 Antigone Giving Burial Rites to the Body of Her Brother Polynices, by Marie Spartali Stillman (England) before 1927 Not to Lose Grasp on Fate Dear Antigone, You knew you were born from Troubled parents and tragedy. Tell me What did they tell you When you asked about Your grandparents? Your parents They weren’t Worthy of you. How did it feel being clutched By the sorrowed hands of the one man Who was supposed to protect you? How feeble he was in the end. You did mourn the death of your father But in what way was it any comfort? You lost two brothers To power: Polynices is dead. In mourning you found your freedom. You defied cruelty with courage. You were to be buried alive But you hanged yourself Not to lose grasp on fate Of death you came To death you returned You were bound by destiny But you broke your chains. Mahdi Meshkatee Mahdi Meshkatee is a UK-born, Iranian poet, author, and artist. His translation of the children’s novel Witch Wars by Sibéal Pounder has been published by Golazin Publication Company. His work has been published by October Hill Magazine, Nude Bruce Review, and Inscape Magazine. His writings are a continuity of attempts at decoding himself. ** To Marie Spartali Stillman Regarding Antigone You paint her as generic grace -- her deed more featured than her face -- defiant in defense of rite immoral rule denies to spite those filled wirh fear of death's decay becoming feast as savaged prey for swarm bewinged that tortures those who witness but dare not oppose. unless possessed of special strength by faith that follows to its length the hope that buries in its soul the justice wrought by its control that never shrinks from moment seized to leave such evil unappeased. Post Scriptum So cleverly beneath this scene interred is message left to glean that fame witheld by men begrudged has been denied by gender judged. 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. ** Anorexia I was sent to a cave to starve for this: for throwing ashes over you, a poor man’s burial, brother, but it’s as though I turn the vultures away with my hand each time they arrive to peck your uncovered flesh. I was sent to a cave to starve for this. Anorexia my grief, my thin anger. I wasted away through choice, brother, just as Creon chose to punish you by refusing oils, choral tributes, a crown, swaddling. I sent myself to a cave to starve for this. I chose the sun’s absence, the weight of death falling away from my bones. I chose the one thing that I could control, sister, no matter how loud you whispered they are coming, coming. Who is coming to save us, sister? Not myself. Not you. Not the vultures who are beautiful and hungry. No. No one is coming to take death from us, like a prize. Only I throw the dust. I decide what is enough. Jennifer Harrison Jennifer has published eight poetry collections (most recently Anywhy, Black Pepper, 2018). Two new collections are forthcoming in 2024/2025. Awarded the 2012 Christopher Brennan Award for sustained contribution to Australian poetry, she currently chairs the World Psychiatry Association’s Section for Art and Psychiatry – and loves an ekphrastic challenge. ** Ceremony No mourning bell, no stranger’s deference, no bowed heads or doffed caps, watching the procession through busy streets. No carnations spelling ‘BROTHER’ in capitalised florid woe, no hymns sung off key or hollow platitudes from second cousins. No weak sandwiches and cold tea, no sympathetic faces, no awkward silences in black Sunday best or clutched handbags. Just a darkening sky, where clouds silently rage at insolence and crows screech above mercilessly, declaring, “He is dead”. Stephanie White Stephanie White is a teacher from Nottingham, England. She has recently taken tentative steps into writing and submitting poetry. When not indulging in writing, she is a regular wild swimmer. ** Antigone in Ecstasy and though Oedipus in Spirit with a breasted chest, she is a heaving sister, there, wild, raven waves bound but Standing. Then the heavens open ushering vultures, to feast on shared flesh, wasted bloodlines dried on this broken cliff in these hills, body Rotting. Defiance on her lips. Appleseeds sprinkle down fingertips to this wasted body covered in Rites to curls and shadows. The indecency of a red shawl. Given a type of burial. Ismene, Pleading for time’s wind to lift them. Waiting. Kneeling, in a type of Thaebean anti-prayer. Still, clouds brighten against mountaintop auras beneath smudges of night at end. Heaven’s smoke provokes these, their only arms. Lifting, in a rapture of tragedy. C.E. Layne C.E. Layne enjoys and applauds characters who aggressively surrender to being mediocre. A long, exhausted, and failed perfectionist, C.E. Layne now only overanalyzes herself, by herself, in a room with a couple of windows and a great view of a dark lime green swamp, now called A Lake. She graduated with a BA in English Lit from a university in Las Vegas, got a Master’s in business to compensate for lost time, and has yet to be published. C.E. Layne participated in PocketMFA’s Spring Fiction Cohort and is thrilled to be invited to participate in the Summer Residency. She’s loved by those who gave her life, those who keep it watered, fed, and