 Hamlet Shakespeariana, Serie Heroinas Literarias, by Fernando Vicente (Spain) 2022. Used with artist permission. Dear Ekphrastic Challengees, Thank you so much for submitting your Hamlet Shakespeariana pieces to The Ekphrastic Review. I am ever so content that you have responded to this prompt with such enthusiasm, wit and craftsmanship…it was really a delight to read your words! Thank you!! This amazing challenge has prompted a heroic compilation indeed, I hope you will enjoy reading it. Congratulations to everyone, hurrah for TER and The Amazing Lorette, and… Fare ye well! Kate Copeland ** Alas I may have known him well but he did not know me He thought so, but as I hold his head in hand, I see him crowned of nothing but laughter, yes, provided that but none else and looking on his demise, it’s clear that our fate of life and love does not imply understanding, nay truth spoken in fact knows only death Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson writes Ekphrastic as well as other forms of poetry often, from prompts, memories and nature. She advocates for feral cats and captive elephants, spends time with her young grandson crafting in play doh, and reads voraciously.Her work is seen in over 70 publications, including Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien and The Ekphrastic Review. Her full length works are available on Amazon. ** Ophelia’s Dream The sky was blue, balcony strangely light, Quite different from bleak Elsinore. For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings. A dagger by my side, I wore Lord Hamlet’s shirt, his promissory ring. My crown I am but still my griefs are mine. The skull I balanced, fingers outstretched, fine, Bore a strange antique script. I looked instead, Impassive, undisturbed, without a frown, At kingship’s symbol on the dead man’s head. Uneasy is the head that wears a crown. I am alarmed this dream bodes ill for all. Lightness, attire, skull, calm - fears won’t cease. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece. I dread the outcome this vision portends: Some evil act will lead to cruel revenge, To bloodshed, madness. What it means for me I cannot understand but sure I am ‘tis not Divinity will shape our ends. Carolyn Thomas Carolyn Thomas is from the Neath Valley in South Wales, UK. After a career of teaching in Further, Higher and Adult Education, she is now enjoying the freedom to write. She has published poetry in Impossible Archetype, The Ekphrastic Review (Luna Challenge), A Pride of Lines (Coin Operated Press), the UK Places of Poetry project and collections published by Sunderland University's Spectral Visions Press.She has reviewed for Stand magazine and her account of life as a gay a woman in the 1970s is published in the Honno Press Collection, Painting the Beauty Queens Orange. She now lives in Tyneside with a misanthropic cat and sports a dragon tattoo. ** Alas for Laughs A lass for Yorick—would she show and tell, orating of the finite jests she bore upon her back; the way his fancy’d swell a thousand times, yet which she would abhor? His loose-hung lips no orgy would arise; she’d mock the grin she’d never dare to kiss yet gamboled him with gibes of laughed surprise, her gorge restricting entrance to his miss. Chop-fallen, then, her chamber locked up tight, no ride upon her back—nor she on him. Imagination put off one more night, the paint they both wear fades upon life’s whim. The lass’s time would also come, they tell, but long before, it seems she slew him well. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers writing metric, rhymed verse, usually humorous, often with traditional forms. He was first published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, and since then in online and print anthologies by Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Pure Slush, The Ekphrastic Review, Home Planet News Online, Spillwords, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife live in Mesa, AZ, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot. ** Ophelia Unveils it All -- an alternate reading Gothick script that inks your skull gives dreamlike memories to mull. Did I kiss your fleshy lip and ride your playful, bouncing hip, as stoic nobles forced a smile, while fancy masks disguised their guile? I quickly learned their courtly art -- how shards of ice had filled each heart. Within these walls of Elsinore, they curtsied -- rotten to the core. A schoolboy, late from Wittenberg -- a place that stumps each dramaturg -- proclaimed: To be or not to be, but showed no interest in me. He seemed so jealous of his mother and how she bed his father's brother. Hamlet's lover, Laertes (flirty, yet who feared disease), used Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as playthings when they took their turn, and made the English execute them, lest their gossip bear some fruit. And then they tried to tell the town that, heartsick, fate led me to drown. But I survived this clueless lot. Alas, that Avon scribbler's plot now starred a melancholy prince, whose monologues should