  Transmogrification, by Donna-Lee Smith (Canada) contemporary Black Into White Within just thee minutes, black into white Transmogrification, as it has been named What secrets were all hidden in negativity Now being exposed to us with no privacy With a face and identity that’s unashamed Of what now can be observed in the light There seems no reason for this odd change Maybe it’s the image being self deprecating A little frustrated with so few details shown Yet since inception, many years have flown And just be dissatisfied with all that waiting But its choice of representation was strange A subject or object, one may choose which Relieved to be seen however one might feel Now as a picture that is almost abstract art As a strange conception from the very start Perhaps a chance to be viewed as more real And even trying to scratch that creative itch 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. ** Manifesto He carries my wound like a badge of honour, holding me up as an example - of what? of resilience? domination? of his own cruelty? All that is obvious. But what he doesn’t see, what this monster doesn’t know, is that what he sees as a scar ripped across my face is actually a tool. A brush. A makeup brush that fools him into believing he has me in the palm of his hands. That I am stuck on his canvas. He is oh, so wrong. I am not even there. I am a painting of my own creation and as I leach myself of darkness, I transform him. My eyes glow at his screams as my brush becomes a scalpel. Turning him into the object he believed I was. Until he is nothing more than my shadow. And his wound becomes my mask. Kaila Schwartz Kaila Schwartz runs an award-winning theatre program at a secondary school in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she has spent the past 23 years. Her poem Chaplaincy was selected for commendation in the Hippocrates Open Prize for Poetry and Medicine, and was published in the Hippocrates Awards Anthology in 2020. Her poem promise in the garden will be published in the June edition of Moss Piglet. ** Arresting Arresting woman, hiding behind images, protecting herself. ** Reflection Deep attractive eyes, staring into the blackness, judging reflection. 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. ** Transmogrification Re: model, yes, remodel, morph, but more than indication brought, a grifter casting telling spell - witch moves, transforming which we see - the moment what might be revealed, in manner magical it seems. Those dark arts frame the ghostly wight as pales into significance, a play on what enlightens us, the stage, the script, that cast again. Is there a shadow armature, some patent, type, prepared before, a stock for grafting other fruit but rooted, tapping common source? I sense the Easter Island heads, those moai stones of ancient craft, great monoliths, hung ears and nose, as if each knows their tribal part. Whatever medium your art, exhumed whomevers from your past - hear spirits of their vocal hearts, with black cat moggy in your sights. 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 ** Exposed in Reverse Order Now, all you see are my dark sides The negative of me -- I won't deny Yet, there is more going on within this shot And I want you to see below my surface laid plot I lured you into my shutter snapped shadows Even though you were hung in my red room glows You are more attracted to the leading lies on my face Than the click of my cobra bite blade, but I have more to offer, more to search for There are parts of me that can only be exposed in reverse order Why can't you just see me in the light? There are parts of me that can only be exposed in reverse order I have more to offer, more to search for Than the click of my cobra bite blade, but You are more attracted to the leading lies on my face Even though you were hung in my red room glows I lured you into my shutter snapped shadows And I want you to see below my surface laid plot Yet, there is more going on within this shot The negative of me -- I won't deny Now, all you see are my dark sides Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. ** The Final Cut Like Dorian Gray she had two personas, both with shadows, one dark, one light. Both slashed open, sliced in two divided. In the final cut she was both. 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 has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com. ** Gratitude Dear friend Donna-Lee Your black and white images take us through our own inside mirror The thin and fragile skin which envelopes our body is transmogrified It becomes our privileged and faithful channel Between our soul and our peers Transmogrification allows our breath to flow And contacts our deepest feelings Our creativity and our humanity Our Human entity…being concerned by people around us People who can transmogrify us People we hope to transmogrify by our presence It feels so good to influence each other It feels so good to be transmogrified By your inspiring vision of the environment La gratitude fait partie de la métamorphose Que nous pouvons opérer en nous Pour devenir une meilleure personne Jean Bourque Jean lives in Montreal. He is retired from Special Education. He takes English classes. He also participates in a pairing program for English and French conversation at MCLL (McGill Community for Lifelong Learning). He is paired with Donna-Lee who told him about The Ekphrastic Challenges. Merci beaucoup Donna-Lee. ** The Scar "They never forgot that even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course..." W.H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Art If I believed that my answer would be to someone who would never return to earth, this flame would move no more, but because no one has ever returned alive from this grief, if what is true I can, I can I can reply with no fear of anything...