 Hymn to the Virgin, by Theodoros Poulakis (Greece) c. 1650-1690 Where’s Poulakis? I know you’ve left your mark, painted yourself into the scene. I’ll find you. No way you’re not among those people, women, priests, vicars, holy men all paying tribute to the virgin. I’ll find you. It might take all day, with magnifier, but honestly, I feel a smoldering fire burning, scorching the canvas, teasing. I’ll find you. There you are, ha! Discreetly hidden among all those in concentric circles, vast corners straining for a look. I found you. There you are. You exist in all men, Poulakis – wearing every garb, cloak, singing anthems in chorus. Where’s Poulakis? He’s there. Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, always studying people and environment, writing of memories, nature and from art and other prompts. She is hooked on ekphrastic! Her poetry appears in over 55 journals, including Masticadores USA, Last Leaves, Girl God and The Ekphrastic Review. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats and advocates for captive elephants. ** All of Creation Rejoices In this dark, holy place, within me and outside, I hear my prayer echo: "All of Creation rejoices in thee..." and the listening heart hears the icon whisper -- "...from angels in heaven..." -- like arrows by night the plague will not touch you, since you know my name. Look up to the hills -- the silhouetted tops reveal the first and last light. The nearby pine trees grudged to shed the snow. They too resist change. "O sanctified Temple, spiritual paradise, glory of virgins..." That is our hint of the Garden. "And he made thy body into a throne..." we see set high on a wheel of the robed saints and many sinners. The organist monk tuned up the monks for long chants His mic moved like a wand as he soothed our souls before we chanted at Compline, like old night watchmen, standing here for our safety. The painted zodiac illumined for us streams of blood and tears as we groan in that dark -- "All of Creation rejoices in thee..." O clement, O loving, O sweetness. As candles are snuffed, we welcome morning, closing the night, while we watch as for the Last Day. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes taught courses in the history of Christianity for over 40 years. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Last Stanza, The Montreal Review, The Lyric, and over 45 other literary publications. His art and poetry collaboration, Specimens and Reflections: Photographic Panoramas of Italian Churches, was on exhibit recently at Fairfield University. This exhibition is going soon to the Mercy Center in Madison, Connecticut. ** Let it be to me as you have said Luke 1:38 O Eden’s saddest day in your unabashed freedom, why run away and hide? Why listen to that twisted voice? Naked, dead, emaciated, burning. Rescue plan enacted. Birth, life, death – familiar proceedings. Son says Yes, Virgin too, nothing stays the same. The Lord who conceived it all becomes as small as a droplet. In a million scenes of people, devils and angels, the only empty one is the cross. She has no idea but opens her arms anyway. Orange orbs, orange wings, orange fire, orange gowns, she even swaddles you in orange. I do not know what to look at, my brain overloads like a camel’s back heavy with gold and spice. I need a magnifying glass. Descend and guide me, overshadow me too, Great Dove. I know about false prophecies and invented predictions, but I know too that God’s word is central to what I know. As the wheel spins and I roll my dice, I lose sight of him, then am drawn back to focus. Poulakis paints in minute detail with limited palette, seeing only in part as we all do for now. Clouds carry angels far more than we note. Every star, every chapter of his story accounted for. Enthroned, paramount, surrounded by fanfare, an aura of stars, a chorale of angels. Evening and morning, past and present, all was very good – Jesus sits on Mary’s lap waiting for a drink. Helen Freeman Helen started writing poetry whilst recovering from an accident in Oman and got hooked. She loves following the Ekphrastic Review and trying her hand at some challenges. Instagram @chemchemi.hf ** In Silence Across the fields I can see the radiance of your smile and know in my heart you are there. But the anguish I am feeling makes the distance so very far to cross. Deidra Sarault Thrown back into time before Jesus was known in the line of Elizabeth. There was a time of belief - In the Teacher Whose loss has no, measurable distance. But in that Silence The words spoke, bytes and cords electronic music, eclectic retro, walking boom-boxes. Defying gravity In one sentence the mind, relates to the environment. Distressed visions come back: To Life - Black Boxes Appropriate responses revealing symmetry and transparency in a, blind sense, boldly. This space, this river, this world- feelings prickly and truthful, intense, knowing, tarnished and engrained. Cosmopolitan being speaks, as if - A citizen of the world. Robbed of the real Judas bit into the apple, and it tasted good. Her Silence MWPiercy MWPiercy is a writer and artist. ** In Which the Stars Happily Ignore Yer Vermilion Caps Hear our rubies, O ye gem-cut gods of red, of oxides, of radicchio; Patron saints of cinnabar, blood, and rust, of ripe tomatoes, chilies, of Mandril asses and cochineal, of Mars and cranberries: we without humility beseech thee. Take thou the chlorophyll from our veins so we are autumnal and airborne, brittled so that we might more easily teeter ranting upon the