 Spirits of Prisoners, by Charles Altamont Doyle (England) 1885 Sunnyside Prison Only an after when once was before, and during shadows board in between. Joyful I collapse in star-sand, yet they, here, want an obey; transforming all that falling in to steadier views. Walls dark - even on days - as memories destroy a distance. How they rebuild our film of wishes here. Sanity in spirit, an impressive gift to daily sketch. Delicately. Never will I cascade, down their brainy stairs. Hardly they listen. Today, I just smooth the beard, laugh my smiles and water- colour with stone compeers balancing. The ones who ask the good questions. Better than butterfly ruins: the crows that hope. Voice and cosmos, together, open up clearly; a history of now and then — though never may I unravel. A cell is not sunny in the end. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to linguistics & teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. She is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review & runs linguistic-poetry workshops for the International Women's Writing Guild. Find her poems @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ plus @ TER, WildfireWords, Gleam, Hedgehog Press [a.o.]. Kate was born in harbour-city, and adores housesitting in the world. ** Imprisoned Prisoners of our own imperfections Chained to our fantasies In the tightened straitjackets of our illusions We're only fatally flawed humans Even imps and greater demons Colonizing our surroundings — Parasites — living inside our mortal hearts Are doomed Unless redemption is sought... Will the Maker Give us a second chance In the reality of an as yet unfathomable Other world of freedom? Z. T. Balian Multilingual French-Armenian author, Z. T. Balian, holds and MA in English Literature from the American University of Beirut. After a career as a university lecturer, she now devotes her time to writing. Waiting for Morning Twilight (2023) is her first collection of haiku poetry in English, and her 199 Haiku Poems in Western Armenian was published in 2022. Her poetry in English has previously appeared in Hope: An Anthology of Poetry (2020) and Setu Mag's Poetry: Western Voices (2021-2023). She is also the author of two novels, Three Kisses of the Cobra (2016) and Fallen Pine Cones (2023). She is currently working on a collection of poems in English which will be published in October. ** Top of the Tower She felt no need to retrofit her solitary status accustomed to the confines of plentiful arts ideating her private nest when she risked a brief glimpse beyond she imagined legion of souls escaping, banshee shrieks assaulted her, tempted her to follow the chill, the other, the unkept confusion of freedom beckoning, as evil does, to a prison of “you should” out there nowhere Unseen in her upper room she chooses her boundaries, her single purpose her bountiful joy Cathy Hollister Cathy Hollister is the author of Seasoned Women, A Collection of Poems published by Poet’s Choice. A 2024 Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been in Eclectica Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. She lives in middle Tennessee; find her online at www.cathyhollister.com and Instagram cathy.hollister.52 ** Phantasm at Sunnyside Asylum Morpheus glazes the moon’s blue patina in serene morphine the porcelain stars craze spiraling below chimneys ghosts tumble from Hermes’ gable in paralyzed flight in serene morphine the porcelain stars craze the inmates sing dreams deprived of sight from Hermes’ gable in paralyzed flight conjuring spectres compound windows watch the inmates sing dreams deprived of sight giants strangle screams of pleasure conjuring spectres compound windows watch at their leisure amorphous horses infants giants strangle screams of pleasure spiraling below chimneys ghosts tumble at their leisure amorphous horses infants Morpheus glazes the moon’s blue patina Denise England Denise England’s passion for languages, art, cultures and connections inspires her writing. She studied in Bordeaux, France and holds an M.A. in French literature. Her poems have been published and are forthcoming in Cave Region Review, UAMS Medicine and Meaning, The French Literary Review, SLANT, and Ekstasis Magazine. She enjoys sharing and developing her poetry within communities of other poets and artists including The Poets Roundtable of Arkansas and Spectra Arts. www.pw.org/directory/writers/denise_england ** Dreaming of Freedom In the gray -blue hour of early morn before a day is fully born, I watch the spirits flee climbing on what seems to be a beanstalk spiral grown from dreams, rising from its start as magic beans. As the wraiths rise up toward the stars, out of bondage beyond walls, I note the smiling cloud- a benign face urging them on to a better place. Before sun sucks up the hopes of night these must reach dipper’s cup to complete their flight. Have any climbers reached stars’ dipper cup stars arranged to shelter, guide those who float up? Sadly, of those still climbing up when sun appears most will fall from the withering vine, back into living fears. Some will escape again to stars, climbing dream vines at night; others will discover how to become free in day’s bright light. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a poet and story performer who loves writing and performing to the inspriation of art and has been a frequent contributor to The Ekprahstic Review. ** Artist The artist will not be at work today. He has called in sick. He’s closed his door and his eyes. And is resting in his revery. Everyone is in a muddle. The attendants are not attending. The patients are getting impatient. The quiet is cresting chaotic. Somewhere: Stories unravel into warp and weft Jack and Jill fall off the roof Titans flee Mount Olympus The spirits sputter. The sprites succumb. Somewhere: People go about their people things. Nature nurtures naturally The poet writes her homage poem. The artist dreams He dreams he is An artist locked in a tangled world Of nested syntax and illusion. So many parts To puzzle out. Kaz Ogino Author's note: An homage to Sarah Kay’s “Astronaut." Kaz Ogino lives in Toronto. A lifelong artist, her practice has been enriched with poetry. Her practice is all about the discoveries and wonders of the process, in making art and crafting poems. Kaz’s art and visual poetry can be seen on her Instagram accounts; artbykaz.ca and artbykaz.play. ** The Pause Found guilty of a lifetime of never, the laughter of always and the stink of getting used to being used, the jury saw fit to sentence her to a hefty burden. She accepted it as would the donkey owned by a master who took pleasure in regular overloading, along with the whip, extending her pain and regret because he could. Upon her back, secured in ropes of heavy hemp, she carried those she had wronged who cried out at the least provocation: the man who beat her until at last she paid him back, in spades, the baby she had never asked for, the husband she hadn’t wanted those who daily dressed her in the flaws and transgressions of her life or rubbed her face in larvae-laden ordure of any kind or source or etched graffiti on her soul simply from the habit of being in this place with no one she could truly trust and still with fourteen years before release if she were lucky. By some mental skill, perhaps from an atavistic trait before sapiens claimed ascendancy, she could sleep at night without having to revisit what brought her there. Yet the dead who writhed and swore, raining excrement and threats for what they’d do when they regained mastery of her mind remained largely unheard as they hung like unwashed laundry entangled in the cable of souls she’d cast off in the dark. Except for the sense that the air—sighing from the barred windows— might carry some unholy essence, she could spend the entire night unwaking innocent again, for a while. Linden Van Wert Linden Van Wert has been writing since high school but has only recently considered regular submissions. Her work has appeared in Muleskinner Journal, One Sentence Poems, Ekphrastic Review and Orchards Journal among others. Originally from New England, she is a teacher now living in California where four deer and a turkey have elected to live in her backyard. ** Never Say Never After the jump from the top floor window of a hotel near Central Park shreds you into 100 pieces, will someone attach to the sill a small plastic shrine secured with red and white bakery twine, interstitched blue and pink plastic flowers, and a small index card calligraphed in black Magic Marker, NVR Alone? Over time, will the hotel, etched with your shadows, be listed on the National Historical Register? On designated holidays, will the public cry red, white, and blue tears, God loves you, God loves you? Janice Scudder Janice Scudder is a poet. She lives in Colorado. ** The Genius Inside Hide me away from prying eyes Awkward questions, your shameless lies Block your ears to my anguished cries I will not let you break me Lock me up but you cannot crush The spirit flowing through my brush The voice inside that won’t be hushed I will not let you break me Shut me in with iron bars Beyond my gaze, the moon and stars Imprisoned till I breathe my last I will not let you break me Berni Rushton Berni Rushton works in the health sector in Sydney, Australia. She writes poetry and short fiction and is working on her first novel. Berni enjoys the outdoor life, running and theatre. Follow Berni on Instagram @berni_rushton ** Spirits The moon’s gray-blue glow Somberly lights the curved dormer On the three story stone building Coats its walls in cold sterility Stars flicker outside its’ windows Barred to thwart escape With just enough view for some To allow yearning Swirling downward from rooftop to ground driven by Dante’s demons Tumble writhing spirits Of all things lost in that building Humans, animals, non-humans and souls Inside, unseen, the moans of human Suffering, as law requires, Fill each room With stifling air One man, held there For episodes not criminal Paints images from his time spent as protest Sends them to his family How people are selected To occupy this building And who wields that power Is unclear Only a sleuth could uncover those facts Dean Luttrell Dean Luttrell, a Houston poet, pianist and artist has been writing poetry since high school. His work has most recently been seen in the The Ekphrastic Review and has been published in the Archway Readers 20th and 25th Anniversary Anthologies. In 2016 he was awarded Third Prize in the Houston Poetry Fest’s Ekphrastic Poetry Competition. ** A Constant Battle Locked in his head Fear of the outside world Feeling of falling Waking nightmare Daily fears Caught between Health and madness Freed from his dementia Emotional rationality of painting Stopped him Today he didn’t fall May be tomorrow He won’t fall either Navigating the World Of Mental Health Is a constant battle Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. One of his hobbies is painting. For the past seven years, as an amateur painter, he has sent paintings to the Canadian Mental Health Halifax-Dartmouth Foundation in Nova-Scotia. The Foundation holds an online painting sale every fall to raise funds. In October, it will be their 27th Annual Mosaic Sale: https://www.cmhahalifaxdartmouth.ca/mosaicformentalhealth ** A Shrine of souls- under low clouds, faith’s brittle scaffold. Its walls in whispered prayers against the slow settling grey- truth tumbling out, the ground unravelled. A hollow husk of hoarse hope. 