matched claret masked precisely seriously verdant, gestures humorous yellows chance synchronized interconnected Can vs. Can’t Like cabriolet points up to code ‘xx’ vs. ‘xy’ as signals slant. Carolyn Mack Retired teacher, and grandmother, Carolyn Mack resides in San Diego backcountry and Cortes Island, BC, Canada. Although living abroad while raising her family, she studied in Oregon at Southern Oregon State and Guanajuato University. More recently she has published a book of illustrations. Her poems have been accepted in literary journals here and in the UK. ** Turning Can't into Can Philippe shook his head in dismay. The dress-rehearsal dance practice was going very badly. Yes, Giselle looked beautiful, as always. Odd, but still beautiful. This was what happened when the bride-to-be roped in her artistic friends to help with wedding preparations. Philippe, a superb dancer and choreographer, had been tasked with the special wedding dance where Giselle and bridesmaid would welcome the groom. A groom, who of course was not here, and would not arrive in town until just before the wedding. The problem had never been Giselle, who Philippe knew as both a friend and a colleague. She would pirouette and prance easily though the simple routine he'd prepared, ever the centre of attention, just as she deserved. Even the three bridesmaids, two of Giselle's cousins and an old high school friend, all untalented cloggers, could manage the unsophisticated steps. No, the problem was Guido-Jorge, who had decided they were going to do the make-up. Despite Giselle's request for something "minimal and natural" Guido-Jorge had insisted on 'unleashing their inner auras' as they'd put it. That was why Philippe had been confronted with Giselle in shades of cerise, still beautiful of course, and the green bridesmaids looking ready for a role in a pantomime as the wicked step-sisters or witches round a cauldron. "Carla! Darla! Sonya! Try not to tread on Giselle's dress. Less of the soulful yearning! Project more joy!" Philippe knew his directions were not getting through. As soon as they'd been painted the three girls seemed in a trance. One of them, Sonya, was only half-painted, though for some reason her bare arm had a prosthetic open wound, 'to let the evil miasma flow out', according to Guido-Jorge. Philippe had tried to reason with Giselle, but to no avail. "Hush, Philippe. I'm so honoured that Guido-Jorge decided to help. They're a genius. I know it's unusual, but what a statement it makes!" Philippe wasn't sure exactly what it was saying, especially as Guido-Jorge was insisting that various legumes and plant bulbs be brought in as props for the simple dance routine. "Hush, Philippe. It's part of their cultural heritage. They are bringing nature into their art. The dancers are part of that. Everything is from the spirit, the aura. Just relax, lean in. That's what I'm doing. All will be well." Giselle seemed very at peace with it all. "I'm not sure I can..." "Hush, Philippe. Turn that can't into can." "Philippe! Here, drink this. Cassava, papaya and a few medicinal herbs. It will recharge your positive energy. Your aura is shading towards cyan. That must stop!" Guido-Jorge held out a tall glass of a viscous pale yellow drink. "Yes, Philippe. It really helped me calm down," said Giselle. There was a chorus of yesses from the bridesmaids. Philippe thought to himself, what harm can a fruit and herb drink do? He drank down the contents of the glass. "Argghhh! That's more like it!" A calmness and an inner energy suffused Philippe. Everything was clear. The girls were the perfect colours, each radiating their own special spark. "Okay. Giselle, Carla, Darla, Sonya! Follow my lead. We are going to turn can't into can. Let's put on a wedding dance like no-one's ever seen before." Guido-Jorge smiled. The dancers and their director swayed and moved to an internal beat. It was always so rewarding to connect people with their inner auras, unleash their inner "can'." Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review’s challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print, including in the 2025 Poetry Diary from Sunday Mornings at the River. ** What We Had in the After-Life The oarsman hissed, Ladies, prepare your songs. Is it not a new year each day? Rafts knocking the shore, we scrambled out as missiles fired one hundred kilometres to the east. Faces uplifted, arms outstretched we unstitched our lips, searching for psalms our souls did not understand how to sing. Breasts and arms bullet-holed black, our bodies were stained with the blood and putrescence of those we left behind. As we laid sacrifices to the victors on sand rimmed in ash, one bruised green gourd, one blue silk bag squat with salt, a gleaming tea tray reflected the face of she who wanted to believe there might yet be mercy. Janice Scudder Janice Scudder lives in Colorado. ** Hands It looks like a hot bubble that breads biblical trouble. Love isn’t in the air. Mankind is in spiritless despair. AI is a Flying Dutchman, in a way. Real hands are called to uphold the poor old panting world. Spellbound by the rapture, the artist galvanized his brush to capture all burnout labourers unto his canvass sheltering their prayer for a sway of our god-given gift – sharing the planet in good faith. The hues hint their vocations. The crimson hands pulled a child out of a shrapnel typhoon helping her to walk the earth again and making her parents rejoice in heavens. The pallid hands cooked soup for the desponded homeless on the street