 Eve, by Dyane Jackson (USA) 2017 Core Questions That lore of Law, set garden piece, though end of peace in apple arms, the weapon of male dominance. Is spillage caused in guilty stance, an upward glance becoming stare - how dare she fall foul of such snake? This tree, a figure in own right, a rite of passage for the earth, skeletal trunk, craft part of art. As bones laid bare, so flesh, but fair - no cover up for other rib - indeed that cage, not hidden there. Pink lady, blush, for self-aware - but myth recorded, man by men. Delicious gala, celebrate. Though smarter when together walk, so, closer look, at core explored and question wisdom as received. 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 ** Temptation Succulent apple. Tempting to woman and man. A delight and curse. 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. ** Genesis According to Me The Skeleton looks too good-humored to be the devil, peeking from behind a tree, eyes more set on the Woman's genital and curvy contour than destroying mankind. The Woman is greedy, stripping the Tree of its fruits, and careless, dropping some of them for the dog to find, struggling to carry the weight of her pain. Nobody in the Garden seems powerful enough to defy their fate, just lustful and callous, follies that lead them to their downfall. Jackie Chou Jackie Chou is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress andFinding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by Cyberwit. Her poem “Formosa” was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. Besides writing, she loves to watch Jeopardy. ** The Original Temptation a midrash of Adam & Eve today I can no longer sing of the room, remembered, where you took me to that bed naked and barely ashamed, with excuses sewn to hide what we and others did until the dust is dust, as poems were falling into flesh, to catch the stars that smoldered, then burst in flame. That bed was a burning ground. The sheet I used as a cover, you yanked away and laughed, uncovering the dead. And rising, we arise. Hardness and softness mingled, flowing in combinations in our travail of pleasure, moaning and then weeping, syncopated breathing. Our limbs are weary in time, as long as a human life, and the twilight sky bleeds over the city's lights and is dulled in the brown river that moves and moves forever. The light through the closed curtains conducted a shadow play adapted out of romances in a vast, accusing quiet. Outside sounds of traffic, a plaintive siren calling, a door slamming we heard as if from a distant world. Can we gather the rain, drop by drop by drop, or purge the blurred hours, or forget the words that hurt? And now in my place of penance prayer is unconvincing and just as necessary to restore that lost road that leads us all to a garden, if any garden is left where I can return the apple. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a poet who studied religious and biblical literature for many years. His poems on subjects of life, death, and love have been published in numerous literary journals, including: The Ekphrastic Review, Quaci, Last Stanza Poetry, The Montreal Review, and elsewhere. ** Pearls Before Swine These apples are pearls before swine. Like Gretel discarding breadcrumbs, Eve has taken to discarding apples. Ripe and rosy as the day is long. Her arms are heavily laden. Tired of walking, wanting her sleep But Eve still has wild orchards. To visit and go scrumping. Wanting only to dance beneath Their untainted white blossoms To reach for the moon and stars And receive her strength and faith. Hold death in her arms. Rocked in a cradle Later to be discarded like garbage Like an apple core devoured. That is abandoned in a forest. Like a white butterfly Born of purity, innocence, With a seed of something to eternally grow. Following a path back to who knows where A house made of bread, cake, and sugar. Running from a stepmother, A woodcutter or to a God who will not forsake her. 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. ** Death and the Maiden Death seeks the maiden. He is persistent. He lurks and hides, for she is lovely. Exquisite nymph, riotous rich, with life and sex and eggs. Fully-fleshed, upper realm woman. Infatuation crushes him. But also keeps his bones alive. Gifts him. Reasons to lurk, reasons to hide. If only she knew what spells she cast. What shadows befall her own. Trailing behind, sensing someone. When she turns, there is no one. Her shadow knows but cannot tell. What spectres covet her essence. She’ll discover them in time. When she’s tasted knowledge and become. Fully-fledged earth woman. For now, she is oblivious. Her beauty, a given. The sun worships her. Her skin, luminous. The earth gives her its apples, for one ripe fruit recognizes another. Death is captivated. Nothing rattles him more than this fulsome creature. Nothing makes him seek a soul more than she. When she bathes in the river, how he aches. In the ghost of his once-heart, in the burn of his once-loins. He watches. She with delicate steps who enters the sunlit waters that glitter and part. He watches. She who stretches her arms toward the sun. Curves and scent and golden bloom. So much life to his always death. The closest he will ever get. Nina Nazir Nina Nazir (she/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands. You can usually find her with her nose in a book or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com ** Second Thoughts What if I have second thoughts of the certainty of my nature or the doubts from the wager What if I look another way of the past I once lived or the future she could give What if she cannot see me of the mess I'm becoming or the beauty of her uncovering What if I never tell her of the truths this life holds or the lies that will unfold What if I leave her in joy of the bliss of not knowing or the evil I'll be sowing What if I have second thoughts Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson - Scholar, Warrior, and Poet…but not always in that order. Brendan writes from his observations and experiences while traveling, studying, and working abroad. He is currently writing a collection of poetry from his time in the military. ** Emirati Paradise Therme Dubai’s islands in the sky rise above while Eve picks apples as death and death’s dog look on. Waterfalls and warm pools will not bring back God nor remembrance of all things good and gone. Lara Dolphin A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mother of four. 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). ** Loved by Death she stalked the orchard, filled with life, inadvertently spreading seeds as she walked -- alluring in kindness, pristine in ignorance, brazenly glutenous, all things Death could never be, so he hid within his knowledge, behind the Tree of Wisdom, ashamed of his continence, fearful his visage would decay her beauty, his obsession obscuring anything or anyone but her. Silently, Sarama waits, Patiently - hungrily for Death’s love. Tony Daly Tony Daly has been writing poetry since angsty days in the early 90s when he found an ancient tome containing his grandmother’s poetry. However, he didn’t start sending his work out to publications until after retiring from the U.S. Air Force Reserves in 2016, which leaves a rather voluminous pile of work still laying dormant, hidden in notebooks, on napkins, in margins of partially read study material, that is constantly reburied under new inspirations. For a list, that probably needs to be updated, of his published work, please visit https://aldaly13.wixsite.com/website or follow him on X @aldaly18. ** Going Nuts Let’s avoid identifying the fruits – no need to go nuts into centuries of arguments: strawberries, apples, figs, they all merit only a tease. Let’s leave it and welcome the once in a lifetime luck – to finally be able to take a look at the native cage of thy famous rib – creator of Eve – and ponder what an auspicious advantage it is to Adam’s ominous mud-birth! Beholding thy grasp, we can better adjust to her art nouveau trance as by her elated head on that pedestal of fruits against his mortified countenance. But, for the sake of the argument, let’s just accept a working hypothesis – "Eros' fruits of Eden’s provenance." Indeed, it is a high spot, the sun is smelting as if it’s on seventh heaven; bouncing off the walls as if having ants in its pants and unable to hold its horses; and this, clearly, is happening fast in this blazing yellow podcast where Adam is melted to the bone by the hottest question in heaven – only his eyes are left to follow her body beam deadly aware that he is unable to fulfill her dream: to see, but impossible to touch; to know, but unable to act; to sense thy holy impact, yet incapable to draw a single stroke on that blank biblical page. Yes, some may like it hot, though nobody is perfect, but suspecting the perfection around the corner is all that matters in such biblical tatters. By our corner here Eve is surely nursing an idea having fruit-loaded herself to the top as if to entice the entire mankind, walking with poise, eyes closed – it is clear she is in pretend mode in order to bluff his dog off and swiftly stuff the Eros’ fruit in Adam’s agape mouth grabbing at once his instantly muscled hand and taking him beyond Eden’s pristine ground! Heaven on earth, or the other way around – clues and contrasts echo in the flapping sound. The point is – to save thy primal hot tenor, because: what a ridiculous lost skeleton Adam was before the consummation of her dream fruit before she cut the passion’s Gordian knot and rescued the plot – just what a man needs to come to his senses, but then to muscle returns for life to elude the skeleton going nuts while looking for its rib… Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in philosophy and philology, has studied and taught linguistics and culture at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London, and authored a book on mediaeval manuscript art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning, and her poems have been honoured frequently by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** Oranges Were the New Black Adam, back then and alone in Eden’s garden After Lilith, suggested by some to be the first Was Eve, who was made from his rib, it’s said Just one rule to follow, to never pick the fruit But then tempted by Satan, chose to disobey In some ways, his representation being iconic What was at stake was the loss of immortality And expulsion from Eden, living a new reality Appearing as a skeleton would be quite ironic