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. ** If I Have Freedom in My Love... Richard Lovelace, 1642 "Then dawns the invisible, the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels Its wings are almost free -- " The Prisoner, Emily Bronte When do our ideas become ghosts of where we've been? Like the wings of parrots flying in colours, their original meaning cloaked in fog? To begin, there is the actual-reality of what we can create ourselves the faces of children, too soon grown. I stand alone on the roof of the grey prison, an unexpected muse in your 19th century depiction of falling like a fool caught by a strange interpretation of a midnight Pegasus, or was it a pale horse of the Apocalypse? No matter. I hung on like tomorrow in the sisterhood of heartache, watching lines of poetry falling all around me -- how could I live, my life caught in a summer storm, impetuous as a poet I'd loved Old Thunderbolts (or should I have called him Lightning Bolt?) How can a storm be lyrical? There was music in the garden. Spring flowers. A dove calling -- why wasn't it afraid, and why wasn't I? With Lovelace's mandolin, how to compare my fate, Stone walls do not a prison make/ Nor iron bars a cage. Al the world's a stage say Shakespearian scholars. I suppose I could add Quoth the Raven, Nevermore! (a Gothic blackbird's Americana with rib vaults) a way to identify what I can't forget that lines of poetry are the spirits that lie within us -- what you take into your hands you take into your heart -- those early days when girls were the birds in a gilded cage, the lace on my grandmother's pantaloons, self- made, cotton from southern cotton fields where love stopped to pick me, lame from Civil Wars -- Lady Stumbleton -- my lineage faded into spirits; poems I wrote to try to change what seemed unholy in my future: Days I pray And in my soul am free/ Angels alone that soar above, Enjoying such liberty. Laurie Newendorp Honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge, Laurie Newendorp, at eighty, has endured entrapment, both real and emotional. The lines from Richard Lovelace's 17th century poem, “To Althea from Prison,” defends the freedom of thought as a means of survival though the body is imprisoned. A more violent example -- contemporary as the tribes of Israel and Iran continue to fight battles older than Lovelace's poem -- comes from Bruno Schulz's "Street of Crocodiles," 1933, an example of the way a Polish-Jewish writer, born in the Ukraine, used his imagination and the power of thought to encounter his death, a prisoner of the Nazi Regime. ** One Man’s Madness… The stoic man in the starbright sky oversaw it all: the painting the ramblings the protestations of insanity between doctor and patient Look, the artist said see the precision in the brick and the panes not a mullion out of place even the shadows are cast with architectural perfection But the smokeless stacks, said the doctor and the bright blue sky and the Great Bear made of stars with no darkness — not to mention the array of blue fairies and men, dogs and horses even a baby falls from the roof tossed over the edge by a demon! That’s a fairy, the artist corrected, without malice, and those are the columns on the roof of this hospital you treat as a temple and there is love and shouts of exultation at the prospect of freedom Kaila Schwartz Kaila Schwartz runs an award-winning high school theatre program in the San Francisco Bay Area where she has spent the past 24 years with her spouse and their kitty overlords. Her work can be seen in Hippocrates Awards Anthology 2020, The Ekphrastic Review, Moss Piglet, Waffle Fried, and in the upcoming The Yelling Continues,, a Procrastinating Writers United Anthology. ** A Nurse, a Cop, and a Priest Walk Into an Asylum... A nurse, a cop, and a priest walk into an asylum... And we see them every morning with a long line behind ‘em At two in the morning from our high-rise sadness We can see them badging in when the work shifts change They've all come for their own reasons too intimate to explain But from our perspective, we aren't the only ones with some madness One prays at the door Another pretends to ignore the stains on the floor And the other has a gun without a receipt One cries at breakfast alone Another calls his kids at home When the other buys rum from across the street One reads a book about body parts While another steals pills from the clinic's cart As the last mumbles to everyone in made up languages One avoids all the others The big one talks poorly of her mother And then there's the one who flinches when opening packages But these three have helped