make one wince. He told me: Seek a nunnery where wanton girls greet lechery. But see today: Ophelia rises! And women claim their rightful prizes. Male egos pose as history, but women wove the tapestry. So Yorick, here beside your grave we see that Death makes kings its slave. Royal Rhodes Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who lives in the farmland of Ohio. His poems and humorous works have appeared in: Snakeskin Poetry, Lighten-Up, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, and elsewhere. ** Note to Fernando Vicente What would they make of your Hamlet? My students of the millennium, age 17, sitting in college-prep English. Most tried to get Shakespeare’s English, but as one girl said, “Spanish is easier”. The only foreign language offered. I referenced the King James Bible, but even then in rural Bible-belt Missouri church and Bible reading was falling away. I supplemented with the decade-old movie, macho Mel Gibson as Hamlet drowning the “This is so gay” back-row chorus. Still every red-neck male sneered when I emphasized the poetry of lines, the sensitivities of Hamlet’s deliberations. They struggled over words and struggle still over their own children’s choices. The tattooed neck, the ruffled collar, The high cheek bones under a blush, the manicured nails. Their nails wore lines of grease or were chewed to the quick. Fernando Vicente, you’ve captured well that duality I saw in Hamlet, but dared not dwell on. Did I betray that student who came out in college and the boy who later became a senator passing laws against gender transitioning? Did I betray the girl who as a doctor had her clinic shut down? Was I too cowardly to act? Yorick’s skull made the play for them. Girls screamed “Yuck.” Boys cheered. Thank you for crowning it. Victoria Garton Victoria Garton’s books are Venice Comes Clean (Flying Ketchup Press, 2023), Pout of Tangerine Tango (Finishing Line Press, 2022), and Kisses in the Raw Night (BkMk Press,1989.) The anthology, From K.C., MO to East St. Lou, (Spartan Press, 2022) featured ten of her poems. Recent acceptances are from Cosmic Daffodil, I-70 Review, Proud to Be, Sparks of Calliope, WayWords Literary Journal, The Penwood Review, The Seraphic Review, Thorny Locust, and Vital Minutiae. ** Something is Rotten in the State What use is a golden crown atop a skull? O, why do we seek power at any cost, so that our dominions grow, enemies perish? This lust for control, power, revenge - is it too predictable, driven by our long histories, too easy to fall into the old destructive ways, solid in our faith that we, and only we, are right? Flesh and bone, tooth and claw, an eye for an eye. Would we have it any other way? And victory? Foes melt away, destroyed. Bones ground to dust. No thaw in our icy will, we must stay strong of purpose and not be fooled by appearances. The enemy's resolve never wavers in their desire to hurt and kill, itself enough to warrant their demise, all of them, sent into oblivion. We'll stay strong, ignore the laments, wails. A bloodied toll paid by all, the red mist settling like dew. Emily Tee [Note: A Golden Shovel poem using the quotation from Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 2: ”O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!”] Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction. She's had recent pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review, Visual Verse, Blue Heron Review and elsewhere online, and in print with Poetry Scotland. Emily is the editor of the new monthly Ekphrastic Challenge Contest by The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. She lives in the UK. ** Aspect Absent His crown kind of matches my hair, but I wonder where the bottom of his face is. Not the fleshy meaty bits, I get what happened to them, but the hard bony part. There was a lower jaw once, and teeth, an arc of them. I don’t like the way his uppers rest on my palm. It’s undignified for him, and he wouldn’t approve. I go along with that. If it were here, the lower jaw, would the mouth be opened or closed? When a skull sits with the mouth closed, complete and on top of a whole skeleton, the grin can look scary and grim. Let the same skull display with the lower jaw hanging and the mouth wide open, it’s a happy aspect, silly and shouting Howdy at anyone looking in. This is likely a mouth closed skull if we can ever find the rest of his face. A word like Alas doesn’t match up with Howdy very well. Poor feller. Carl Damhesel Carl Damhesel lives in Tucson, Arizona. He is a member of Old Pueblo Playwrights and his plays have been presented as in their annual New Play Festivals, and also in the Tucson Community Players' One Act Play Festival. He has had poems and short works published in The Ekphrastic Review and in joyful! magazine. ** Breeches Buoy Translate the complement, to be in roundel gloss, fine fingers, frills, bone china, zygomatic arch, inked neck sans Adam’s apple lump. Scene balcony, scape, nimbus cloud, but jut of jaw, rouge, ginger flow cannot distract from focus, skull, or is it crown draws, overcomes? To fore lies gothic Yorick script - not centred so we see entire - alas, our lass must nail the weight of cranial, so teeth on edge. The canon roars - survey the field - with tragicomic histories, in human makeup lie the flaws, those doors through which the mighty fall. In genderbending stagecraft art, bright entry from the upper left, from groundlings’ yard to heaven’s roof, in tiring house, the globe, the world. This player, smokescreen, Hamlet seen, an acting man, proscenium, but what has been for what to be, war theatre, stage exeunt. 