discounted by gluttonous Midas’-like fists. The green hands reached the shifting verdant edge in a heated argument exchange for stopping yet another private jet. No luck as yet. But there is always hope left – wrapped in a blue heaven-sent present to be opened on Christmas morning – the magic that all await to be revealed like a smile slowly blooming upon hungry mouth following the spoon from pot to lip, man, it’s closing the gap between heaven and earth! Planets’ reclusiveness resolved, joy is at hand – a fig fallen from the garden of Eden for freshly squeezed sweet nothings as it was in the beginning. But just about to sample its scriptural taste, I notice something I can’t understand though I can comprehend – some smudged impression, some chimera of dread between some likeness of teeth, though I can’t be sure, indeed. Yet, I can comprehend though I can’t understand – a phantom trying to loot our bona fide gift. I can’t comprehend though I can understand – the ghost of the upper hand – the artist’s cold dish best served brushed off hand. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have frequently been honored by TER and its Challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** To Pascal Möhlmann Regarding CAN/CAN'T You paint both feast of Him as gift and feast of His command to lift the hands that beckon Heaven's reach instead as lessons they would teach extending Grace to spirits poor, embraced as those who suffer more, to be, by toughened love of kin, the mirror that reflects within the strength to know that sacrifice, endured is blessing's precious price, as service to the greater whole of common, selfless, sovereign soul whose yearning is the trust of yore evolving as forevermore. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Can/Can’t Turnip cabbage Butternut squash Can of olive oil Mother do help us We can’t. We can’t do it The knowledge of ages The ancestral bliss You contain it We turned to tiktok We turned to twitter We turned to our contemporaries Feeding us their feeds We eat our daily pixels Swallow the whole of the world On a perfectly clean dish We can’t do it Father do help us The turnip cabbage The butternut squash Can of olive oil They prompt in us the appropriate scene The classic kitchen The good soup The right choice of kitchen tools We can imagine. We can We can exactly pinpoint the essence We know the stereotype, the prototype and the exquisite We know how to judge We are judgement in the flesh Perfect pawns of categorical imperative But what about turnip cabbage Madre Mia What about butternut squash Please mother Hold us Comfort us Stien Pijp Stien Pijp lives in the Dutch country side. She enjoys thinking, poetry and clay. She works as a linguist in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around and walk her dog. ** All That Was Bright upon the night long rain, flapping mid-air like the sunbirds in silence- imprinting moments that never came. Blue and deep, all that was. O lord of miracles I offer you life's celebrations, beauty once held- chirping of robins and blackbirds, nightmares through early hours. I offer you my burden today of not praying enough. Darting thoughts like the naked iron rods out of years in layered bricks, slipping spirit from the weeping holes. 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, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Evolution "If she tells fortunes with a deck of fallen leaves Until it comes out right -- (How could you not love a woman who cheats at the Tarot?) " Robert Hass, The Problem of Describing Color We could have been anything possible or improbable, call girls or soloists in a church choir in the country, sisters born naturally in the verdant bed of Mother Nature -- we were three: Ivy, Vetiver and Rose. Ivy, a twin, had a passion for still life so she painted a flower poet, stems and leaves of Ivy (her namesake) in a lovely shade of turquoise, its colour called the sky-stone by Native American Indians, a blue-veined rock they used in ritual healing. Vetiver (the other twin) said water -- its rippling aquas -- reminded her of the springtime when she learned to swim in a pond named for Eustacia Vye in a Thomas Hardy novel -- a tragedy -- written before Vetiver's arm went missing. Rose said Pascal took too long to paint it -- the lost limb -- using a shade of algae green: Painterly, complex & tripartite, how could he fantasize all of us? Calling us his little secret? Never trust a man who wears a watch! Rose came to him with open arms reaching for a basket full of stars; Ivy said her wish was for a starfish an open creel in deep-sea clouds where lovers' dreams turn upside down & Vetiver's an essence. Call her grass -- a miracle of propagation, all the answers in her roots (some might say the grass is greener) a seasonal dissertation when work evolves in brush strokes -- with jabs and dabs -- a Rose by her own name, with fewer thorns guarded by a bulb of garlic... How can one painting have 3 lost loves, evolving, bold in wildflower souls, with passionate stems growing quickly although our art is timeless -- an artist's question of Can't or Can as he paints us in our new colours as we spill from a moon-silver paint pan? Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp, whose Dutch surname means "new in the town" although she is now a grandmother, has been honored multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's challenges. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationship of life to poetry and art. Eustacia Vye (a character as well as the name of a pink rose) becomes "part of the pond's world of algae" when she drowns in Thomas Hardy's Return of The Native. ** Art Reflecting Life He applied the finishing flourishes on his 55th birthday months before Glinda and Elphaba defied gravity in theaters, both painting and flick a depiction of inclusivity, each spreading the truth that despite the color of our skin our needs are the same. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, New Verse News, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, and was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, called Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is in production at Kelsay Books. ** Supplication These girls, arms flung up in adoration, yearning to be part of the performer’s world. Swifties pledged to adore their Queen. Light from the stage spills over them, kissing their young faces with garish green and bastard amber. For a few hours, they can worship their heroine. Arms outstretched, they look like Michaelangelo’s Creation of Adam. But this time, it’s no Sistine Chapel. More likely, a sports coliseum. A man turns away from the Goddess, ignoring the girls and waiting for the screaming to stop. Lynne Kemen Lynne Kemen’s full-length book of poetry, Shoes for Lucy, was published by SCE Press in 2023. Woodland Arts Editions published her chapbook, More Than a Handful in 2020. Her work is anthologized in The Memory Palace: an ekphrastic anthology (Ekphrastic Editions, 2024), Seeing Things and Seeing Things 2 (Woodland Arts, 2020 and 2024). Lynne is President of the Board of Bright Hill Press and has served on many other not-for-profit boards. She is an Editor and Interviewer for Blue Mountain Review. She is a nominee for a Pushcart Prize this year. ** On Mohlmann’s Can/Can’t Why the women and why the whispers, who has done it-- the thing not spoken of? Who has the right to point? And who the guilty ones? This painting is fake, it’s staged, I fear. The women needy, to be sure, but who holds their destinies, who opens their doors? It looks like the man is unfriendly. But see the green hands, grasping-- always grasping for the best, the women want more than the rest. At this hour, the male holds the power; the women think they’re bereft, don’t know they're actually blest. The man holds the moneybag near, the women peer in the wrong direction. It’s a painting trying to be a Greek Chorus, as if a god such as Horus could answer their pleas. Carole Mertz Carole Mertz, author of Toward a Peeping Sunrise, a chapbook, and Color and Line (a poetry collection of ekphrastic and other poems) resides with her husband in Parma, Ohio. In December, 2024, she published her hundredth review; many of these cover the works of contemporary poets, see World Literature Today, Full Stop, Mom Egg Review, Heavy Feather, and Oyster River Pages. ** Can/Can’t or can/can whatever just kick it as far as it will go let it roll or let it ride all the marbles all the time(s) tell it slant or force a rhyme meter made me meter matters murder me with silent chatter truth be told teeth shatter and meat pulls away from the bone I hate to say he was right i’d rather tell a story about sunlight but nothing impresses like the grotesque green = enmeshment we can’t even see anymore glass is cloudy mirrors have gone brown and we’re left with intention and a microphone of all things give it here I’ve got one last song to sing. Crystal Karlberg Crystal Karlberg has been a middle school teacher, library assistant, mentor, advisor, activist. Her poems have appeared in The Threepenny Review, The Penn Review, Best New Poets, Beloit Poetry Journal, etc. ** Seventy Different Voices cataclysmic cracks in the skull designed by fifty dearest dissuaders and hopeless hopefuls; another twenty wait and wait, their choice of topic an arm’s length away, their strong voices ready to boom, conserved through the menial issues cackled, clawed and chipped away at by the cacophonous rest, loud without purpose, piercing the sound barrier for the fun of it, to sleep through what matters more; come portentous point in history, and the handful turn on the megaphones to drown in a silence of an unused throat. Manisha Sahoo Manisha Sahoo (she/her), from Odisha, India, has a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and a Master’s in English. Her words have appeared/are set to appear in Inked in Gray, Usawa Literary Review, Bridges Not Borders, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, and others. You can find her on Instagram/X @LeeSplash **
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 The Wild Hunt of Odin, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (Norway) 1872 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative.