* When the pieces didn't fit they were forced to rely on intuition. It was a miracle (this they knew) the 21st century's contemporary capacity to scan the entire work of art like a puzzle drawn by heart -- but whose heart? And who had made the pieces? Alexander the Great had died at 32, by poisoning, assassination or bacterial disease which was no doubt called by something ancient and infectious, and heart- breaking. Definitely transmogrifying. The plastic surgeon looked at her birthmark, now a cavern, grown upward on her face, threatening her ear; if repaired, nerves might be cut to her eye, winking at fate above the ear that might have to come off; and O yes: she would not be able to smile. It was losing the smile that became the most fearsome as she imagined a light so bright above the eye above the threatened ear; the length of dissolving thread, commanded by the needle to bridge the gap. She had never visited Venice, the Bridge of Sighs, or made love in a gondola. Petronius, trapped within himself, had found humor in The Satyriicon (See quote at beginning of the poem to avoid footnotes) and she was known for natural humour, to laugh or die? Alexander the Great was so brave, so young and accomplished (not to mention handsome) a map of his conquests moving west to east; a part of his sarcophagus (You never vanished from my heart, antique sarcophagai*) found in Venice and finally scanned, all these centuries later, found to fit; The Star-Shield Block, found, stars winking above passages, canals of thought these memories, a bridge to a broken past, magically transformed when a poet sighs, happy on a bridge to try try try. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. Honored multiple times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge, she found Donna-Lee Smith's Transmogrification, a face, darker by night, brighter at sunrise (or revealed by ill-health during an Inquisition) to be thought-provoking. Although it is unusual for Newendorp to use multiple quotes in the body of a poem, The Scar reveals a variety of sources: Petronius, The Satyricon; You never vanished from my heart, antique sacophagai from Newendorp's translation of Rilke's Sonnets To Orpheus in the voice of Eurydice; and try try try [cry cry cry] is a quote written by Cynthia Macdonald, describing her struggle to become a poet. The Star-Shield Block was found in St. Mark's Basilica in Venice. Its likeness -- scanned and printed -- was carried to the British Museum to verify its fit in a fresco carved on Alexander's sarcophagus. ** I Find There are Bits of Me in This I see my past self in the pictures here. I cannot mold my precise, my mirror image to them, but my eyes grasp that slash of shadow sweeping from chin line upward, and I raise my hand to that place on my own face and feel the crease left as I slept, in Le Bourget airport, cheek anchoring the stiff strap of my shoulder bag when I was stranded there without funds. In the light gray of the phantom face mask I find my fear of fading into nothingness at my class reunion while they laugh over all our shared “jolly times” of which I recall none, since in those days I hid in the library surrounded by stacks of notes, frantic to recall all data for tests to keep my scholarship. Only bits of me, but yes, I am in these images. These familiar but not comforting, faces are not identical to me, at least not yet. So I will step away now before I find more bits of me scattered here and there in this work. I will place these works and my already noticed bits of past discomfort in a back drawer of my brain and will them both to sleep. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She’s been published as essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist. She’s a two-time nominee for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The Lake, Ovunque Siamo, One Art, Gargoyle, and other journals. Her shows most often highlight her Italian heritage, food, family, and strong women and has been a guest on Italian radio. Her one-woman show is Louisa May Alcott, Author, Nurse, traveler to Italy and Writer. ** To Donna-Lee Smith Regarding Transmogrification You model soul you've bared to bone by brush that dared to turn the stone exposing truth as underside both dark and blinding light could hide. beneath the good and evil known in seed the wind of fate has sown to freely bloom as conscious will and yet forever struggle still with choices one cannot undo and consequences that ensue to piece together greater sum of hope and damage we become that time completes, however strange, as frames embracing art of change. 