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 by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Yorick Hello poor Yorick At last we meet, for the first time alas. You still have your crown worn often in irony. What a joke that was when you pranced around in jest to entertain the one whose head wore a different crown. Both gone now. Long gone. Which king was he? Alas no one remembers. It’s you Yorick who’ll be remembered. Your name is writ large and, at last, inked on your boney forehead. So it’s you who’ll last forever, at last. 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/ ** Talisman: tattooed, lucky charm, bone on bone, a string of light, the half of me who knew the ownership of words and immortality long before I could walk or talk. My powers paled. The death of my womb and soul mate left me with no authority, no looking backward nor forward. Shared bone structure did nothing but remind me I was still alive; lean and mean, most suggested. It’s impossible to look into the eyes of what once was. A twin no longer: Me in my tower, forgetting there was horizon or river or the Most High. And though, long ago, I’d arrived minutes earlier, I’d long prayed to be the first to leave. Patty Joslyn Patty Joslyn lives in Vermont. She’s fascinated with death and birth as passages into new realms. She has been published in El Calendario de Todos Santos, poetsonline.org, VOYA (Voices of Youth Advocates), Tupelo Press-30/30 Project-March 2015, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and several anthologies. Patty’s book ru mi nate was born in 2017. Patty has never fully recovered from empty nest syndrome or the fact she can no longer do a cartwheel. www.22pearls.blogspot.com & www.22pearls.org ** Can You Ever Really Know Someone? You took me to your favourite play and when I asked why Hamlet? You said because Ophelia kills herself for the love of a broken man We swapped stories of death Your father—my best friend And I thought those blue bands Would bind our claws forever We walked through our backstories Your mother’s strange remarriage My home with the blue mountain view Stumbling over all the things that might have been We must have laughed sometimes But I know the very bones of us Were laid in loss and longings And always in the wings your hungry ghosts We must have kissed a thousand times Yet I never saw the vicious thorns Trapped beneath your turned up collar Or the dagger neatly hidden behind your back All these years later I visit your grave To try and put to rest the tragedy of us A kindly gravedigger asks me if I’m okay I nod and say ‘”You see I knew him once.” Adele Evershed Adele Evershed was born in Wales. Her prose and poetry have been widely published. She has been nominated for the Best of the Net for poetry and the Pushcart Prize for poetry and short fiction. Finishing Line Press published Adele’s first poetry chapbook, Turbulence in Small Places, in July. Her novella-in-flash, Wannabe, was published by Alien Buddha Press in May. Her second poetry collection, The Brink of Silence, is available from Bottlecap Press ** To Fernando Vicente Regarding Hamlet Shakespeariana Here face to face with cusp of fate young Hamlet well you illustrate as princely heir to sexton's wit that hallows truth of hollowed pit where layers of remains abound beneath the sacred abbey ground, forever rotting in their place to make, for yet another, space where flesh to water giving way is soon the dust again of clay but bone will longer stay intact to hone for death its artifact like skull of fool beloved in hand as weapon Hamlet could command in "madness" feigned to ably joust with comic spirit he would roust. "So even here you entertain... ...where heart I've loved will soon be lain no longer fearing whether sane or victim of the inhumane "whose lust for power blood has wrought in veins of those who never fought descended as competing heirs to realm embattled seized as theirs "from others who had claimed it too so long as strength let them subdue the conquered who became possessed, and yet obliged to feel as blessed, "by those so noble who so vain would murder kin with sheer disdain convinced that reign indemnifies, by crown that church solemnifies, "whatever evil must be done to see that faith in power's won despite no basis where decay will mark damnation's final say. "Oh, Yorick, still you are the balm that humours dank and dreaded calm." 