The prompt this time is The Wild Hunt of Odin, by Peter Nicolai Arbo. Deadline is January 3, 2025. 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. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 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 ARBO 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, January 3, 2025. 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.  Train Through Town, by Maud Lewis (Canada) c. 1967 Editor's Note: It was a treat to read all the responses to Maud Lewis's painting. Many of you were moved by her ability to produce joyful art in the midst of a poverty-stricken life. Still others were filled with memories of snowy winters, train journeys, grandmothers, and mentors. And finally, some wrote about their current climes and how they differ from Train Through Town. Happy winter or summer, wherever you may live! Write On! Sandi ** Maudie - a haibun your tough life didn’t show in the vibrantly coloured canvases you sold for just a few dollars nor did it show in the wide crescent-moon smile across your face or the love for your man and his for you ‘til the end, still in the same house on Highway 1, its front door so close to the road, a passing car’s tyres would send a tremble through its walls, shaking you awake, calling your fragile bones to rise; entreating your fingers to capture life in all its pretty commonness trailblazer a small woman and her paintbrush I see you painted yourself in this time - you and he together watching snow fall to blanket hills you’ve never actually seen: every hue thick with brightness so unlike the white exterior of your tiny house, although the inside was a different matter - they’re all the rage now, tiny houses. The rest of us have cottoned on to what you already knew, that small and simple lets the sun shine and doesn’t block its glory, and can leave a mark much bigger than itself pneumonia in Canada’s winter not surprising Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman is an Australian poet who lives and writes in the coastal village of Lake Tabourie, NSW, on traditional Yuin country. She enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various excellent literary spaces. ** O Take Me Back O take me back to childhood on the Maudie Lewis train, Where firs are green and snow is white and ponies mind the rein; Where there’s a ridge to every roof, a church to every hill, The skies are clear, the smoke is sweet and no one’s ever ill. O take me to the cookie tin that calmed me as a kid, And let me live forever in the landscape on the lid, Where clothes are pink or sunny gold and shadows minty blue, And nobody has scary things they really have to do. O take me to the softer lands of cotton and of thread: The patient, careful needlepoint that hangs above the bed, Where someone helped a child to make her stitches neat and straight, And gently took it over when the tangles grew too great; Don’t leave me in a place where crippled women slave all day To summon up our fantasies because they know they pay; Take me where nothing’s ever lost but all swings round again, As bright and clean and painless as the Maudie Lewis train. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** She’s Coming from a Place of Happy Memories "She preferred the colours just as they are... paintings made on cardboard, and little pieces of wood, sold on the roadside." The Moving Story of Artist Maud Lewis, Danielle Groen "But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself at the stove, the little moons fall like tears from the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child had carefully placed in front of the house." Sestina, Elizabeth Bishop Happiness is inside of you! my little grandmother would say when I complained of boredom my malady of choice. She was right, of course (little grandmothers usually are) for how else could Maud Lewis have wrapped her crippled fingers around a paint brush? Frozen by rheumatoid arthritis, fingers curled in a shape called "pencil-in-cup" she is smiling in a photograph, at work in her home a shack in Nova Scotia without electricity or running water. Art Naif comes from inside, so Maudie smiles creating scenes of life in miniature, doll-house size figures waiting for a train on snow-coated earth, the train rolling through town on wheels that resemble peppermint candies. Smoke from the steam engine's chimney puffs out the train's arrival as a blue-suited conductor calls out Prochain arret les amis! -- "Next stop folks! -- it's Marshalltown!" & lovely are the ladies in big-skirted dresses, memories of Victoriana in yellow and pink. One woman stands with a gentleman in a top hat, his bright orange muffler warming his neck, though its ends are whipped by a winter wind... & the bells that the children could hear were inside them... Did Maudie Lewis hear them, listening for sleigh bells as she painted the town and its old-fashioned people? Or dream down a memory of horses and sleighs? High above the train stop a small white church is perched on the horizon, where the trees, tall and straight are a forest militia -- pines for the pining -- for a holiday journey with horses and sleigh; and look who's coming to meet the train's schedule -- someone with a dog sled; the animal's outline (the back of his head) a folk art edition of Batman's visit, ears perked up to help Maudie Lewis as she paints Nova Scotia. Soon more snow will be falling and the train will be moving but there's no end to the journeys where Maudie's art takes her, transforming her pain with child-like perception. Laurie Newendorp An appreciator of Folk Art's view of nature, both simple and complex, Laurie Newendorp can understand why Maud Lewis's neighbours in Marshalltown felt her to be a special person. To create in her body's crippled state must have been a motivating source of happiness for her, why her art was evaluated as "coming from a place of happy memories." Recipient of numerous Ekphrastic Challenge acceptances, Newendorp's book, When Dreams Were Poems, is based on the significance of poetry in art and life. Folk Art is often childlike, "And the bells that the children could hear..." is a quote from Dylan Thomas's "A Child's Christmas In Wales." ** Childhood Memories Maud Lewis painted her magnificent painting Train Through Town in 1967, the year of Montreal's World Expo. The year