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Dear Readers and Writers, On occasion, someone asks a question about the prompt I chose. In this case, it was, "Why did you choose this particular painting of Christ and the adulteress? There are many artworks on this heartfelt scene from the New Testament, and this one is not as beautiful or evocative as many others." Often with art, there is a story behind the story. Some of you know me and my ways by now and dove headlong into the past to look for it, coming up with poetry inspired by the strange destiny of this artwork and its artist. Some of you were more moved than others by the portrayal of the story on its face, and found your way in there. We strive for an eclectic, diverse, interesting range of artworks to push your imagination and writing to new frontiers. My ulterior motive is, of course, is how writing about art opens the doors to art history wider than any classroom, and how art can inspire fresh content and perspective and keep our writing curious and alive. Thank you for being part of this journey with me. love, Lorette  Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery, by Han van Meegeren (Netherlands) 1942 Call to Arms Female fecundity So powerful, scary That only the womb Can grow new life. Women's wiles So dangerous, deadly Deliriously intoxicating Asphyxiating spineless men. Feminine fury Subdued through ages Repressed, extinguished By protective patriarchs. Womanly pleasures So exquisite, orgasmic Denied, ignored By incomprehension. Arise, women, arise Claim your place beside men Share the power and pleasure Of justice and equality. Ann Maureen Rouhi Ann Maureen Rouhi is Filipino by birth, Iranian by marriage, and American by choice. She is a reluctant writer but tries nevertheless because she has stories to tell. ** My Lord The world sees me not as I am. As a vision of learning and light. I am judged by those in need of healing. I am obscured by the vale of the darkened world. Those that see through a glass darkly and not face to face. May your holy teachings enlighten those obscured by ungodly thoughts. We struggle here on earth as you guide us to the new world of light and love. Give us faith Oh Lord to inhabit your teachings and not stray from the path of perfection. As we bow and speak listen to our prayers and elevate out minds. Allow us to rise above the bitterness of cruel judgment. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet- actress and filmmaker. She narrated and produced the Documentary film, 'Artwatch,' about famed art historian James beck. She is the recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement award- and hosted the television series On Our Own, winner of the President's Award. Her documentary film, Silent Journey is streaming on : http://www.cultureunplugged.com/storyteller/Sandy_Rochelle Publications include: Indelible, Dissident Voice, Poetic Sun, Black Poppy Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Potato Soup Journal, Impspired, Wild Word, Every Day Writer, Spillwords Press, Trouvaille Review, and others. ** Haikus 1. O you! Poor woman, Why do you keep your mouth shut about ex-lover? 女郎花手折りし者の名も告げず 2. O man! You Pharisee, Why do you turn a blind eye to your hidden sin? 花白き男郎花には腐臭の根 Toshiji Kawagoe Toshiji Kawagoe, Ph.D. is a professor at Future University Hakodate. He lives in Hokkaido, Japan. His haiku was selected in the 21 Best Haiku of 2021 at the Society of Classical Poets and his poems in classical Chinese have been published in the anthologies of Chinese poetry. His academic works in economics are also published in many books and academic journals. ** Forgiveness Clawing the rodent remnants, A raven rests by her mate Dead on a square-feet of wet land. Storming rains are nearing the horizon As I claim forgiveness. Muted old and young in a fight to mend Own soldiers turning traitors await their turn For healers in medication. No displays, no murmur, no confessions. In a wheelchair the boy with his amputated leg Brings stillness to the hall of patient care. Bending hope like the marigold with a broken stem. God's deeds are morphing into sins as I plead kindness, For all, as I claim forgiveness. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing the most. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Unbound My constellations are missing some of their stars. I don’t know where they are or if I only imagined the invisible threads that tied them to each other, that connected me to the orbits of earth and moon, the distant voices I once carried. I try to follow them, keep moving, but I can’t decipher how it could be accomplished. Slowly I retreat into a shrinking certainty that faces only toward itself, myself, or what’s left of it. There must be something remaining—still—of what was, once. How did I fall so far when I never possessed wings? What kind of there is here, what kind of then is now, what kind of deity can I conjure to petition for mercy? casting stones-- ripples on water disappear 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/, and see more of her work on her website http://kerferoig.com/ ** Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery Pallid with shock, with shame, heart bursting with bewildered loss, she hangs her head waiting for what she knows will fall-- the toss of one stone… of several more, a rock, and then another score-- the agony of shattered bone, the pain as of a broken man upon a cross of one