worth something more, and relied upon by two dogs for food, shelter, sun, and belly rubs. ** Ismene’s Dream The caverns of her mind The darkness of the night The dream she can’t escape She turns her head away One sister chose the Gods One sister chose the King One sister chose to die One sister chose to live She sees a single gravestone The dream she can’t escape The darkness of the day The caverns of her mind Kathleen Cali Chicago-born and Midwest raised, Kathleen resides at the Jersey Shore. Her poetic interests include formal and modern poetry and haiku. Always the student, she enjoys poetry writing workshops and working with her local library. Other interests include historical fiction and photography. Kathleen enjoyed a career as a senior auditor and educator and served as an assistant professor of business following receipt of her MBA. Technical writing and editing were a major part of her profession; now she uses her skills to craft poetry. Her poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review; her haiku was published in her local community’s magazine. ** Dreams of Death on a Daily Basis I dream of dead people as if they were still alive, as if I hadn’t seen them in caskets, hadn’t noticed their body-shells without souls.. I hugged my father in Tuesday’s dream, the padded filling of his jacket, the Ivory scent of his skin mixed with vanilla scent of tobacco. I waited for my mother in Wednesday’s dream, stomping my foot while she smoked her Kent to the stub, her jungle red nail polish matching the filter tip’s lipstick stain. I grieved my twin in Sunday’s dream. We were born on a Sunday. She perished in a car accident that hasn’t happened. Yet. Like a carrion crow, the accident is waiting, just waiting. When it happens, I will give the eulogy. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies from Gratz College. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Chicken Fat (Finishing Line Press, 2017) and Pounding Cobblestone (Kelsay Books, 2018). Her poetry has also appeared or is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, Nimrod, Vine Leaves Literary, Tiferet, and other publications. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website is www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Daughter of Oedipus My words become wind--ancient and unintelligible-- like a hidden spell inside a tattered scroll written in a forgotten language. I do not know if I speak of regret or defiance—either way the rituals entrap me in endings-- refusing to release me, uncursed. 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/. ** The Cleanest of Ends Antigone knew a thing or two about death and burial, the disposal of bodies. She knew that the cleanest of ends is to be stripped of flesh right down to the soul to be released to soar. I didn’t know why the birds were circling the house of the neighbor lady who lived alone. They swooped in circles around her yard, settling now and then in her orange trees or on the antenna on her roof and on the clothesline where her clean sheets dry but not taken in and folded still flapped. The birds had been drawn by what the neighbors could not detect, closed up as they were in their AC. It wasn’t till someone, alerted by the birds, called the authorities to come get those birds out of the neighborhood and dispose of what she had already discarded. But doing so robbed her of the cleanest of ends. Antigone knew and prepared her brother’s body for the coming of the birds who would release his soul to soar. Gretchen Fletcher Gretchen Fletcher won the Poetry Society of America's Bright Lights/Big Verse competition and was projected on the Jumbotron while reading her winning poem in Times Square. One of her poems was choreographed and performed by dance companies in Palm Beach and San Francisco, and others appear in datebooks published in Chicago by Woman Made Gallery. Her poetry has been widely published in journals including The Chattahoochee Review, Inkwell, Pudding Magazine, Upstreet, Canada’s lichen, and more. Gretchen has led writing workshops for Florida Center for the Book, an affiliate of the Library of Congress. Her chapbooks, That Severed Cord and The Scent of Oranges, were published by Finishing Line Press. ** She doesn't know her name is Ismene. She slices her hand up through the air, The heel of her hand upwards, palm flat, As if she were a butler on Downton Abbey Delivering a silver tray of sherry glasses. She can feel her warm tears unclogging Last night's mascara. The sisters’ shapes Have a rhythm of roundness - a Matisse dance. Her sister was always more angular, Hip bones and clavicle jutting out accusingly. They call it complicated grief as if grief Wasn't complicated enough… Already… She brings her lunch to sit in front of the picture. To let her mind detach like a placenta From the uterus. Some of the dark shapes are hair, some Of the dark shapes are crows, some of The crows are flying, some of the crows Are dead, with their feathers pulled out. It's some kind of ritual. She unwraps her sandwiches. Almost Each day now the meal deal gets more expensive. * The younger sister has hair woven with orange threads, Writhing in the sunshine and wind, made from the