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. ** Questions Before Students Read Hamlet l. Has a death ever made you feel like that person or animal remained close by for several days? If yes, did you share this with anyone else? 2. Has a dream inspired you to do something unexpected? 3. Have you ever watched a TV show or movie that resonated with what your life is like? 4. Do you know a young man who seems confused? Or worried? A young woman who is in love but sad? 5. Do you know an old person who gives unhelpful advice? 6. Have you done something you didn’t want to do even though it seems like the right thing? 7. Has one of your parents ever disappointed you? 8. Do you have a brother or sister who would protect you when you are in danger? 9. Have you ever found yourself talking to a dead person? Or to the skull of dead person? 10. Do you ever feel the world would be a better place if you did exactly what you feel called to do? 11. Is the world you know at war? Have you experienced chaos? If you are able to answer yes to more than two of these questions, you will understand the play. If more than two, start talking to a friend. Tricia Knoll Tricia Knoll is an aging Vermont poet who taught high school English – including Hamlet–for ten years. Her work appears widely in journals, anthologies, and seven collections. Her newest chapbook The Unknown Daughter is on pre-sale from Finishing Line Press through January 5, 2024 for a March 1 publication. Website: triciaknoll.com ** Sacred Crown Luminous red head, exquisite in ruffled white, holding sacred crown. 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. ** memento mori yorick you ol' fool forget me knot tis in the memory of it wherefore art the key of it your ghost runs clear my chthonic friend of every lasting suffering for my second coming hamlet dear a daisy chain wouldst keep me afloat Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith resides in Montreal with Sir Henry, a Norwegian Forest feline of some personality & weight. ** The Ghost Inside a Dream Serie Heroines Literarias, "Hamlet Shakespeariana," Fernando Vincente (Spain) 2022 "Sometimes in the night I feel it Near as my next breath, and yet untouchable. Silently the past comes stealing..." “Ghosts,” Dan Fogelberg (lyrics) "Ah! Mounte sou le bel Troubaire Mestre d'amour!" (Where is he, the handsome Troubadour? past master of love?) Strange Images of Death, Barbara Cleverly "Send her outside when the room rises..." film, Woman Walks Ahead "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him...a fellow of infinite jest, most excellent fancy." Hamlet, William Shakespeare You said my red hair was a talisman of the Sun; and of the earth -- the copper mined in Falun -- where, beneath our reality (the awfulness of death lay precisely in the absence of consciousness)* someone had scrawled a picture of a Tree, a pine in the shape of Christmas decorated with glyphic initials, tattooed by winter spirits when ice on the canals were frozen in Sweden and Denmark, a dream in cold and midnight blue. The world seemed perfect when we married -- I wore the rings of Saturn, platinum as the moon. Ophelia drowned in the bathtub of a Pre-Raphaelite artist, her red hair waved with roses in the water, and I came to life on a Spanish canvas. We never spoke of my past love, Yorick, the symbols on my arms made with a dove's beak. And Pierrot's beautiful Columbine (he was her funny clown) had a name that meant she was his little dove. I wore a blouse in pearl-white satin, an attempt at purity because my ancestress said red hair meant I was a witch; she prayed to save me from a proclivity for sexual suggestion. Your lips, soft as the touch of a paint brush. You did not know, when you were consumed by your work and did not come to bed I consulted Yorick, whose sweet skull gave me thoughts, swirling like snow flakes; how we'd shared the message in a crystal ball, the past and future like the moment when you felt the emptiness of space where once my warmth had filled your arms. I laugh out loud sometimes, a victim of your timeless charms. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp's love of literature led to a semester with Shakespeare's language and his unforgettable characters Shakespeare is timeless and so Fernando Vincente is influenced by his work in the 21st century in his series Heroines Literarias. Some of the canvases are more visceral, as Lady Macbeth, her clasped hands covered with blood; but in Hamlet Shakespeariana, there is an intimation of purity, Ophelia in white, drowned as a virgin in a royal suicide. Vincente "modernizes" his Shakespeariana by giving Ophelia (and Yorick's skull) tattoos, her copper-red hair flaming above flowers tattooed on her throat as if Shakespeare is both her voice and Vincente's art. Laurie Newendorp's book, When Dreams Were Poems, focuses on the relationships between poetry, life and art. She has been honoured many times in the ekphrastic challenge and continues to embrace art as a muse. ** Cordelia’s Recollections I knew someone with the same name, I said as the museum attendant handed me the skull from the Elizabethan