hallelujahs of angels: Angels arranged in hosts so vast our eyes cannot see nor our jockeying impede The self-aggrandizements of our faith that are most worthlessly worthy, most mindlessly denying, most giddy to destroy thy naysayers as they wail unaware of their own foolishness. We — the fawning maroons, the disrespectful, the unwoke; the canceled, the abyss that gazes back blankly — we crave the pain of thy ruddy glory and, verily, relish the prick of thorned crowns atop our crucifixes of unannounced active shooter drills. Make us disciples according to thine image, our undeserving devotion crimsoning skyward to thee, geysers resplendent in the rose shadow of dusk as children make scarlet wishes at our feet and toss each other lit cherry bombs in worship. R. Hamilton R Hamilton (they/them) is returning to poetry after retiring from a career backstage in the performing arts, which happened to coincide with the pandemic. Their work has been published by Caesura, Oprelle, and Boats Against The Current, among others. ** A Villanelle Honouring the Painting: Hymn to the Virgin —including the line, “All of Creation rejoices in thee,” from the hymn composed by the Syrian monk John of Damascus All of Creation rejoices in thee, honours your being, ennobles your face, the painter, the Virgin, the devotee. In painterly ring, the angels agree, where Mary and Jesus anchor the space, all of Creation rejoices in thee. Tempera swirls midst a circular sea of Christian depictions, a holy place for the painter, the Virgin, the devotee. Bible themes sweep like an orbital creed, as iconic scenes shape image, launch pace. All of Creation rejoices in thee. Veiled meanings exist in varied degrees, as if an enigma, a religious maze, for the painter, the Virgin, the devotee. Like music within a spherical spree, it hums as if hymn, a hymnal of grace. All of Creation rejoices in thee, the painter, the Virgin, the devotee. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts has authored eight books, six poetry collections and two illustrated children's books. Her most recent collection is titled The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). She is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, listed in the Poets & Writers directory, serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs, and is a Best of the Net and an Eric Hoffer award nominee. ** In Thee Rejoiceth Garnets, Rubies, Amethysts, Carnelians In the blue, glass fruit bowl. My mother's eyes reflected back in the glass My lover's heart arranged like a crown. The fruits of love ripening On the tree of life. I will eat them when the time is right, but for now lose myself amongst the branches. Christopher Martin Christopher Martin is a poet and Buddhist living on the North East coast of England. His work has featured in various publications. His debut collection is due out in 2024 with the @theblackcatpoetrypress ** Between Silences 1 When I was young I painted a woman. I called her Our Lady of Manhattan-- just an ordinary dark-haired mortal, her hand raised in blessing. What was she blessing? 2 Motherhood is the basic means by which life continues. Birth is messy. Life is messy. What child is this? Blood, the darkness before light. Hold the light. Hold the shadow too. 3 The sun dies and is reborn inside its own ashes-- I stand on the edge inside the mirror that reflects both ways. The narrative enters, fills me with all that I will never comprehend-- bones brimmed into silence, mind beset by stars. 4 The shelter of trees, the shield of a raptor’s wing-- the cover of the night sky, the protection of the moon-- it won’t be long before all we have lost will be forgotten, visiting us only in strange incoherent dreams. 5 They were merely stories superimposed on infinity-- currents traveling through veins beneath transparent skin. How can you reproduce the alchemy of angels?-- In the beginning, the blood of roses—ever after, the crown of thorns. 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/. ** Icon To discover an icon painting course in a mountain town in Wales was unexpected, but as a lover of the unexpected I enrolled. Tad, the Orthodox priest looked authentic with his black robes and long beard. That was unexpected too. There was no gold there only slate which was not suitable so we made do with paint and shiny foil. Tad was pleased with the results and congratulated us all. We gave them to his church as expected. 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: Consequence Magazine, 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/ ** Of A Vision And this angel told me to peer into a hole a little gap between the things I believed. So I looked and I saw a mandala made of people running inside a wheel. I knew that soon I would have to turn away and it would be like pulling my finger from the dam, all the people would come pouring into the world and my life would never be the same again. Marc Brimble Marc lives in Spain and likes drinking tea. You can read some of his work here: marcbrimble.substack ** You Never Asked To Be The One. You are a Virgin almost swallowed by a mob of sinners, saints and demons; they keep you trapped while the child sits on your lap, innocent and unaware. A golden penny for your thoughts. Do you wish them gone? Do you wish their clamouring would cease? The artist sentenced you to eternal captivity within a melee of human conflagration, your arms out-stretched: a plea to each and every soul to leave you well alone, to set you free from the obligation God dropped like a load of stone to crush your latent dreams. Do you plot your path to freedom through this maze of writhing bodies? Is there one amongst this restless throng who will put their own intent aside and guide you safely along the blackened roads to freedom? Or are you doomed to sit forever within your gilded frame until you die and the child becomes as you, a sacrificial lamb on the throne of creation? Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia, by the sea. In this beautiful environment, she writes poetry and has recently dabbled in flash fiction. Linda is completing her degree in Creative Writing at Curtin University and enjoys seeing her work published in various literary spaces. She is a recent Pushcart Nominee thanks to The Ekphrastic Review. ** Saviour The virgin Mary sits on her throne with baby Jesus, in an embellishment of orange and gold colours the heavens have made. Angels soar above praising mother and child, holding a banner welcoming the newborn. Strangers have come from far away villages to see the newborn deliverer, their protector. They raise hands in prayer seeking guidance. Mary, head high, blesses them with words of encouragement and lifts the baby for all to see. The crowd cheers with excitement and full of hope. The King, the saviour of His people. The sacrifice. 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. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** The Divinity of Life in All Things The world's as precious as a honeybee and treasured as the clear sparkling dew it's exquisite as a bride in her sari the world's clearly, as dear to me as you. The divinity of life in all things is always fresh and unsoiled virginal has the purity of gold, crowning kings the majesty of a queen worshipful the world a pear balanced about to fall a star trembling upon a midnight hour we each part of the final segments whole synchronicity blooms but one flower delicate as woven silk unravels like dead flowers to seed on their scaffolds. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies both online and in print. He resides in the UK, and is from Manchester. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Centered—a bit of prose musing on motherhood Mary is at the center of it all. Poulakis has placed her there. History has placed her there. The Bible and even Science agree—a mother’s role is at the centre of it all. For Mary, this centering as Mother of God when He came to Earth Himself carries with it the right to veneration. Flanked by angels who honor her and Gabriel’s declaration to her, she is honoured for having been chosen and known by God to be the person designated for this role from the beginning of time and whose impact will continue until and beyond time’s earthly end. From the time of Eve’s failing and our dismissal from Eden (now guarded with a flaming sword)until the Last Judgement when we are separated into lambs of God and goats of Satan, she reigns with the Child, still a babe when his Godhead showed, in her heart the knowledge of the pain if not the actuality of the Cross—she is at the centre of it all. With humility she accepted this role, this motherhood, to magnify her Lord her God, as a vessel and a guide for his human side. As I ponder my own role as a mother, and my mother’s role in my life, I realize all mothers are at the Center of this nexus of life, our cells plotting partially a path for our progeny, a privilege and a burden, each step simultaneously filled with joy and tinged with sorrow. I look back upon my own mother and see her role radiating out into my life. I look ahead to my daughter and see that indeed, willingly and not, my life has played a central role in her impact on the world—not for me to take credit, but for me as a channel. No angel came to tell me of her birth, but science explains that women pass on the cells of the maternal line, even back to grandmothers to their offspring. So it is no wonder that days after I discovered I was pregnant, I dreamt my mother came and that my daughter would love her—yes, a daughter—and this in the time before gender reveal parties. My reveal came in a dream. So, yes, this painting with all of its facets—it would take me months, years, perhaps a lifetime, to explore each and every one of them is in some ways my mother holding me, me holding my daughter. The details of destiny that radiate will be different , I do not claim a role of salvation nor to have been inserted in the line of such a lofty task, even with my wonderful child, but oh yes, the centering. That is real. Like Mary, I accepted with humility my place in this progression of cells, of love, a calling filled with joy. And remember like all mothers, she magnifies the Lord with the joy and reverence of a calling all mothers share-- to love and cherish our babes and pray them to adulthood, to develop their own free and independent (of us) lives of service and wonder. Mary leads the way to understanding that mothers are the centre of it all. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She performs tales featuring food, family, and strong women. Widely published, including on Poetry Super Highway and Haiku Universe. A member of the NC Poetry Society, Sisters in Crime, Short Mystery Fiction Society, and Tar Heel Tellers, she writes in several genres. Leotta is a 2021 and a 2022 Pushcart nominee and was a 2022 runner-up in the Robert Frost Competition. Her new chapbook, Feathers on Stone, is out from Main Street Rag.
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