As an assured death was now the price to pay And nakedness was no longer seen to be cute So they attempted clothing themselves instead As for any future life, both accepted the worst But neither apologized, nor asked for a pardon Howard Osborne Howard has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel. ** Sun, Where Are You Sleeping Tonight? You appear as twilight of twilight, mustard folds, origami without paper. Your makeup is dust and imagination. You plant Earth with goldenrod, but I’ve been mistaken before—perhaps you seed the planet with corn. Knowledge is sparse. Leaves seldom found. I embrace a tree trunk for nourishment that took eons. When Eve bursts with a bushel of ruby sweetness, I unfold a bed for growth. Heat burns off grass. Bourbon dries up. In this unfolding, I better not destroy what’s left. Give a rib if asked. Rub brown fur behind the dog’s ear. Later, alert the garden that I will spade. When castanets murmur in the background, I want to dance for flesh. I want to muster back my soul. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review, Panoply, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. In December 2023, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover. ** Hellscape: The Apocalypse Comes To Town The joker drew me in, his eyes promising nirvana, of a sort. He strummed the tree, a double bass, vibrating Walk on the Wild Side, until ripe, ready apples fell with crisp abandon to my breast. I embraced them, an apple pie on my mind, spiced, a lattice crust, friends invited for coffee and a slice. Then, surprise, a sonic boom waved in, a backward thrust ripped my cheeks to bits. My feet dissolved, legs now steady Bunsen burners, torso jelling molten into plasma, as I bleach gold, then white. If rubber hands could pluck a charcoal twig from this tree, I’d sketch a picture of my pain, redraw this Teflon-coated hound who bites my knees, not pacified by tossing apples caramelised in the wind, as a cartoon pooch, no longer my tormentor. Joker laughs and laughs, and strums his songs. My atoms keep on cooking. It just never stops. Emma-Jane Peterson Emma-Jane is the co-author of a book of children’s Bible stories (Parragon) and has written prose and poetry for magazines in the UK and the US. ** Far From the Tree The apples were here first-- you think you own them, but no-- they lead, you follow Other fruits, other people, creatures, bones, roots, trees-- a tangled landscape There are no seasons here, only a golden glow, burning with desire Inside you grow wings, look up, leap into a river of 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/. ** November Harvest Years past, we loved apple-picking in early September, the farmer handing over a large slatted wooden basket. U-Pick. 75 cents a pound. The dog dancing, us running to the stubby rowed trees like we’d never seen fruit. Tilting my head up, I watched your hands funnel apples into mine, sweet harvest balanced against my breasts. But now I’ve left it too late. Shriveled rot hangs from dormant branches. The dog whines. My hands are cold. Was it always this hard, climbing a short metal ladder in the low afternoon sun, knees aching? Shading my eyes, I scan the orchard. There’s nothing to gather here now. Nothing healthy, nothing whole, to carry home. Janice Scudder Janice Scudder lives in Colorado. ** The Tempest Be it the sin That feeds the hungry- Be it the woman Vile or innocent Bringing down a plenty. For Be it the forbidden fruit That abides Invisible skewed skeleton Of rising knotted roots Reaching for the heaven- The pink magnolia That lives at Any height. Be it on the ground Be it at the end- Be it the sin That finds Them. 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. ** Eve-rybody’s Mother Gleaning armloads of fruit, head back, joy-wheeling, you whirl in turmeric glow. Hell crouches by the tree, hounds you, round-eyed, thin-ribbed, scheming a steal, even a fall, but you know nothing. That one curious bite that you share within a heartbeat, spins you off spineless into the shadows. O dew why have you turned to drought or squall? O weeds! O mosquitos! O sharp teeth! O leather coat! O forked tongue and bony pointing finger! O Eve – conceiving and grieving, slow breathing, push and pain. One son slays another and wanders off leaving you bone-pallid, lined like winter limbs, your sunny heart splintered down to the core. Are you spat out like a pip? Blood pools around the tree. A saffron finch begins to sing. Helen Freeman Helen started writing poetry and flash fiction whilst recovering from a car crash in Oman and got hooked. She has publications on several online sites and loves trying her hand at challenges presented by The Ekphrastic Review then reading the different interpretations chosen by editors. She currently lives in Edinburgh and her instagram is @chemchemi.hf ** Apple Villanelle All apples are Honeycrisp now, not as sweet as they were before. Eventually, they all turn brown. Really common, sold by the pound in every produce selling store. All apples are Honeycrisp now. Old cultivars are not around-- one rarely finds Braeburn anymore. Eventually, they all turn brown. Once, Granny Smith had fed the town with latticed pies and cidered cores. All apples are Honeycrisp now. At first bite they made quite the