same paint as the cloth covering the cold flesh. The fabrics repelling each other like North North magnets. The younger sister looks away. She's never Been able to take life head on, the full force Of truth in her face. She needs to hold her hand over her features, To hide in the shade, more of a fresco Than a statue. Her skin is painted with petals from the hillside. Only momentarily borrowed. The crisps sound very loud in the white space Of the gallery. The crunch crunch awkward In her jaw and ears. But there's nobody Else in the room to mind. And the figures In the frame are held firm in their own circuit Of electricity, which does not include her. * She will sit and eat her sandwich and think About her sister, quite separate from the painting. With her office clothes and fading hangover, From drinking too long into the night alone. Red wine has always made her weep, after more than half a bottle. Why do we all persist in doing things that are bad for us. And the brother lays cast down on the rocks. Crows’ feathers scattered over the cloth on His stomach. Sky is gathering night together quite quickly And soon the picture will get too dark to see. When she gets back to work she won't remember The faces. Just the circle they made: turning together And twisting apart. Saskia Ashby Saskia Ashby is an artist/poet who engages in a wide range of creative activity and encourages other people to enjoy exploring, expressing and experimenting with art. She really enjoys seeing so many perspectives from people to the same image in these Ekphrastic Challenges. ** Tragic Theatre The Floating Pavilion, Oneonta NY, 9 pm performance Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver. ― Sophocles, Antigone 1. The stage is raised round and oaken -- a wheel on which fate turns the universe with another version of Antigone's death. Haunted by her brother's burial (and pain beyond the ancient plot), the young actress kneels at the center-- hypnotic with a rope of leaves around her head. Her hair straight and shining like the dagger in her slim hands. 2. Poised and perfumed with bath oil, she prepares to stab the heart -- until a bird flies in disrupting the act, its classic resolve. Dust flares in the light along with iridescent wings. A trembling darkness. Unlike the heroine, her own soul is still in dispute wanting its body back, and uses this place, this raftered ark to panic. Wendy Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, women in conflict and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell, Eternal Haunted Summer, The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Stirring A literary Collection, The Orchards Journal, The Copperfield Review and Sun Dial Magazine. Her most recent work has appeared in Indelible Magazine and Songs of Eretz. ** The Penumbra Dark schooner clouds unfurl their sails above the roiling sea, a tempest sweeps her turbid mind, leaving a calm eye, a determination, resolution. Here the chorus sings, here the crows rise, black exclamations anchoring their warning cries, augurs of could, not will, they foretell war, death, but also the coming dawn. They call to the furies; they call to Athena and Aphrodite. They are the presagers, more than what they seem. Antigone ignores them, the scene Is set, she follows through, a pawn-- What is fated? What is freewill? Choose, If you can-- always, always listen to the crows. Merril D. Smith Merril D. Smith lives in southern New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in publications, including Black Bough Poetry, Acropolis, The Storms, and Sidhe Press. Her full-length collection, River Ghosts (Nightingale & Sparrow Press) was a Black Bough Press featured book. Find me: @merril_mds and merrildsmith.org ** Antigone Speaks I Smuggled by night from Thebes, his body—limp, pallid-- sprawls slack across a rock beribboned with kelp. Fearful, dear Ismene cannot bear to look: turns tear-stained face towards the north. In this brewing storm, ravens claw the wind, croak messages of harsh revenge, of rage. II I sprinkle soil, first full rites for him I loved: let fall burned petals of roses: dark shreds. Traitor, King Creon named him. If he was that, then am I also venal. But hear me: Polynices was true to Thebes. His spirit now belongs to Zeus. III Ismene! Up and dry your eyes! Even in death, our darling brother triumphs. Lizzie Ballagher Ballagher's work has appeared in print and online on both sides of the Atlantic. She lives in the UK, writing a blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/. She enjoys experimenting with formal structures as well as free verse: is particularly interested in how a poem sounds when read aloud. ** Inquest The Theban royal family, Jocasta, Oedipus, their four children, Antigone, Ismene, Eteocles and Polynices, and Antigone’s lover/betrothed/husband are all dead or exiled. The Queen’s brother Creon is King, creating a new line. All because of bad luck and tragic coincidences. But what if the story of sphynxes and riddles, of queens given as prizes, of regicide and incest, self-enucleation and voluntary exile (which, if we are honest, does seem rather far-fetched), was a fiction, a calumnious smoke screen to endorse a coup d’état, an