that takes me into a past that is still very present. The year the world opened up to us; the year the world came to us. With its vibrant contrasts of hot and cold, Train Through Town makes winter speak, and warm me with childhood memories that the painting brings to life: Mr. Charbonneau who took me for a ride after a magnificent snowfall with his impressive horse seen through my child's eyes;my grandfather who took me to the station to see the freight train go by, never a passenger train. The carpet of snow, painted by Maud Lewis, seems soft under the hooves of the horses and their cart. The carpet of snow contrasts with the solidity of the rails supporting the train. Light and fragile sleighs, strong and agile horses. Imposing and solid train cars with the horsepower of the locomotive pulling them to the great joy of travelers. Maud Lewis painted Train Through Town just three years before her death. A rich and fabulous heritage. Jean Bourque Jean Bourque lives in Montreal, province of Quebec. He is French-speaking and a retired specialist teacher. As a retiree, one of his plans is to learn English. ** To Maud Lewis Regarding Train Through Town You blur as if through children's eyes the stirring joy of their surprise at waking to the snowy white of fledgling winter taking flight where barren tree and bravely those who face the wind in bundled clothes are there —as rumbling train departs-- to welcome home the kindred hearts who share the soul of town remote where misted eyes will rightly dote on distant spire that speaks to hope alive and well in those who cope where simple will of faith prevails as steed and steel recarve its trails. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Time Travel on Canvas More than just a pretty scene, more than an artist’s brushwork evoking a time long past, I know this scene because I once traveled there, to that past place. As surely as Maud Lewis did with brush, Mother DeSales, a woman nearing ninety in 1958 when she reigned over the study halls of my fifth-grade classroom, Mother DeSales took me skating with her in one of the small towns just outside of Pittsburgh, when snow covered everything. She was not deemed well enough to teach any longer, but she loved being with students and while we worked on our assignments, she talked to us. I loved her visits, moving from my usual seat in the middle of the classroom to the front so I could hear her soft voice guiding back into her past , those few who were not secretly reading magazines or napping at their desks. It was cold outside; frost flowers decorated the large windows on the windy side of the building. Mother had a slack shawl around her bent shoulders. She leaned forward over the desk. Eyes twinkling in the bit of her little wrinkled face visible in the wimple, the room grew quiet, and she began to speak. I wondered which tale of her childhood she would tell. She usually talked about her calling to the sisterhood, but on that frosty winter day in 1958 she opened up another chapter of her life to us—her childhood, when on a frigid day like this she and her friends went ice skating at a local pond. Her smile seemed to erase the wrinkles, and I saw her face, fresh and smooth, pink with cold, laughing, laughing. This dear lady who needed our help to manage the stairs up to our classroom, talked of walking past the train station, leaping into snow banks with her friends, watching a horse drawn sleigh carry the minister to church to get ready for Christmas, making snowballs to throw at the boys, as they waited for the train to pass through the main part of town so they could finish the walk across the tracks to the pond. In her breathy voice she described how, braids swaying behind her, she danced on the ice once there, her steel blades making figure eights. Dancing, stomping her feet as she waited for the train to pass, racing, making snowballs, playing “crack the whip,” and I was there with her. When the bell rang for the study hall to end, I leapt up from my seat to help Mother down the steps and back to the convent. I wanted to hear more about her day. I didn’t want to give up the scene of horse-drawn sleigh, the train coming. I could smell the smoke, feel the hard snowballs, now, those were just her hands clasping mine as we navigated the short walk back to her place by the window where she watched the modern world go by, a much less interesting place in my estimation than the one she knew as a child. I think even with her weak eyes, she knew which of us were listening to her. I wanted to ask, “what colour was your hair then?” But I did not. Crossing the yard back to the convent, the magic thread to her past was wound back inside her again. I gave her a hug as she settled into her chair to wait until the next time she was needed in the classroom and I returned to long division, classmates talking of movie stars. It's been years since I lived that moment, felt the magic of the past coming alive in Mother’s voice. This painting brought back both the magic of that day and also allowed me to travel once again into Mother DeSales’ childhood. I wonder if Maud Lewis knew Mother DeSales or if she, Maud Lewis, simply also knows the secret of creating a past so alive we can step into it. After all, such time travel is the natural landscape of artists, poets, and older women whose eyes still sparkle with youth. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Internationally, including in The Ekphrastic Review, published as essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time nominee (fiction and poetry) for Pushcart and Best of the Net. As a story performer she offers folktale programs and a one woman show, Louisa May Alcott Gives an Author Talk. You can find her on Facebook, Joan Leotta, or contact her at [email protected] ** My Next Christmas Card Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, There is a field. I’ll meet you there. —Rumi My next Christmas card will spark joy brighten with the enchantment of a winter scene welcome like the setting of dreams where sleighs skaters and passersby amplify community. My next Christmas card will display a time-honored place embody the shape of crinoline silhouettes glow with the simplicity of kerosene lamps underscore the old-world charm of a railway town. My next Christmas card will rouse the senses echo the rumble of a steam locomotive resonate with neighs whinnies and the jingle of bells evoke the fragrance of a pine forest enliven with the aroma of wood as it kindles warmth in a potbellied stove. My next Christmas card will punctuate colour comfort like a mug of hot chocolate hearten like a long-lasting hug be an offering of peace out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** With Arthritis Hands With arthritis hands like balls of knotted wool Maud Lewis painted just what she liked. With paint squeezed straight from the tube On boards of wood, she would cut herself Her miniature artworks are a means of self-expression. Of her Ohio, Nova Scotia life out in the wilderness She loved the railroad outside the family home. The Baptist church appeared against the clouds. Her blue shadows, images painted in the snow, Show a willingness to live and survive. No, you can't give up out here! You got to smile and look up. Nothings impossible If you learn that subsistence is a painter's gift. Maud loved the hustle and bustle of the locomotive. The people thereabouts where she would sell fish And she would sell painted Christmas cards Life was tough, but painting was a means to uplift. Others and, more importantly, herself, soul and body. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. He is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Trained Through Need The Poor Farm watchman not alone, in keeping eye out, on the doors, for her of nature, entry point, to jewels’ sparkle in the drab. Provincial scenes of childhood still, nostalgic, optimistic themes, just as the first sales, door-to-door of Christmas cards, her sense of cents. He peddled fish as she sold cards, her wish to expand popular, so beaverboards and cookie sheets were joined with Masonite as base. A white background, infilled from tube-- so primary, no mix or blend, arthritic size, not stretcher plied, to even pride in White House size. How apt that frame of postage stamp-- the plays, films, music followed on-- as did museums, folk art schemes in Nova Scotia where she lived. So much was grim except the bright alighting on the vibrant seen; thus folk break out of poverty, through need, trained creativity. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** 15 Dec 1850 Dear Mam by the grace of God I arrived safely here in Philadelphia the crossing on the ship was most dreadful many perished from the fever red with rash and lice and delirium I live in a room in Kensington Street with Aunt and Uncle and the six Cousins every night I pray for you all to come through the great hunger o Mam! to see Norristown from the train so bright and cheerful a place it was great craic to watch the pony sprinting the gentleman away up over the snow and sparkle to the church it made me think when of a Sunday young Tommy O’Neill passed on his horse Branna and tipped his hat to me you wouldn’t credit it Mam America is covered with gold even on locomotives and houses and windows and ladies dresses it must be dreadful heavy I miss you Mam maybe someday please God we’ll meet again tell Da I’ll bring him a long smooth scarf the colour of sunrise and you a fine warm wool pink coat with a fur collar I’ll get with all the easy gold I’ll be finding here in America your loving daughter Mary Jane Gallagher Janice Scudder Janice Scudder lives in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Prose Poem. ** Traveling Through the Snow: a Scene In this scene, people trust one another, leave their doors unlocked, to be sure. And there’s beauty on the snow-laden hillside; in this scene, trains begin to replace the horse, but of course if we look anew, we might see other changes too. (I vowed not to wax eloquent about the good ole days.) But since you heard the train coming through, lets look again at the young woman in her gown-- see, she has suitcases at hand and is leaving the town; her sister must go alone in the sleigh, up the slope on her way to the church. I hope there’s been no falling out. How have they parted, one from the other? And how smartly does the vicar welcome the one at the door? She surely arrives shivering and wet, but warms to the gold of the candlelight; she awaits the Good News—(it’s truly quite old) but oh, so reassuring to hear! The cheer of the scene as the New Year approaches—the scene as cozy as a mini-hut, a laced glove, or a cup of hot chocolate set in the snow—it lets us know life continues well beyond the things new industry brings, past wars and rumors of wars, and other such matters. It scatters our fears and relaxes the stresses. We could, if we like, simulate, of course: hire horses and sledges and sew us long dresses. We could go back in time and pretend. Yet some things remain forever the same-- the snow is