who seems to call to her, amazing her… Forgive them, for they know not what they do… No rocks rain down. Around her, women hold their breaths. Those hard men scowl, and one with whom she’d lain so hurriedly has slid away into the crowd: left her to face the rage, the indignation, bitter condemnation. He lifts a hand, the carpenter. The hissing street is hushed. Let him without a single sin take up and cast the first sharp stone. She waits, trembles, cannot raise her face. All men have gone: save the carpenter in blue, she is alone. He raises her now with direct gaze that burns away all fears: takes her disgrace, her blame, all tears, all burning shame. See! He gives her back the only things she ever owned: her life, her given name. Lizzie Ballagher Ballagher has travelled widely and lived for years in different countries, an experience that has seasoned her poetry, though she is also glad now to be writing and blogging at home in the UK again: https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** Love It or List It The windows of your eyes-- have declared me *uninhabitable.* Your chiding requires no billows; it sparks freely in the flaming fireplace that is your mouth. *I, the adulterer, am a property condemned,* you say, *My living room lacks life. My bedroom offers no respite.* So, I lock the door to my heart and list it-- desperate for a tenant who will love the place. Keith Hoerner Keith Hoerner lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. ** Faux Pas and Meegerenly Mistakes There was an adulterous man with woo-out-of-wedlock his plan. Each maid that he’d plant would soon find that she can’t get away with it, like a man can. The tale’s as unique as a weed: nearly every man spreading his seed in vast fields abundant (quite often redundant) regardless of vows or a creed. But a painter who cheated a man with a replica from a spray can and was caught in this fix needed defensive tricks mixed and stirring to Goering and clan. Although death was his possible fate, he got one year by trial’s debate, for the forger confessed and proved he did his best to make lies look like they were first-rate. Do Meegerenly fakes now abound? Are forgeries of his art found in museums and gall’ries, on subway walls, alleys, or is he no longer renowned? Ken Gosse Ken Gosse uses simple language, traditional metre, rhyme, whimsy, and humour in much of his poetry. First published in The First Literary Review–East, November 2016, his poems are also in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, and other publications. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, he and his wife have lived in Arizona for over twenty years, always with cats and dogs underfoot. ** Shame You know perfectly well that women must be covered. You’re lucky it’s me. My friends will not let you get away with a warning. Go home, put on your burka like every decent woman in our godly country. You have learned that men are tempted by woman, and when men are tempted, they fall into sin. You are the reason we may forfeit our eternal bliss in paradise, temptress. Be gone. Stay home. Have you no shame? Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her fifth poetry collection, DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS, has just been snapped up by Kelsay Books for publication May/June 2022. Her website: https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Judged Adulteress, I am shamed but not all blame is mine Doesn’t my lover bear consequence, are they blind? Under holy law, adultery is a sin yet somehow within Lauded halls, secluded homes their sins are excluded from Trial and judgment, deserved by many yet Even though represent a multitude of guilty Reserved for those chosen as example, we are Eternally damned in love by a power above, unseen, Serenely deciding the fate of us, whose mate may be cruel, Subjecting wife to abuse, ruled by those excused as men Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a poet and writer of topics such as bullying, animal abuse, nature and water. She loves prompts, especially art and her poems appear in journals including Misfit, Open Door, Sledgehammer and The Ekphrastic Review, among others; her full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson is active in the New Hampshire poetry community, past board member and coordinator of readings and workshops. ** Three Haiku Christ our savior, sees woman adulterous, fearing redemption. ** Lust and betrayal, woman feeling remorseful, saved by Christ the Lord. ** Taken from husband, for her impious affair, atoning to Christ. 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 and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** Past This Line of Skin You were a young man, when I loved and followed you. A man, browsed my hand and my husband left me to the elements of stones and ridges of rocks from neighbours. But you, pulled me out of the pit where the rocks thrown, tore my skin. And you told me to follow you to the depths past this line of skin. Shalom Galve Aranas Shalom Galve Aranas has been published in The Prachya Review, Ponder Savant, Minnie's Diary, and elsewhere. She is a loving, single mother of two. ** Saved She is saved from death-- not from judgment; left hand of stone on her shoulder, up-right hand of superiority in the insufferable air. The bearded men remember the Old Testament ways-- the woman and the man dying for lying in another’s bed. Man is saved! Her lover roams