sound, with flesh as crisp as autumn's morn’. Eventually, they all turn brown. By October, boughs touch the ground, but no one picks fruit off the floor. All apples are Honeycrisp now. Eventually, they all turn brown. Jory Como Jory Como is an aspiring American writer residing in Christchurch, New Zealand. ** of snakes & men red apple burning to its core scorched earth in the beginning, rachel was barren like the earth. barren by land. barren by sea. barren by sky. and luke said to mary, “blessed be the fruit of your womb.” was this fruit the promised one or the prince of darkness? who bore the earth? a god, a devil, a mother? before the amoebas and monkeys and us, a bang exploded into the night sky like a mustard cloud spewing mustard gas with a mustard taste. a silk skein of sun-kissed webs covered skins and skulls. yellow bones searching for a skeleton a garden grew. and from it a tree bearing poisonous fruit. the fruit was red and glistening like lipstick-stained cheeks and dripping with temptation from a tree dripping with knowledge to a man dripping with sin. the man, who was evicted from the garden for claiming to be god, was squatting there with his pet snake. the snake told him there was a way to live without sin, a way to indulge without shame, a way to prosper without guilt - - find someone else to blame. snakes and men still framing eve Michelle Hoover Michelle Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her ornery feline, Stevie the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hearty laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found in The Ekphrastic Review and The Haiku Foundation. ** Eve Death clings to the creak of wood the soft split of living time when you step away from the ribbed road to your future, you hear the grainy breath of lumber knowledge is harvested from seed to skin, surface all death’s envy lingers in his fingers in the splints of his brittle heart wormed thought shrivels in the sun death and god are in cahoots damming the rush of spilling juice fruit’s sweet joy is forbidden to the dry scythe of yellow teeth devouring the heartcore of lust you will not be bound desire your belly harbours bounty light showers your lifted head, hungry arms embrace apples abundance the dogs have a new mistress soil roils beneath your tread swirling rich earthy dust to savour you will escape unenlightened eden language bursting from your breast walk on Eve, you know more than them these watchful rigid restraining men Simon Parker Simon is a London based writer, performer and teacher. His work has been published in Cathexis NW, Gramercy Review, The Pomegranate London, The Mackinaw, The Ekphrastic Review and shortlisted by the BBC. He is an associate artist of Vocal Point Theatre, a theatre company dedicated to telling stories from and providing workshops for the marginalized. He also runs creative writing and reading groups for the homeless, socially excluded and vulnerable at the 240 Project. ** Hide and Seek Dear Eve I’m going to play a trick on you I hope you will like it. This time No sin No reproach No Garden of Eden No Lucifer Only fun and funny apples. Adam is playing hide and seek with you When you find him Tell him that he must be careful. Behind the apple tree It’s not a snake which is watching him It’s a dog And we know that all dogs like to eat bones More than apples. And since you are the apple of Adam’s eye Don’t keep all your apples for yourself Give him an apple a day Because he is looking a little skeletal. Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. ** Eve in natural wonder and curiosity she seeks to understand she tests the rules and pokes the beast they said she was weak and foolish and of course there was a price to pay but Oh! how much we’ve gained Kaz Ogino Kaz Ogino is a Japanese Canadian living in Toronto. A lifelong artist, her practice has been enriched with poetry. Her goal is to look beneath the surface and explore what might be found. Curious, she is seriously prone to deep rabbit-hole diving. 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. ** Jaundice What mad choreographer blocked out the scene with traipsing nymph gathering all the knowledge of Death we will ever need leaving only the bitter fruit of The Appreciation of Life Tree that flowers only once for each Cro-Magnon each Neanderthal and even further back to the alleged crime scene where we were bitten by a thirst an unquenchable curse that ever questions and no doubt asks too much of Paradise dan smith dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. Widely published, his poems have been in or at The Rhysling Anthology, Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle, Dwarf Stars, Gas StationFamous, Jerry Jazz Musician and Sein und Werden. Nominated for the 2025 Pushcart Prize, dan's most recent poems have been at The Ekphrastic Review Challenge, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and dadakuku. ** My Choice You say that I was tricked Making it seem as if it was not my hands that lifted the fruit, not my lips that pressed against its skin, not me knowing the taste of fate even before I swallowed. Let it be known now! The underworld did not take me. I walked in, of my own free will, barefoot but uncowed. I carried the delight of spring with me, but made myself a throne from the shadows. The pomegranate did not bind me It crowned me. Every seed I swallowed, a promise, not a prison. A skeleton crew knelt at my feet, their empty gaze reflecting the stark truth: I was never a captive — I was the key. Aboveground, you speak of me with regret. But you do not see me here now do not see how the dead kneel, do not see how Hades himself moves aside to let me to pass. And for the last time, let me tell you this. I am not lost. I am a queen who has never been afraid of the dark. Nivedita Karthik Note: The My/Me and I in the poem refer to Persephone and her voice. I wrote the poem from her point of view. I wrote it as if to show she knew what she was doing, rather than be tricked into it. She would rather be a queen there, than a voiceless here. Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. ** Musings for My Dearest Eve After the first bite of sweetest fruit, Did you feel your innocence dissipate? Your cells begin to slow Your skin to wrinkle Your bones to ache. Death was born to stalk you, Lurking until he could swallow you down. Without the first bite of sweetest fruit, Would we be tearing ourselves apart today? Setting the world on fire Fueled by hate and uncertainty Filled with toxins and plastics and emptiness Our children scared, elders lost With the rest of us trapped in artificial prisons. Before the first bite of sweetest fruit, Would you be able to resist? I beg you for the truth. Would you save us from pain and loss Despair and death-- Or was the taste so seducing, Bringing your children to their knees everyday Fighting for their own salvation, You would still gather every fruit and guzzle them down again and again. It’s alright if you would. Most of us are gluttons for such temptations, We inherited that from you. And the world contains towering oaks, mountain creeks Green frogs and soft infants Foggy mornings, snowy nights. It’s not too late for us to make amends Before death sneaks up to swallow us down. But please pray for us, you at least owe us that. Samantha Gorman Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** First Kiss on Earth We kiss. Not once, not twice. We kiss more times than we have numbers. Death watches from behind a tree. With each kiss we are stronger. Wild dog watches from afar. Each kiss a beckoning. Death shrinks. We gather pomegranates, we share seeds mouth to mouth. Wild dog comes to our side, squeezes puppies from the womb. Kiss me. Kiss dog, kiss pups. Death is nowhere. Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood dwells in fog beneath redwood trees in the hamlet of La Honda, California. ** Mother Tongue What the bones know lingers in the amber of millennia, and by now, Eve, you perceive how the parts create a whole conscience howling at the sun. Each day dawns from a first cry of hunger, and still you gather sanguine apples, pomegranates, figs rich as honey. Holy prayers for your hallowed belly. Oh Eve, how we forget God sends the rain for the upright and sideways beasts alike, and how we labor to blame, ashamed to admit that we too would bite the fleshy fruit of knowing, sweet juice like blood flowing from our hollow mouths. Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. She is a member and regular student of The Muse Writers Center, a member of The Poetry Society of Virginia, and a former board member of Hampton Roads Writers. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Literary Mama, The Ekphrastic Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, Black Bough Poetry, OyeDrum Magazine, and elsewhere. She’s the author of Water in Every Room (Kelsay Books, 2025), her debut book of poetry. Website: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/. ** The Garden of Eating "Current unrest was mild in Britain, compared to other parts of Europe. Even in the United States they were having troubles of protest and unease, a new class of urban poor uniting and demanding privileges…" Anne Perry, The Angel Court Affair Death watched her pick the apples; and the apples, red and ripe, were filled with the possibility of joy and sweet desire. See, the winds of change said how her little dog's ears are perked up? How the garden air is threatened with the haunting sounds of her lost love? The key-shaped spade had never worked on stubborn roots; the smiling skeleton was her proof -- how he'd wished that he could stay, eating apples to forget their disagreements the games they'd played for days to pay for refrigeration -- a modernized menu that groaned with questions: cheddar cheese, or cream, whipped to top the pies; a dash of cinnamon to save the taste of flesh forever... Outside the window, a picture-perfect orchard had been flush with fall -- a honeymoon in Normandy, a class in crusts -- how to survive when times were flaky though the apples had blushed so much before the June-Drops we thought forever could never stop. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston where she attended The University of Houston for a Master's Degree in Creative Writing (Poetry.) `She has been a dedicated volunteer, working -- among other roles with children -- as a Great Books teacher and costume matron. Honoured many times by The Ekphrastic Review's challenges, her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationships between art, poetry and life. Mentioned in the poem, the June-Drop apple falls un-ripened and out-of-season. Apple season is usually September through December, and the June-Drops cannot mature without the seasonal nutrition provided by the tree. The June-Drops are tart, but with added sugar, can be cooked and used as jelly. ** Without Adam Without Adam, I strip the tree. Within my Eden, I found no man to hold to and catch on, to fall with and be blamed for taking down further, all is saffron wash for earth and burnt sienna strokes. Missing firmament, I am caressed by elation. Laughter peels for the stars inside. I revel across Paradise stage right, cascading the red hearts embrace of apples like a soubrette. He could never enter this core that’s perhaps made of j’amais vu. He’d watch in the wings far from me, call out a line he thought I long lost, let it fire and quench my pause for dramatic effect; but not a soul is here. Only Death and mongrel lech, sneering around the tree where I arch, steal with old gazes; as I know the tree. Adam, if he were waiting, crestfallen at my insouciance as to whether he had hatched a plan to stomp on Ares, from a rocket shell to see ever-distant territory, insatiable and empty. I look to Aphrodite, and she says “Abundance is reaping only what can be replenished.” Without a first, I last. No seed or cider to swallow and be ripened by. The tree keeps on yielding. Iris Quinn Iris Quinn's poem Sub Rosa Formation was selected by artist Hannah Berta as the Artists' Choice poem inspired by her work Muse Garden Rugosa in the fourth annual Ekphrastic Poetry collaboration between Page Gallery (Camden, Maine) and The Poets Corner, 2024. ** Literally Eve Repeatedly, I have been told that the way to appreciate modern art is to stand in front of it and let the art speak to me. I have done this in some of the finest galleries in the world – the Met, MOMA, the Guggenheim, the Morgan Library, the Frick, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (before the heist), the Getty, the Uffizi, the Smithsonian, the Van Gogh in Amsterdam (as well as the interactive experience) and the Dali in St. Petersburg (the American St. Petersburg, not the Russian one.) Then, next month, the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay will be added to the list. Guess what. Art doesn’t speak to me. I am cursed with a hyper-literal mind. I see the paint on the canvas; I see the palette of colors and how they have been arranged. I can even appreciate what the artist is trying to say, Then, its like a bad cell phone connection – I get half the words but not the message. Jackson Pollock is a good example. For me, Silver Over Black, White, Yellow, and Red, 1948, is just that – silver, black, white, yellow and red paint splattered haphazardly. I acknowledge that it holds my attention as my gestalt tries to form its randomness into patterns it has seen before. I would quibble though that the silver is gray as it doesn’t shimmer, and the red is rust. But then, the red of dried blood is actually a rust colour. As I write this, I am going outside every half hour to watch the progress of the Blood Moon, and its "blood" is more rust than red. But Pollock paintings don’t say anything to me. One viewer described their “encrusted, puddled, labyrinthine, and weblike surfaces” as “physically, erotically present.” Thank you, I know pornography when I see it and this isn’t it. Eve, by Dyane Jackson (no relation to Jackson Pollock) is another example. It is not repulsive, but is certainly not a pretty work of art. I am sure Ms. Jackson did not intend it to be pretty. She talks on her website about her experience while painting: “. . . struggling to paint something for hours---a face, a tree---when there's sort of a "pop" and you SEE, oh, it's brown right there! Or, I have it too pointy! In Eve she does indeed have a pointy, brown tree. And a pointy, brown dog, at least I think it is a dog. The two key figures are a woman (three straight, splayed lines where her long hair should be tell me it is a woman) and a skeleton (straight, splayed lines where the ribs should be tell me it is a skeleton.) The presence of the skeleton peering around the tree at the woman is obvious symbolism although I don’t for what. The skeleton is smiling so maybe they are playing a game of hide and seek. The woman is carrying a large basket of red apples, or maybe she is trying to hold twenty or so of them loose in her arms. Whichever, she is not doing a good job as three of them are falling to the ground. Is there symbolism in the number three? I don’t know. Note to Jackson Pollock: this is what red looks like. The woman knows she is not doing a good job and has her head raised to the sky bemoaning her clumsiness. I didn’t paint it; I am just relating what it is saying to me. The composition is interesting, a diagonal from lower left to upper right. The arch of the woman’s body is mirrored in the bend of the tree trunk. The skeleton and the dog are looking at the woman, likely wondering, like me, why she is dropping the apples. I assume the woman’s name is Eve implying the tree is the Tree of Knowledge. I wish I had one of the apples to eat as my hyper-literal brain does not have the knowledge to understand what Ms. Jackson is saying. I noticed that