us all to decide That maybe this place is not only for the insane on the inside And that our purpose here comes from the man floating behind the columns - to watch over a nurse, a cop, and a priest as they walk into an asylum… Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. ** Relics My eyes are sightless, my mind swimming in a sea of grief. My body, weightless, shrinks, tries to disappear. I haunt myself into transparency, ghosted as part of a script that has been erased, its pages scattered inside a vortex of wailing wind. I am a shadow of keening. I am imprinted into the fabric of an unrelenting night. I have lost the details of who I could have been and the direction of where I could have gone. I am an unfinished absence that only appears when seen in a certain unconjurable light. mirror shimmers—moon reflects rising tide’s abyss swallowing the stars 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/. ** Keep Steadily In View Keep steadily in view the detention of the unusual person, whose art is ascribed wholly produce of a MADMAN thrown aside like those that escape from the towers of Montrose Asylum, would you say deficiency of Intellect when viewing the intricate detail of window and arch, is this art or depraved taste, these phantoms, prisoners as unseen as fairies silent among us If you can find a single evidence of either, madness or lack of normality in thought, then mark it where the detritus of sane society floats away, record it against me fill a ledger with the sum of unjust confinement of caged spirits but as to the angels, the sooner they get away the better for themselves. Daniel W. Brown Author's note: The lines in bold are from the writings of Charles Altamont Doyle. Daniel W. Brown is a retired special education teacher who began writing poetry as a senior. At age 72 he published his first collection Family Portraits in Verse and Other Illustrated Poems through Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, NY. Daniel has been published in various journals and anthologies, most recently Jerry Jazz Musician, Chronogram Magazine and Kinds of Cool, an anthology of jazz poetry. He has hosted a youtube channel Poetry From Shooks Pond and was included in Arts Mid-Hudson's Poets Respond To Art in 2022-23. Daniel writes each day about music, art and whatever else captures his imagination. ** Strange Casement* Sheer interlocking bodies sway Silently down from walls of stone. I paint beneath the sign of fay; My study’s starlit. I have known Adventure's spirit – stymied now; Liberty's ways are hard to learn. To be or not to be? This bow Is not my last: I will return. Yes, I’m the father of a son Certain to trust these faeries too: The blind and jealous will make fun Of him; they call me MAD. Do you? Look at my work: can you not see In what dire homes they’re holding me? Julia Griffin *Charles Altamont Doyle, the father of Arthur Conan Doyle, provided illustrations for his son’s first Sherlock Holmes publication. Afflicted by depression and alcoholism, he protested desperately that he was not “a MADMAN”; he died in a mental asylum. Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She has published in several online poetry magazines, including Light, Classical Outlook, Snakeskin Poetry, and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Hoping We Can Levitate Without Falling to the Ground Spirits of prisoners rattle their chains. It’s a golden age for stolen bones and faceless devils. And killers committing homicide It’s a golden age for orphans eating gruel and neglecting school It’s a golden age for cotton mills. And the workhouse for malnutrition And the death penalty, it’s a golden age. For infantile deaths before the age of seven For poor sanitation and harsh living conditions Dreaming of a skylark behind the clouds Spirits of prisoners rattle their chains. It’s a golden age for long hours, low wages, And widespread suffering While the wealthy enjoyed advancements Of the Industrial Revolution Others face numerous diseases without doctors It was a golden age, and not that unlike today. When I see the homeless in the street And people, people neglected in hospital corridors It’s a golden age for sure. It’s the reality for many, especially the poor. There's a lack of necessities. If you're working class It’s your cross to bear. Okay, there’s no more death penalty. There have been improvements along the way. And slavery has been long gone, too. But we’re all enslaved by a minimum wage and despair. Hoping we can levitate without falling to the ground. Hope there’s a silver lining to that dark cloud, maybe. 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. ** On The Spirits of the Prisoners Watching from on high as if a cloud, a well-known face, this “bearded apparition” within a cloak which soon would be his shroud, resided there, but not by his volition, for magistrates determined his transgressions, results of years of alcohol addiction, were far too dangerous for more concessions, while deep depression furthered his affliction. He sketched and painted wonderous works of art in many notebooks, most unsigned, undated; some offered as presentments on his part, decrying his immurement was ill-fated. Inscribed above the painting where souls flee, the spirits of the inmates carried there, to Sunnyside, sights he alone could see, beneath the constellation of Great Bear. Sometimes, his illustrations found the sun; “Our Trip to Blunderland,” by Lewis Carroll, and there’s a Scarlet Study by his son about a great sleuth known by his apparel. His last ten years were in asylums’ halls. Sir Arthur’s words, “his playful wit undone by weaknesses. We all heed our own calls.” He died within when only sixty-one. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then he has been in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** Free Free from gloom from dark walls reek of mold inedible food filth and decay Kept for years dressed in rags unwashed unshaven left to rot shivering Scourge descends sickens many not much difference from days inside cells stink of death or at least illness Finally taken spirits flee no more filth disease cured by the hand of death finally free Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet and YA writer whose work is prompted by art, music, nature and memories. Her work appears in Lothlorien, Masticadores, Blue Heron and The Ekphrastic Review, among other journals. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo. ** Letter to Arthur Conan Doyle From “The Home For Intemperate Gentlemen,” April 25, 1882 My Beloved Son, Here I sit, a prisoner in the Home for Intemperate “Gentlemen,” although I use that word loosely. One of my fellows kept me up until the brink of dawn, bellowing and laughing by turn until I almost succumbed to drink, an “Intemperate” one at that: Pure grain alcohol mixed with soured grapes that a guard offered in exchange for my silence about the bellowing. I just discovered the loudlouth, the French dissident Lemond, is the father-in-law of the guard! He is probably right to attempt to hush me, Lemond is on his last leg here! I’m sure McDaniel and his wife have no intention upon bringing him home, what with their six barins already terrified at the thought of his last visit, whereby he stuck the tines of a fork into the hand of an offending grandson who was too quick to grab the finest piece of Lamb from the platter of a Christmas feast. Don’t fret, son, I didn’t fall victim to the temptation, as hard as it was. Only the thought of your probable dismissal of me as the illustrator of our second story kept me away. It was in many ways like a miracle from God when you engaged me to illustrate the first, “A Study In Scarlet,” and to see the fruits of our labour in the Beeton’s Christmas Annual, was almost too delightful to bear! Even your sacred mother stopped by to congratulate me! Better than the publication was your visit. So many eyes agog at my fine-figured Doctor Doyle, my own laddie! I’ve never been so proud in all of my life, Artie! The way the nurses and caretakers groveled for a seat near you! They would sooner cut off a limb than be near me in most circumstances. And then you paid me the penultimate compliment, myself, labelled as a ne'er-do-well father, and a drunkard, you said to me “Faither, you did a fine job with the illustrations, Holmes and Watson are drawn exactly as I pictured them in my mind.” Jingo! Aye, the baw-faced McDaniel was mouth agape. I know he lent me some respect at that moment. Thank you for that, Artie! As for your auld man, I am doing the best I can while here, waiting everyday to be sprung out! I sometimes draw for the newsletter for the captives, and even the fine lady McGinnis sat for a portrait, left her study where she does Lord God-knows-what to keep this place from running amuck. Your mother gets my County Pension, and gives a spot to her for my “care.” I still receive some small compense from the illustrations of my first twenty-some books, when they are reprinted. So your dear mother gets by with the barins crawling all over the house. I do miss them all, especially of a Sunday afternoon, the loneliest time to be among the inmates, when the sun comes down on our families, after church, a fine meal and perhaps a hike. One day I hope to render these feelings into a lithograph,showing the spirits of these men, dying to be free and among loved ones. Alas, I am one of them. As for you, young man, fare thee well! I am holding onto your words to keep me as sane as I can be under the circumstances of my lodgings. I keep your last letter close to the vest, the one in which you wrote “I was sitting at my desk, looking through your many illustrations while having a smoke, when the idea for Sherlock Holmes came to me, as clear as if he were standing right there, in front of my open window.” Godspeed, Doctor Conan Doyle! Haste Ye Back! Your Loving Faither, Charles Alamont Doyle Debbie Walker-Lass Author's Note: Arthur Conan-Doyle was not yet a knight in 1882. Although he took a dim view of his father while young, he came to greatly admire and respect him and his art when he became a man. Charles illustrated the first Sherlock Holmes, and a few of Conan-Doyle’s later books. Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. Debbie was proud to be nominated by TER for the Best Small Fictions, 2023 anthology. She is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. (Except Spiders) She recently presented an Ekphrastic Poetry workshop for her local Dekalb County library. ** Released As though escaped from the chimneys of their red brick prison, like drifts of smoke or steam from some internal furnace, a roiling stream of dream-like phantasms turn and twist their way to freedom. Fantasies and nightmares curling and uncurling on ladders of midnight air, dressed only in their garments of grief and isolation, remembering tales both bright and dark of long-gone childhoods and years of hope, unwinding like tangled threads or knotted hair- unruly as disordered thoughts, discordant dreams and offenses too unmannerly and wild for reason’s measured dance, While midnight holds its breath, their bodies sleep- heavy beneath the leaden thumb of dull soporifics, their souls eloping like fog rolling under the doors, through every crack and loose connection- the night a recess from grief and sorrow, delicate and brief as any moonlit vision fading in the sun. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and journals, including The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Memory Palace, edited By Clare MacQueen and Lorette C. Luzajic, and issues of Verse Virtual, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, and Caustic Frolic, as well as others. She has been a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. Her collection, How to Become Invisible, an exploration of experience with bi-polar disorder, is available from Kelsay Books and on Amazon. ** A Silent Convocation In the stillness before dawn, they assemble, the nameless, the faceless. A collective born of need. The world beyond them faded by the sharp angles and edges of this soft blur of unity. They gather together not for war, but something more, much more, deeper. A communication among souls now untwined from the flesh. In this dark predawn, they hold the space between breaths, until the call comes to evanesce. Then they become one with the morning breeze. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and a professional Bharatanatyam dancer. Her poems have appeared in many national and international online and print magazines and anthologies. She has two poetry books to her credit (She: The Reality of Womanhood and Pa(i)red Poetry). Her profile showcasing her use of poetry was recently featured in Lifestyle Magazine. ** Dear Writers and Readers, Our annual marathon is coming up on Sunday... Scroll below for details and registration. Don't miss this epic opportunity for a wild day of pure creativity. The Ekphrastic Review  Join us for the epic event of the year. You won't be sorry. It is wild, exhilarating, exhausting and wonderful. A day of pure creation. Play. Brainstorming. Join us on Sunday, or do it on your own time over the following weeks. This year, to celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review, an optional Champagne Party follows the marathon on zoom. Details are below. Perfect Ten: an Ekphrastic Marathon Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating ten years of The Ekphrastic Review. Join us on Sunday, July 13 2025 for our annual ekphrastic marathon. This year we are celebrating ten years!!!!! This is an all -day creative writing event that we do independently, together. Take the plunge and see what happens! Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. There will be a wide variety of visual art prompts posted at the start of the marathon. You will choose a new one every 30 minutes and try writing a draft, just to see what you can create when pushed outside of your comfort zone. We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open afterwards. Participate when you can, before the deadline for submission. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the eight hour marathon in one or two sessions at another time and date within the deadline for submissions (July 31, 2025). Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five for possible publication on the Ekphrastic site. One poem and one flash fiction will win $100 CAD each. Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year! Marathon: Sunday July 13, from 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks) (For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 13, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.) Champagne Party: at 6.05 pm until 7. 30 on Sunday, July 13, join participants on Zoom to celebrate an exhilarating day. Bring Champagne, wine, or a pot of tea. We'll have words from The Ekphrastic Review, conversation as a chance to connect with community, and some optional readings from your work in the marathon. Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2025 Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors. If you are in hardship and cannot afford the entry, but you want to participate, please drop us a line at [email protected] and we'll sign you up. Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September. Sign up below! Perfect Ten: annual ekphrastic marathon
CA$20.00
Celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review with our annual ekphrastic marathon. Fourteen drafts, thirty minutes each, poetry, flash fiction, or CNF. You'll choose from a curated selection of artworks chosen to challenge, inspire, and stimulate. The goal of the marathon is to finish the marathon by creating fourteen drafts. Optional: you'll have time after the event to polish any drafts and submit them. Selected works will be published in TER and a winner in poetry and flash fiction will each be chosen and honoured with $100 award. Following the marathon, exhausted writers can join our Champagne Party on zoom to celebrate an amazing day.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Challenges
|