display. I recalled Yorick as an elderly cashier at Burger King where my mother and I went for lunch once a week when I was in preschool. On every visit he would place a colourful paper crown on my head before I left the front counter. Staring at the skull, I paused and wondered years later what happened to him. I hoped he hadn’t spent his entire life preparing flame-grilled Whoppers. He told me many times I was cute. If he could only see the mature version of that little redhead now-- a pale face powdered with makeup, white ruffled blouse accented by a bead necklace, the black and white tattoo on my neck, haunting blue eyes staring into sunken sockets wondering if he would even remember that four-year old as I stand near a museum window totally oblivious to gathering cloud formations hovering over distant hills. Dr. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Nameless Roads (2019) and Driving Long Distance (forthcoming 2024). His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), CrosswaysLiterary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland)and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom).He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** To Be, or Not to Be I turn the crumbled earth, seeking reminders of permanence: a golden crown, skull marked in ink, delicately held remains of the dead. I watch as daybreak announces fate's farflung cry, circuitous and transient. Elanur Eroglu Williams Elanur Eroglu Williams teaches reading and writing at an Adult Learning Center in the Bronx. In addition to her work as a GED Teacher, she is a writing tutor for elementary school students. She lives and writes in New York City with her husband and her dog, Luna. ** Shakespeariana Stay here, stay close, but pray stay you away from those who would remove you from my sight-- speak softly to me, lest your speech betray the anguish that is burning through my heart. If you don’t love me, don’t tell me—tell me a story instead—help me to hold on to life—tell me secrets in poetry-- hide your apathy, seduce me with song. Once we have threaded the needle, what then? entanglements are inevitable-- deceptions, distrust, interrogation-- each subplot possible, impossible. It matters not who committed the crime-- We stand here ensembled—cast out of time. 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/. ** Listen Well, Listen All, of My Tale to Caution All You see her from afar: sun glinting in her auburn hair, fair skin glowing in the light, the red of her lips and the blush on her cheeks. She looks feminine except for the slanted, curved sheath and handle of a sword secure at her hip, and a dagger hidden within the folds of her white linen shirt. She has your heart as soon as her cerulean blue eyes Turn to stare at you. Within days, you’re married, no doubt in your mind. You don’t know each other, but you make the time to learn about the other. You find common interests, and you learn things that were hidden. She finds herself with you by her side, where she no longer has to be someone that she despises. She wears breeches, tunics, her hair short as her golden jewelry glints on her fingers and ears with an added pearl necklace the only thing that declares: “I’m a woman and the Queen, don't mess with me.” You rule the kingdom in fairness and love. Not a soul complains of a starving home, or a suffering family for all are cared for, and are known, to the rulers of their land. Your people are happy, celebrating life and liberty. But then one day it all changes. It all falls apart from one ill-timed mistake. Visitors come and look upon this lovely land in wonder. One particular set of eyes catches your attention, and just like that, it is all over. Your Queen looked at you with love. She gave her all to you, body, mind, and soul. But when you cheated, she took inspiration: “Off with your head, Crown and all!” You’re no longer King of York, but a Dork jester: forever forgotten from the kingdom you reigned over together. Katie Davey Katie Davey is an aspiring author from the rural parts of House Springs, MO. Her first published piece was for The Ekphrasitc Review’s Richard Challenge, titled Hidden Prophecies. She has worked on Harbinger Magazine as a staff intern and is a member of Stephens College’s chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. She will earn her BFA in Creative Writing, with minors in Equestrian Studies and Psychology, at Stephens College in May 2024. ** Lady Hamlet Framed in a Renaissance style vignette, Like Mary and Gabriel, an Ionic column to the left, A brilliant blue sky with cumulous clouds in the center, And the ever-present mysterious city on a hill To the right, we find our modern lady And the person who commands her attention. She has done so much to decorate herself-- The hair dyed red, eyebrows plucked, Blush, carefully brushed up her cheekbone. We only see half of her in this silhouette, But two rings circle her wedding finger, Her nails are long and manicured, Her left ear pierced with another ring, And the right ear also, probably. On