the shadows of the city, she on the fringe. Yellow is off-white. Degradation drapes her. Dust and Christ’s feet catch her eyes. The artist never witnessed what he painted. He testified (a forger) in oil-- portrayed the woman the sinner. The men looked on. Robert E. Ray Robert E. Ray is a retired public servant. His poetry has been published by Rattle and in two poetry anthologies, High Shelf XXXV and A Poetry Garden. Robert lives in coastal Georgia. ** Three Takes by Portly Bard ** They Were, At Altar, Well, and Wall,... He ministered by miracles, and testament of parables, by life He lived as He believed, and moments in which He achieved as man, not God, the justice done of dignity beheld as won where gift was measured by its means, self-worth by kindness it convenes, and sin not by self-righteous stone but by commitment to atone where only half a crime was tried for egos to be satisfied. They were, at altar, well, and wall, the women hearing Gospel call. ** To Han van Meegeren Regarding Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery Ironic was your justice served by crime your "victims" both deserved... ...first critic falsifying claim, attributing a master's name to work of artist he'd disdained for mimicked skills ineptly feigned... ...then soldier spending spoils of war as greed of wealth still wanting more who traded art for forged acclaim, self-image bought by artist name, and strange mystique of missing lore explaining "never-seen-before". Though neither "victim" law accused of actions by which they abused, your will to act and serve your time would open eyes to greater crime and save as you so rightly said, a trove if lost the world would dread. ** The Meegeren Defense At cost of one, I have retrieved a trove of many you'd have grieved had I not wrought, as fair in war, the ruse such sacrifice was for. Did I not dupe but devil's eye convinced that pilfered wealth could buy the work believed a master's soul that by possession he'd control? And have I not exposed to you the folly of a critic's view who selfishly would nurture fame by foisting such unfounded claim? It is not me you have to fear, but how you choose what you endear when what today you've seen and praised is for its source tomorrow razed and prompts the world to wonder why and where, in truth, does beauty lie... ...If in the eyes that so behold, how could it not in what they're told? Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** I Owe You a Piece of My Heart Another foggy afternoon on the coast south of San Francisco. We were driving down the Great Highway toward Half Moon Bay, planning to eat lunch there, maybe go for a walk, turn around and drive back home. Strangely, there was hardly any traffic. The Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin: someone like that was on the radio. We saw the girl at the same time; as I said “Stop!” you were already hitting the brake. She stood at the edge of the pavement, barefoot, a long, heavy sweater clutched tight around her, eyes darting like those of a startled deer. The car slid to a stop and as we jumped out two men came running over a sand dune. One of them yelled “Hey, bitch!” before they saw us and turned to run back the other direction. I threw my arms around the girl, noticing she had a bloody scrape along her left cheekbone. You went after them, but they had a head start in the damp, shifting sand and they got away. I was so proud of you for going after them and so relieved you didn’t catch up to them. While you were gone she told me what had happened. She’d been taking a walk along the beach, alone, and suddenly realized she’d gone farther than she intended, far from the families with children, beachcombers, birdwatchers, fishermen casting their lines out into the surf. Two young men came up from behind and started walking with her, one on each side. She felt uncomfortable, but they all kept walking and talking until they rounded a tall dune. The men grabbed her arms and dragged her into its shadow, into a hidden, cave-like spot where they threw her down, tore off her pants, and took turns raping her. She rubbed her eyes and apologized; she said the wind was making her cry. When you came back I told you what had happened. Another car stopped to see if we needed help. You asked the driver to call the police and they arrived in a few minutes. The two officers were solicitous at first. The girl was shivering so one of them offered her coffee from his thermos. But as the story came out, when the word rape came out, their expressions changed. They looked down at her bare legs and one of them sneered. It was subtle, gone as soon as he caught me looking at him, but it was definitely there. The other policeman wrote down the descriptions we gave them. You and I had both gotten a good look at the men, and of course the girl had seen them much closer up. She told how one of them had horrible, rotten breath. “Did he really?” said the officer who had sneered. “Why does that matter?” As she became more distraught both policemen seemed to lose interest, like the whole thing was a waste of their time. The one who seemed to be in charge, who had been taking notes, told us we could go, but you insisted he write down our names and contact information because we could serve as witnesses, and so he did. Everything the girl said to them seemed to work against her: the fact that she’d been walking alone, was new to the city, didn’t have a job yet. The second