upheaval in custom, social organization and religion? What if Jocasta was Queen and ruler, not a prize, and what if Laius was her old king doomed to die when his time was up, at the hand of a young pretender, and what if Oedipus, the young pretender, was simply an ambitious young man? And what if Queen Jocasta, because she loved him, when his time was up, offered Oedipus blinding instead of death? And what if her brother Creon, inspired by new-fangled ideas that replaced the matriarch with a patriarch, saw an opening for himself? What if he killed Jocasta Queen, his sister, and suggested to Eteocles and Polynices, Jocasta’s sons, that they share the throne? And what if he suggested it because he knew his nephews, and that they would never agree to share? And of course, he was right. They quarrelled and killed one another, or were killed. And what about Antigone, daughter of Jocasta, who should have been the next Queen? What if Creon offered her the choice, exile with her father or death? And what if, after Polynices and Eteocles quarrelled and killed one another or were killed, when Antigone returned with her lover/betrothed/husband, Haemon, it was not to bury Polynices, not to praise him, but to claim her crown? And what if that was the reason Creon had her killed? Because funnily enough, after all the tragic killings and blinding and hanging and fratricidal wars, Creon was the only one left. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone, Black Bough Poetry, Ekphrastic Review and The Storms Journal. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming among others, and her first adult novel will be published in 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry, thicker than water, birds and other feathers and night horses. ** As the Crows Fly The crows unfold their crepelike wings. Wise birds, they know it is time to go. I ask, so soon? My incense still burns; I perform my rites, I perfume his body with herbs. My eyes linger on the wavy hair tumbling back on the slab where he lies. My fingers recall its softness and mourn his pulsing, warm caress. But life grasps my arm and guides me away, to where the crows lead: past wildflowers, through valleys. I live, and so I must rise. Dearest one, this is goodbye. In every bond we humans form, loss has been preordained. Every hello implies a farewell, just as every first kiss imparts a chill. 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. ** Tragic Flaw Ravens prophetically drew the sky low squashed the lush below chased away any foe and ambushed the earth in limbo winging wildly for the final blow of a twins brothers battle throw. It happened long ago but at another epoch discord Spartali recaptured Sophocles’ yearning by drawing the suspense line along the pressing glow of the true twins throw – that of human and heaven, which Antigone turns into a shrine for horizons with divine intimations. She rose to the sacred call disregarded the royal protocol ignored the croaking ravens and laid her brother to rest under a handful of dust – her brave reverence to the law of the divine above that of man despite the suicidal chain it inflicted as an outcome. Logistics for heroes. For literary pundits – a tragic flaw. For dreamers – a contradiction in terms: for how come upholding the divine can be a tragedy and not eleison! Something must be seriously wrong if earth is estranging itself from the sky-high worth since each inch in the universe is appointed for the precise purpose of sustaining gravity of life just right. Take for free Spartali’s poised firmament descending to its climax low so we can reclaim our divine flame! But take not for granted its devout herald doing that with bare hands – Antigone – looming large in her art of right honorable antagonistic catharsis – not a tragic hero but a goddess not a mourning sister but a star not an improbable bride but a bloom if only one could break the gloom of the man-made fatal flaw and see the twin flow of heaven and heart mutually disguised meandering mild on our own daily battlefield. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have been frequently honoured by TER and its Challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** So Spoke Antigone I am afraid for what I do, The world about me is dark and challenging. I feel the black clouds and thunder, which wracks the very rocks beneath my feet, speak of doom. The crows, scavengers of flesh my own flesh and blood, ravage my brother. Is he to travel to the edge of the world, to the Fields of Asphodel to wander a grey spirit bereft for all eternity of the rites of burial? How small, how ignoble seems obedience compared to Justice, to know that even in the face of death you did what is right. My sister pulls me back to my woman’s role that little world of spinning, servants and child bearing. I raise my handful of dust in farewell, in blessing but in defiance too. You will meet my spirit, Polynices, as one who risked all, for that handful of dust. Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK, who has long been an admirer of the Pre-Raphaelites but knew little of this artist. It has been an interesting challenge.
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