she started a blog in 2011 to communicate with people interested in her work. I found a passage where she is explicitly talking to me: “For you non artists, any area with a strong light/dark contrast or bright color will first grab attention, also small detailed shapes and wiggly lines.” I also notice that Ms. Jackson abandoned her blog after a half dozen entries. Maybe that is what happened with Eve, perhaps the painting was declared finished cutting off what Eve was trying to say mid-sentence. I will finish it for her. Literally, Eve is crying out to the heavens, “Olly olly oxen free! Death, come out; the game is over.” Michael Field Michael Field was born in Maine and now lives in North Carolina where he transitioned from a career marketing technology to creative writing. He specializes in flash memoir, stream of consciousness essays, and insightful reflections. He has had multiple works recognized in literary contests including a first-place prize in the Friends of the Chautauqua Writing Center Adult Prose contest. His works have been published in magazines, literary journals, and an anthology, Memory as Muse. ** How They All Go The girl-- focused on her joy, her flower scene, her basket of fruit embodying her youth and unused body-- sees neither Death nor the Jackal, who spoil her plans from forming in the yellow morning with plots to put her down. The Jackal distracts her with its shrill bark, circling her, spilling her fruit, cutting off her escape, while Death sneaks in-- unwanted dance partner-- and taps her elbow. Brennan Thomas Brennan Thomas is a Professor of English at Saint Francis University in Loretto, Pennsylvania. She has published short fiction and poetry in several online magazines, including Right Hand Pointing, Rue Scribe, Short Beasts, and Eunoia Review. ** The Golden Afternoon Conspicuously, Adam isn’t there, the age-old bias still in play, as if ‘twas only Eve who ate, or hood-winked an untutored boy. Then, lurking there behind the tree – not Heaven’s Hound which chases the reluctant down with boisterous barks – but Death and Death’s Coyote waiting for the lady’s back to turn. She’s laden down with excess fruit, unable to content herself, and craving ruddy encores until all the juicy savor’s gone – the afternoon oblivious to Death and Unfulfilled Desire. Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson got his MA in Rhetoric in 2003 and then ran off to China to teach for a decade. His work has also appeared in the Sequoyah, The Ekphrastic Review and The Society of Classical Poets. He is currently a teacher of English Composition and World Literature at the University of North Georgia. ** Harvest In the fabled garden, Eve gathers ripened apples. She fills her arms with so much fruit that some of it falls to the ground. Hurry, Eve, don’t waste the day-- for yellow leaves colour the air with the scent of impending decay. Her Adam left so long ago that she rarely thinks of him now. Adams come, and Adams go, but trees of knowledge bloom anew. Their apples impart wisdom or inspire doubt. They raise questions and prompt debate. Apples move eaters with their beauty or challenge them to question fate. With each bite, the knot entangling truth and myth unwinds. Bottom Line: Apples open minds. So, Eves in Edens everywhere, gather your apples while you may, before the last fallen leaf has browned, because death may hide behind the next tree with his devouring hound. Catherine Reef Catherine Reef's poetry has appeared in several online and print journals. She has published more than forty nonfiction and biographical works on subjects including Sarah Bernhardt, Queen Victoria, and Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. A graduate of Washington State University, Catherine Reef lives and writes in Rochester, New York. ** Eve’s Harvest The air is gold, I’m standing tall: How many apples make a Fall? I came in Spring: the cold was bright, And all the tree was hung with white. White turned to green; the air was fresh; I saw another, all of flesh: A Summer man, who stripped a bough To make a crown. It’s faded now; He says that Winter’s on its way. What that may be, he cannot say, Only he knows it will be cold; But here today the air is gold. While he is foraging alone, I see another, all of bone: Winter, maybe, with Winter’s beast. But look: the tree brings forth a feast Of life! My arms can’t hold them all. Each one a sun, a flaming ball: How many apples make a Fall? How many apples make a Fall? Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in some online magazines including The Ekphrastic Review. She has a special love for animals and visual art. ** Your Core Is an Orchard, Brims with the Wisdom of Apples Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in ~ Leonard Cohen, lyrics from “Anthem” Ripe with promise a basketful of potential you dropped to the ground traversed unknown terrain. On your journey what did you encounter gullies and ridges ditches and peaks the occasional worm? Despite the unevenness the unexpected bruises and wounds along the way did you choose wisdom follow the high road honor your core? When confronted with obstacles challenged by a landscape fraught with imperfections were you determined to sow seeds of light? Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is an artist, a poet, and the author of nine books, including On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. ** good Eve ning oh goddess cast thine eyes upon this orchard of lust in mine basket hie thee hither dear Adam from behind yon apple tree lest I see thee for all that thou art not lest the asp doth kiss thy jackal's haunt lusteth thy forbidden wisdom Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith loves the challenge of looking at a piece of art, finding the words to express her feelings and (when required) utter nonsense. Thank you, as always, Team Ekphrastic! ** Defiance She has gathered her apples like jewels in this garden of Eden a carnal carmine of hearts ripened with passion. She is tripping on sunshine a livewire of intent a blaze of delight a living, loving, longing woman just being. Look at her laugh in the face of Death who hides tremulous from this golden exhale as the seeds of her secret fall to earth with a sigh. Yes, she will take temptation if this is the reward - succulent, sweet cornucopia of joy mystery of the flesh revealed - a feast. And the air warms to a yolk yellow: the bright birth of a new world. Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán Mc Laughlin is a poet and Creative Writing facilitator from Co. Donegal in Ireland. Her poems have appeared previously in The Ekphrastic Review. She has also been published in literary journals including The Poetry Village, The Honest Ulsterman, Drawn to the Light Press and more. She enjoys ekphrastic writing as the artwork provides a narrative of its own. Find her on Instagram @siobhanmcl7 (she no longer uses 'X') ** Evelution So much knowledge it’s heady and exhilarating as she dances away seeding ideas and change in the wake of her overflowing arms Life and death suddenly have deeper meaning neither can exist without the other now that she knows what lurks inside each fruit They become her a hundred breasts of food flowing through her belly to nurture the earth and birth children she is goddess and guardian The jealous god disapproves poisoning bark and root he will punish her life force the violence of manhood hidden under skin and dying to the bone For a brief moment ecstasy was within reach balance achieved until hounded forever pursued for existing without permission R A Ruadh R A Ruadh’s poetic universe is where farm life, erotic questions, war zones, and snowstorms are all related. With deceptively lyrical simplicity the poet takes on everything from the ravages of a child’s murder to a maple tree’s promise of new life, and erotic odes to garlic. Her award-winning work has been published internationally in book form, annual and quarterly collections, and online editions. An unrepentant Red Sox fan and proud grandmother, R A Ruadh lives on a farm in Mi'kma'ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi'kmaq People, also known as the Canadian Maritimes. ** The Wondrous Daughters of Eve: a Sijo Sequence I. Unrepentant of their sins, men watch as we struggle and suffer. They lurk. They creep. They troll. They catcall. They boss. They scheme. They attack - constantly tormenting, be it gleefully or unwittingly. II. No wonder we wander away, and no wonder we wonder. No wonder we are fearful, and no wonder we are brave. No wonder we love. No wonder we loathe. No wonder we are numb. III. Men can lie. Men can cheat. Men can steal. Men can kill. Men can destroy, But our hair, our lips, our breasts, our asses, our wombs, our brains, our souls Are held to much higher, perpetually changing standards. IV. No wonder we love apples, and no wonder we hug trees. No wonder we wear miniskirts. No wonder we refuse to shave our legs. No wonder we are so tempted, and no wonder we, ourselves, tempt. V. They keep breaking and breaking the commandments that they wrote In the name of a god that supposedly looks just like them, Whereas we are expected to obey without question. VI. No wonder we are considered vain. No wonder we don’t care. No wonder we read so much. No wonder we are curious. No wonder we ask. No wonder we believe. No wonder we doubt. Rose Menyon Heflin Originally from rural, southern Kentucky, Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Wisconsin. Her award-winning poetry has been published over 200 times in outlets spanning five continents, and she has published memoir and flash fiction pieces. She has had a free verse poem choreographed and danced, an ekphrastic memoir piece featured in a museum art exhibit, and two haiku put into a gumball machine. Among other venues, her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and San Antonio Review. An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people. ** To Dyane Jackson Regarding Eve You paint her as the truth disclosed of will that wisely God imposed in each of us who falls as well to find the faith in which we dwell to bear the brunt of gathered blame for sins that jaundiced eye will name as basket of the ills deplored that in the mirror though ignored will in delusion see reprise as dread assured by vain surmise of fear that fame can mobilize invoking cloak of evil guise on courage that would dare oppose the arrogance so lacking clothes. 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.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Challenges
|