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. ** The Dark Room Sometimes someone flips a switch and the room that held so much darkness and so many knives, is bright, and the knives reveal as soft as feathers wafting in the wind. Darkness, today, is the red of wine in a patterned glass and its fear no longer grips. Last week I was drowning in that glass, where the wine was blood and the shadows were a curse. Every step contained its own argument that near was far, that less was more and the darkness was a parasite heavy on my back. This week the light cascades around me and the dark is just a drift of feathers. The knives are sheathed and the wind is a caress, but it has the promise of the week gone by and the week yet to come. And I still bear its scars. Edward Alport Edward Alport is a retired teacher and international business executive living in the UK. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. His Bluesky handle is @crossmouse.bsky.social. His website is crossmouse.wordpress.com. ** My Black Soul Black is the colour of my soul. It is the mask that I cleverly use to disguise my face. I live with the undesirables fooling all who try to approach me. My smile is rancid and cold. Sinister is my game. I will disgrace you if you look my way. Stay away from the evil within me. I am cold to the touch- no skin here. I am plaster and paste-no blood in my veins. No heart and no soul to love. I am here on an expired passport. Listen to me child. Some praise my alleged beauty -but that is just a trap. A myth discussed among the living of the world. Those with blood in their veins and a clean heart and soul. I am my own entity. Touch me if you dare. Observe me if you must. You have been warned. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress, narrator and filmmaker. Her documentary film Silent Journey is streaming on Culture Unplugged. Publications include: Wild Word, One Art, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Connecticut River Review,Haiku Universe, Impspired, Indelible, and others. ** Concealment Cento The veil a device, Which hides my future life from me- God, the unity of everything, my hands and eyes- All they can see is my toes and my hair- I’m hiding, I’m hiding- I have wings flattened down and hid- I raise the darkened veil Subtle as light The sudden, first unfurling, That I may have the sky. Debbie Walker-Lass Line 1)The Marble Veil, by Paul Batchelor Line 2 & 7) “Oh, Could I Raise The Dark’nd Veil” by Nathaniel Hawthorne Line 3) “Onset” by Kim Addonzinio Lines 4 & 5) “Hiding” by Dorothy Keely Aldis Lines 6 & 8) “The Bridal Veil” by Alice Cary Line 9) “Dreams” by Grace Greenwood Line 10) “Before I Got My Eye Put Out” by Emily Dickinson Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in, or soon will appear, in The Rockvale Review, Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, The Light Ekphrastic and The Niagara Poetry Journal, among others. She is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber and lover of all things nature. (Except spiders, not yet.) She’s recently provided a rollicking poetry workshop for her local Dekalb County library. ** Amnesia How is it I have misplaced my memories? Is it that the shadows merged with my bones? If I make myself very still, very quiet. My thoughts are grey. I keep failing to escape from these labyrinthine dreams. The horizon moves farther and farther away. Yet I cannot stop moving. I am walking on a bridge inside a revolving door. I go and go and go and go nowhere, spiraling within the formless silence of obliteration. have I lost my mind? where did it go? the mirror laughs; life abandons me 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/. ** Tectonic Face I carry my face in my hands, hoist it onto the dining table, ready my knife and fork. My eyes, dark and brooding, stare at the black-and-white plate. Nothing has taste for me anymore. I suck in my cheeks as I prepare to bite. into gray food. I jut out my chin to make sure I don’t dribble. But then light bites my face, forces my eyes shut. A bright beam sears my right cheek, penetrates my skin, leaves a fault line from glabella to jowl. Like lava, the heat creeps beneath the skin until it enters from behind the eyes and shoots out. I am sprouting fireworks. My face is alive. I am alive. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner earned a World Art History certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she grappled with the confluence of chronic illnesses. Writing in response to art, especially surrealist art, helps her heal. Her work has been featured in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. Her first ekphrastic poetry collection is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit Barbara's website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Transmogrification Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see herself in the mirror, she’d have a different face. Her eyes were the darkest brown, almost as dark as the Black Oaks she often imagined the fiend within her hiding behind. Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see herself, her face would be radiant, and her eyes would gleam with the glory of the angel she often imagined hiding behind Japanese Maples with their lovely coral bark. Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see her reflection in the pond behind her home, the under-eye circles formed during sleepless nights, when the fiend and the angel inside her battled, would be gone. Sometimes she would say that the next time she’d see herself in the surface of a window at midnight or on a car’s shiny hood, the war within her would be over, that magic could change her into someone she’d never known. Gregory E. Lucas Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in many magazines such as The Horror Zine, Sparks of Calliope, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. He lives on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. ** Penumbra There are two sides to every being. To every shadow self. Something unspoken works upon you as dusk falls. An unmuttering of whispers. When it’s time for all your doings. Shadow selves do shadow work. They embalm, they bury, burn candles, make offerings. When the moon glows pink. When the night of the dead looms high. Sometimes, you hear the whooping. You spot a lone falcon during the day. Messenger. A sign. Time for ritual and remedy. The runes fall sideways, face up, sunlit. Always telling you the same thing. Protection. Quiet time. Soft spells. A time for fasting. Scrying. Reckoning. You are not alone and you never were. The falling night brings a shedding of self. You are fond of all the ways. You, shadow woman, leave behind what no longer serves you. The chameleon selves that never were you. You grow into she of the four directions. Future crone, she who loves. Deep, secret, unceasing. She who bestows her benediction upon the passing traveller. To vanish the moment their back is turned. Do not look into her eyes too long. You would forget your purpose. She becomes a mystery. She shed so many selves, she cannot be known. Not anymore. Those she loved she left, or they left her. Through will, death, circumstance. She is centuries old. At one with the wildflowers in bloom. The moon at half-mast. The forest at the edge of the world. 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 ** Breaking Out I was tired of always, bored with day after day, with showing in shadows a mask to go inside frames and expectations people carry as they measure me with a glance to see how I might fit. Then a light dawned inside, brightened until it cracked my mask like a cocoon, forced it open, and burst from my forehead, my eyes. I glared shadows away, shattered frames as I stabbed a challenge to the world: Here I am, if you dare! Gary S. Rosin Gary S. Rosin is a retired law professor now living in California to be near family. He has been writing poetry for almost 60 years, and ekphrastic poetry for about 40 years. He is a contributing editor for MacQueen's Quinterly. ** There Once Was a Mother who rejected her daughter’s birthmark, regretted her lack of grace, and sent her to beauty school to learn elegance, or at least, not to wobble in high heels. “Wasted money,” she sighed, disappointed in this girl-- and handed her a tube of Max Factor Erase. Together, they waited for the swipe of makeup to transform the duckling into a swan. To bestow glamour at eighteen, twenty-five, forty. Twice a day, the girl prayed the tube would correct her defect. But Erase was no magic wand. At bedtime and each morning, the port-wine stain still splattered across her chin like bloody shards of glass or the work of a palsied tattoo artist. Decades of fruitless efforts to cancel, expunge, delete-- no procedure more successful than the last. Until a knight errant, in somewhat tarnished armor, proclaimed he loved everything about her. She questioned his eyes but accepted his care. With time, she stopped erasing herself. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is the author of the poetry collection Frogs Don’t Sing Red. Her poems have recently been accepted by The Orchards Poetry Journal, Panoply, and MockingHeart Review— and appeared in Pulse, equinox, Gyroscope Review, San Pedro River Review, and The Senior Class, among others. An editor at The Ekphrastic Review, she also edited two anthologies of poetry--Untameable City and Echoes of the Cordillera. A four-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Net nominee, she was a juried poet in the Houston Poetry Fest eleven times. Dutch translations of her poems have appeared in Brabant Cultureel. ** Mirror, Mirror on the Wall stern, sabred, resurrected, remembering the undoing, the ongoing undoing, the undone morphing into the light, nourishing into being, black matter bringing forth an unforeseen brightness, a blazing unforgiving fire blinding the bearer and all who would ask the mirror. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published (and rejected) widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a Pushcart and Best of Net. Her eighth book Life Stuff has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A chapbook is about to be published, and a new MS is looking for a home. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** Akhlut Piebald and crouched I stalk my prey Toward the sea Leaving wolf tracks On the shore Black and white I slip transmogrified Into murky darkness Sending out a click train Through the deep 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). ** When I Look in the Mirror When I look in the mirror, There are two reflections. Three, four and many more Those who are going forward Those going back infinitesimally Each is like a wax letter stamp. Each is an unopened correspondence Each muttering, pray, do -open me. Now unto eternity. 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. ** In Meditation (at Mount Auburn Cemetery) Each stone An ascetic- No longer alone. Rising at dusk Rising in light Rising When there was The rain. Like the air In folds of a curtain -- Like the unborn. Illusions of a mind Confined to whirling Of a fan -- Burning with desire To be found. 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. ** Silence of Love On my first rendezvous with daylight since I moved to Colorado near Estes Park, I stir from winter’s silence, hours before a blizzard is forecasted. I recall months ago we attended a harvest fair where we encountered a tattooed artist sitting by an easel who created this clever interpretation of your portrait in black and white. We laughed at the finished sketch which you gave me as a souvenir of that crisp October afternoon. Months later I mourn the distance between us and the stars. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies available [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** An Interview for the Artist in Chiaroscuro Our understanding is correlative to our perception. ~ Robert Delaunay, French artist (b. 1885 – d. 1941) Where division meets mystery and creativity yields inner friendship, do you document your face as proof of existence, characterize your countenance as evidence? Where contrast invites interpretation and imagery explores universal belonging, do your self-portraits honor humanity, offer tribute to solidarity? Where the knife cuts and the complexities of life are lost in black and white thinking, does your lens widen with nuance, embrace the vastness of human grayscale? Based on hypotheticals, if compassion suddenly transformed the world canvas, altered societal discernment, would your likeness change, include a transmogrification of color? As the Earth turns in this light-dark framework of time, do you believe our understanding is correlative to our perception? Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is an artist, author, and poet. Her latest full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). Her work appears in various publications, including Anti-Heroin Chic, Blue Heron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, The New Verse News, ONE ART, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Panoply, The Poeming Pigeon, Presence, Quill and Parchment, Silver Birch Press, Sky Island Journal, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. ** Hope Overshadowed Darkness. It clings to me like a second skin. No amount of soaking, scrubbing, washing deters its inky quality. It never ceases in its appearance. Gathering. Layering. Hardening. More, and more, and more. The weight is so heavy… But no one sees as it hides behind an illusion I’ve portrayed: a radiant smile, a helping hand, a strong façade; that no one wants to believe is false. Removing the pretenses, being open, vulnerable about the origins and reasons for this emptiness… yet you still cannot see through this white, angelic smokescreen and truly understand me… Will I forever be a prisoner of this shadow? No. For while hope may seem lost in the endless void, a light will always continue to burn at the other end of the tunnel guiding you onward. Katie L. Davey Katie L. Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of House Springs, MO. She has published four pieces through four separate challenges for the Ekphrastic Review, the first titled Hidden Prophecies as part of the Richard Challenge, the second titled Listen Well, Listen All, of My Tale to Caution All as part of the Vicente Challenge, the third titled I Blink as part of the Morrisseau Challenge, and the fourth title A Rocky Perspective as part of the Gabler Challenge. She has worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She earned her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024. ** Etymology of Portrait of Earth Charcoal as whole body emoting emerging the etymology of portrait of earth unfurling draw is to draft is to drag is to seize [what’s pleasing- what’s changing what’s up for grabs? DRAW from your wrist draw from your shoulder conjure ecologies of charcoal emerging from embers embers emerging emergent emerging emergency of charcoal calling on what came before us charcoal—Middle English [related to coal emerging converging smudging transforming form & transform the earth brutal and raw Jeanne Morel Jeanne Morel is the author of three chapbooks, most recently, I See My Way to Some Partial Results(Ravenna Press). She holds an MFA from Pacific University and has been nominated for a Pushcart in both poetry and fiction. Her new work is forthcoming in Telephone—An International Arts Project, On Resilience, Stories of Climate Adaptation Across Washington’s Landscapes, and Birdbrains, a Lyrical Guide to Washington State Birds.
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