officer leered openly now at her bare legs, speckled with goosebumps from the cold. He licked the corner of his mouth. “What?” I said, leaning toward him. “Did you expect her to stop to put on her pants before she ran?” You held me back or I swear I would have hit him. He started to move toward me but the other officer stepped between us. “You two can go now,” he told us again. The girl was sobbing and I put my arm around her. “We’ll give her a ride home,” you said. “No,” the first officer said. “She needs to come to the station to make a formal statement.” He took her arm and started for the police car. She looked back over her shoulder at us until he put his hand on her head to push her down as she got into the back seat. We watched them drive away, then got in our own car and went back home. We never heard from any of them. Never. The two men you chased were ordinary but not identical. I remembered their faces for a long time. One had called the other one Frank. The girl had blue eyes and short blond hair that was messy and filled with sand. She wore a long brown sweater with sand grains caught in the stitches. She wanted to go back after her shoes but was afraid to, and she wouldn’t let us go either. Her name was Sally. She mattered. Victoria Stefani Victoria Stefani lives, writes, and paints in Tucson, Arizona. Her work has appeared in the North American Review, Weaving the Terrain, The Poeming Pigeon, and elsewhere. A student of literature, folklore, and mythology, she has taught writing and literature at Humboldt State University and the University of Arizona. ** No End “Pure and beautiful, but how will it end for each of us?” I say to Him and I feel the capital letter deeply, and I say it to myself, as I feel the faces that His body shields me from. The hand across my shoulder radiates warmth, the upraised finger before me assures illumination, the voice embracing me conveys understanding of now and of the causes of now, the brutality of before, the now as inevitable result of before. And the Next, equally unavoidable, equally inescapable. His next and mine. His Next will shake nations and reshape thought as Those before Him have done. Mine will do none of these things, but He tells me, mine is important, mine is the reason for His, my Next and other Next’s, like me, all vital, all reasons for Him. I see terror in faces he shields me from, their terror at what He unleashes, and terror in what they themselves will unleash on His person. And His hand on my shoulder radiates warmth and the Voice before me pronounces the words, the Word, there is no end to the Word. I am embraced. Carl Damhesel Carl Damhesel lives in Tucson, Arizona, where he writes poems, prose and plays. He recently discovered The Ekphrastic Review and appreciates the opportunity to write in this new genre. ** Winners And Losers There’s always one. Always one ready to cast the first stone. Always one righteous enough, confident enough, arrogant enough. And the rest of the pack will follow. It makes no difference who they follow which prophet which god, the game’s the same and it will play out until the stones become a mountain from which her blood flows like a river. Then they will celebrate. They’ve won again. 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 a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** Craquelure "About suffering they were never wrong, the Old Masters: how well they understood Its human position..." W.H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Arts "The knife there on the shelf -- it reeked of meaning, like a crucifix." Elizabeth Bishop, Crusoe in England If there had been a grave stone she would have put flowers on a memory of the Magdalene -- white flowers, a gift of nature growing in a field where wild grasses swayed in soil softened by rain after a long and tortured drought, the cracked earth revealing how the tender plants could reappear, coming into the girl's hands, roots and all. Her father had not come to take her picture at her First Communion; had never come so had been a shadow in her dreams where the same old sun set in the sea; in Sicily, she had read, they mined sea salt. The other girls had had new dresses, white and crisp yet she was proud of hers, second-hand and dingy before she hung it up outside, hand- washed, bleached by sunlight to be presentable; for her to be presentable, her red-toned hair mostly covered by a white Merino scarf. She wondered who had worn it (the scarf) as she knelt at the altar waiting to taste wine the colour of grape juice; for the metallic lip of the cup to touch her lips; for the Body of Christ, a sacramental wafer, to dissolve, a kiss on her tongue... for the Body of Christ to embrace her, His Spirit near enough that the forger, Meegeren, could see they were alike as lovers a Jew and a girl -- eyes closed in mutual prayer -- the way their peace and simple grace defied the angry faces in the background of the painting (Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery) two men judging the woman's arrest like birds of prey circling a mountain of human bones after the Holocaust. Edda Goring loved and respected her father in the politically-correct way daughters are supposed to love their fathers. (His art collection was worth millions.) Called "Princess of The Third Reich," her father had taught her that evil is only an existential question, and that sacrifice is an economic and social construct, a cross to bear and rise above. Did he, Goring, identify himself with the power attained by the religious figure in the Forger's picture, part of a race whose strength and intelligence were a threat to the ascendance of Der Fuhrer? Certainly women, even his daughter, were created to fulfill the desires of men and Edda, like the Adultress in her father's preferred painting was the sexual companion of a married man a journalist documenting Der Fuhrer's diaries even as the blood of millions -- Les Agneaux de Dieu -- coursing in war and nature would fill the cracks made by time on the troubled earth; and on the girl's face, Craquelure, lines of character when the painting is authentic. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Honoured many times by acceptance to the Ekphrastic Challenge, her recent book, When Dreams Were Poems, 2020, explores the relationships between art, life and poetry. An Episcopalian christened in The Church of the Good Shepherd, Austin, in 1945, she has given history tours of Christ Church Cathedral, its original structure built on one of the lots designated by the Allen Brothers for church and school when Sam Houston was President of The Republic of Texas. Han van Meegeren is controversial, a forger whose wealth was made possible by Hitler's reign: "He bought up homes of several departed Jewish families in Amsterdam and held lavish parties while much of the country was hungry." Yet the figures in his painting -- Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery (1942) -- have unmarked faces, innocent of violence and guilt. ** Deception With each pseudo stroke, the artist schemed his revenge upon the critics. Undeterred, he knew not a better way to pour slush all o’er the masters, and to pull himself down from the cross. He sharpened the pointing, Platonic finger of the Messiah, while his, he angrily raised at the art-emperors, enthroned. Brown hair, evocative eyes, each crease on the blue robe- an exact copy of Veneer’s. The woman, her head covered in white, looked down. The ones who had picked up stones looked away, their hearts untraced. Meegeren sat down for a while. “Sin no more”, said Christ, his left hand on her shoulder. The painter raised his head. Light and shadow competed on the canvas. He pulled down the curtains, when the Nazi official knocked at the door. One day, the woman and the Christ would together drag him to the court, and he would be ‘sinning’ no more. Nithya Mariam John Nithya Mariam John is a poet and translator from Kerala, India. Apart from her three short collections of poems titled Ruminations and Reflections : A Pinch of Poetry & Perspectives, Bleats and Roars and Poetry Soup, her scribblings are housed in Indian Literature, The Alipore Post, Borderless, gulmohar quarterly, theravenquothpress, Hyderabad Literature Festival-Khabar, Muse India, The Samyuktha Poetry, Malayalam Literature Survey and is forthcoming in Usawa Literary Review and Sanglap. She loves books, music, indoor pothos, sweets and milk.) ** Christ with the Woman Taken in Forgery -Did you love him, my daughter? -No, my Lord, I did not love him -Yet you made love to him? -Yes, my Lord, I made love to him -With the love that is not love? -Yes, my Lord, with the love that is not love. -That is forgery, my daughter -Yes, my Lord, it is forgery And their eyes burned as they thought upon their daughters and their wives and their fingers itched as their stones grew hot -And you were not married to him? -Yes, my Lord, I was not married to him -Yet still, you made love to him? -Yes, my Lord— with the love that is not love -That is double forgery, my daughter -Yes my Lord, that is double forgery And Jesus turned to them as their eyes burned and said to them: Let he who has never loved --with the love that is not love-- throw the first stone Mark C Watney Mark C Watney is an immigrant from South Africa who teaches English at Sterling College in Kansas. As his brain ages, and his chess ratings drop, he is discovering a poetic sensibility he lacked as a younger man. Recent Publications: Acumen, Dappled Things (First place, Jacques Maritain Prize for Nonfiction), The Ekphrastic Review, Saint Katherine Review, Front Porch Review, Presence, Cider Press Review, and others. ** Temptation Obscure as a door held open subtle as a tap on the shoulder or explosive as a volcano, it exhausts your resistance demands earnest consideration a moment to weigh, reflect while the voice inside implores Taste the taboo. Not long ago a priest remarked People make too much of sex, not pointing to any indiscretion of mine, but in sympathizing with a young curate seized for a seductive transgression; no one is impervious not even those of the cloth. On the Mount Christ silenced his challengers affirming we are all vulnerable to enticement, and would be wise to examine our own lives before all else. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino is Communications Director at South Shore Conservatory in Hingham, MA. Her work has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Writing in a Women’s Voice, The Writers' Magazine, Global Poemic, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Agape Review, The Door is Ajar, Haiku Universe, Failed Haiku, and has won the monthly poetry challenge at wildamorris.blogspot.com.  Join us for one of our online writing sessions: learn more about art, meet other ekphrastic addicts, and generate new poetry and fiction.
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