still snow. (And the two sisters will forgive one another and mend, I know.) Carole Mertz Carole Mertz has poetry in various journals and anthologies. She's happy to be included in Luzajic's Starry Night collection. Her review of Saunier's The Wheel will appear in the January issue of World Literature Today. She resides with her husband in Ukrainian Village, a lively area of Parma, Ohio, where the youth paint scenes on the exterior of enterprises. ** Train of Thoughts Through the Mind’s Town The train ferries the warmth of firewood and the pale siren of smoke into the soft morning. Breathe in the swirl of mist, the pure drift of calm. Older thoughts alight at their stop and newer ones occupy their place. Faith and dreams and second chances clothed in pink and yellow gowns, brown overcoats and orange mufflers, colour the present while the past shrinks into pale blue shadows. The town holds on its strong shoulders the mantle of delicate snow. The horse draws, through the white wilderness, the sled of promise – tomorrow’s vermilion-yellow. The bare tree stretches its arms to touch the sky, as the sunshine of spring clothes its limbs of winter. The train chugs along its tracks to the highway on the west, makes the right turn, into the doorway of the distant future. Emeralds and jades flourish in a forest below the cerulean horizon of hope. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published or are appearing in several magazines such as The Orchards Poetry Journal, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review and various other journals. Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple— have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for the 2023 Best Spiritual Literature. ** Simply Put It was a simpler time the way I remember it and our bright little town, flat out uncomplicated no harsh contrasts or stark shadows, no hints of decay or vanishing points. In a way, everything seemed to stack up almost magically with fanciful stories of the couple no one knew but everyone wanted to be, and the ever-hopeful figure waiting at the station the thrill of a train filled with adventurous dreams set amidst the smooth homespun snow a horse and carriage flying uphill and appearing to be leaping over a cloud of smoke from the train an evergreen hilltop and homes on the hill looking like bird houses up in our favorite tree the cat, who cast a soft bluebird shadow, overseeing it all from the catbird seat. Linda Eve Diamond Linda Eve Diamond is an award-winning poet whose latest publication is The Art of Listening Anthology, a free collection of listening-themed poetry and visual arts by more than 60 creative contributors. Find her website at http://LindaEveDiamond.com and The Art of Listening at https://www.lindaevediamond.com/art-of-listening. ** The Memories We Keep No one-horse sleighs ever dashed through the snow of my childhood. Tidewater Virginia was too warm for that. What little snow we got was more likely to show up in February when camellias and daffodils were already in bloom. We enjoyed our own holiday magic – sailboats strung with Christmas lights that sparkled in the harbor. My favorite holiday memory is the one Mama saved for me. There’s no way I could remember being two. The noise in the kitchen grew louder and louder. Parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles crowded the smoky room. The clink of ice and bawdy laughter almost drowned me out, but Mama raised a finger to her lips and pointed to me. In the living room, I knelt in front of the Christmas tree, tiny palms pressed together, praying to Baby Jesus. Silence. The adults wiped their eyes. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. ** sightseeing the past as we paint it with our memories is flat, layered, simple surfaces become parallel, without any depth, complexity we leave out the con tradictions that render dim ensional space-time was the sky so blue? the snow so white? the journey so unobstructed? all the shadows are perfect ly cast and untouchable 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/ ** Two Worlds Small, arthritic hands Painting straight out of tubes Figures, brightly cheerful Warm in scarves and cosy coats Sleighs dash jauntily Up steep hills of virgin snow Firs in immaculate, pure white cuffs Stand sentinel while trains huff and puff. A life of poverty, of limitation Your daughter adopted, fate unknown Peddling fish and paintings A world of pain and loss Yet you created a cosmos Of hope where joy is boss. Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK, who has had work published in many countries in North America, Europe, Asia, Africa and Australia. ** Woken by Silence With summer approaching here in the subtropics, accompanied by the unavoidable Christmas songs in the supermarket, tinny voices singing: Buy, buy, and buy some more… Red-cheeked Santas with cotton-wool beards in big red winter coats and hats, while we are peeling off the layers in the sudden heat. Before my nostalgic eyes I see winter things: Christmas markets, horse-drawn sleighs, pine trees and snow-covered mountains, steam trains huffing uphill, warm coats, bobble hats and woolly gloves, fur-lined boots that crunched their way home, skiing to school… Going further inward, my real snows appear, those nights of flurries and muted sounds, the luminous dark, the sky’s crystal lights sending messages only for a child to hear, making promises only they can keep. Woken by the silence at three in the morning, standing by the window, my breath clouds the glass pane, the smallness of my hand that wipes to see the wonder, only to leave watery droplets. The world is slumbering under its new white blanket. I hear the earth breathing, In-- Out-- In-- Out-- calm and at peace. Finally at rest, preparing the succulent feast of spring. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a Pushcart and Best of Net nominee. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new MS is brewing, and a new fun chapbook has been scheduled for publication in 2025. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Sparks Blue light sparking off the wheels of subway cars in New York, flashing in the gloom of the tunnel, glowing in my sight like little embers of hope, little flecks of immortal beauty in the sad, dark city, blue like the sky when night is in the process of falling, blue like a river that might flood and wash everything clean. In Queens, when it snowed, the wheels would spark off the subway rails with a blue light that flitted inside of me like a flash of recollection of something I had always known. Then one time in Italy, just a couple of days before the end of the 20th century, I was riding on a train at night as it climbed up into the Alps, approaching the border with Slovenia. Firs or pines covered with thick, fluffy snow stood motionless on either side of the tracks. I watched spellbound as the blue light sparked and sparked off the wheels. Without these bursts of blue, everything would have been dark. The sparks illuminated the snowy trees, flashing for a split second against snowflakes falling through the air, suspending them, freezing time. I had left Milan without securing any Slovenian money, nor a Slovenian phrasebook, and my enchanted December train stopped in Ljubljana between three and four in the morning. Apologetically, I handed my cab driver a wad of lire, possibly way too much. None of these problems exist anymore, but those Alpine snowflakes remain suspended in the still blue air. And then a year later, on a train from Kyiv to Prague, sweeping across a wide Slovak valley that led to the High Tatras mountains. This time it wasn’t snowing and the wheels weren’t sparking much, but there was a full moon and everything was covered in snowy moonlight, or moonlit snow, a snowmoon-blue expanse and then a vertical craggy wall, also of snow and blue. A train, and snow, and blueness, and light. Blue and white, and light and dark, and the ability to move. Katrina Powers Katrina Powers decided she was a writer in first grade. The road has been rough and rocky, but she is still a writer. Along that road, she lived overseas, learned languages, and earned a PhD from the University of Chicago. She currently lives in Indiana with two small furry animals. ** Picture Perfect? I wasn’t in a brand new eggnog-yellow coat and toasty mitts, bearing bountiful gifts in overflowing designer suitcases. I wasn’t waving at welcoming neighbours, beyond excited to be in this wonderland, for this season of inglenook warmth. I wasn’t blinking in pristine sunlight as snow cloaked gentle hills, skies carolled and the whole town gleamed. No, I was forced from home against my will in threadbare jeans and coat, penniless, bone-weary, stomach growling. I’d drained my savings, yet boats and hopes sank, trains bellowed and fumes belched in biting rain, minus twenty, darkness. All my plans for life uprooted. Like a horse rearing up. Lke a train crash. Like logs mowing me down to a cold shadow. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman loves trying her hand at some of these challenges and then reading the different interpretations chosen by editors. She currently lives in Edinburgh and her instagram is @chemchemi.hf ** Depot The old gothic station now stores appliances: washing machines and ranges. Such merch the natural outcome of a passion for plumbing; run by the son of a son of the banker named Bowen, who once warned my mother her account was overdrawn while standing at the four corners in front of the fountain before it was melted down for ammunition. Once upon, green lined the sweep of lines carting lions, gymnasts and clowns carried to town in cars swirled with gold tangerine and crimson, dotting the scene on their way to the fairgrounds. And ladies in their pheasant-feathered finery, transported to tea in the city, bid farewell to the men from the armory proud in their khaki, while they passed the pandemic crisscrossing their path. Time was, the station welcomed the woods, maple and poplar, cast into caskets at the factory next to the tumbling tracks. With smokestacks of coal spewing their ash. Ashes to ashes. All to the caskets! The station, a building storing appliances, now clad in graffiti waiting for business. Cynthia Dorfman Cynthia Dorfman draws from memories of her childhood and depicts changes in the world since then. William Blake's "Jerusalem" inspired her to write "Depot" in response to the Maud Lewis painting. Her work has appeared before in The Ekphrastic Review and elsewhere.  CAN/CAN‘T by Pascal Möhlmann (Switzerland) 2024. Click image for artist site. 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 CAN/CAN'T, by Pascal Moehlmann. Deadline is December 21, 2024. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY.
Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include MOEHLMANN 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, December 21, 2024. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 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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