the side of her long neck, a large tattoo Of two familiar bunches of flowers Takes up all the space. She is bony and thin, anorexic perhaps, Her hair, tucked down the back of her ruffled White blouse, and of course the hilt of a sword At her side and a skull in her hand. After all, she is Hamlet, with her puffy sleeves Tied at the wrist in bows. And on the skull, with a gold crown, somehow still attached, Or perhaps posthumously added, are the letters “Yor,” for Yorick, in case we hadn’t noticed, Since the artist only shows us half of her, And half of poor dear Yorick’s dead head. Underneath this painterly facade, Is she more interesting than Shakespeare’s anxious prince? Does she share his regret, his seething anger, his hopeless despair? Can she speak his wistful words? Maybe we need to listen, watch and Even read the play. Rose Anna Higashi Rose Anna Higashi is a retired professor of British Literature, Shakespeare, Japanese Literature and Poetry. Recently her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Poets Online, The Avocet, The Agape Review, Americamedia.org, and Integrated Catholic Life. With her niece, Kathleen Pedulla, she is the co-author of thewebsite myteaplanner.com, which also publishes her monthly blog, Tea and Travels. Many of her haiku and lyric poems appear in these publications. Rose Anna lives in Honolulu with her husband of sixty years, Wayne Higashi. ** Infinite Jest I could tell by her face she was a thinker, the type who sees beneath the layers, my skin, my skull on show, my own teeth grinning at my patent status as a fool. I knew I'd remember her, even after death: her shining copper hair, gorgeous as autumn, her ice blue eyes eager as a Danish winter. She’d laugh at my jokes, and I'm proud of that - men are made immortal by less. She was buoyed by my smile, and I cherish that too. The best I can hope is that she'll think of me, perhaps in a dream: my face in her hands contemplating eyes that always saw the funny side, and remember the wisdom only foolery can teach. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald taught at the University of Wolverhampton for twenty five years, before taking early retirement in 2019. He is the author of 20 books to date, which includes fiction, poetry and scholarship. His most recent poetry collection is 60 Poems (Greenwich Exchange Press, 2023). Paul McDonald Amazon Author Page ** If I could speak to you again, I would hold your royal head before me and tell you this If I had known you would arrive, back then, when I was withering away, shriveling from neglect and despair—if I had known, would I still have stood in line at McDonald’s, listening to the Beatles sing “Will you still love me when I’m 64?” Would I have turned to my husband, who had one foot out the door, with that question lingering in my ear and his eyes answering, “No”? If I had known it was you in that dream, jumping up and down on the bed like a five-year-old. You who would quote Shakespeare and walk me back into possibility. If I had known in that fast-food joint that I was near where the double-decker of happiness was about to pass, I would have let go of that man who looked at me with dead- fish eyes. I would have run sooner toward that magic bus stop singing “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg’s full-length collection Frogs Don't Sing Red (Kelsay Books, April 2023) includes several works nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She is an editor at The Ekphrastic Review, edited Untameable City: Poems on the Nature of Houston (Mutabilis Press, 2015) and co-edited Echoes of the Cordillera (Museum of the Big Bend, 2018), an anthology of ekphrastic poems in conversation with the photography of Jim Bones. Her poems have appeared recently in Panoply (new Pushcart Prize nominee), San Pedro River Review, The Ekphrastic Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and MockingHeart Review. Translations of her poetry into Dutch can be found at Brabant Cultureel and on the website of Dutch poet, Albert Hagenaars. ** Not to Be Wrong time, wrong place, wrong man. Power is the clash of swords Dawn attacks over the ice Nights on the bare mountain Carousing of wine, bawdy laughter Using, abusing of women World of physical challenge Thoughts, ideas, philosophies Doors to the female psyche Death a feasible proposition that lies beyond the battle? No decisions can be made Before they are outdated Out of joint, at war with his moment Sarah Das Gupta Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher from near Cambridge, UK who has also taught in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in many magazines/anthologies from over 12 countries, including: US, UK, Australia, Canada, India, Germany, Croatia and Romania. ** I Can’t Feel My Face When I’m With You* because the map of your skin unfolds and resists refolding because the map of your skin strikes matches against my decorated skull because the map of your skin is visible only in certain light (candle) because the map of your skin is outlined in black ink, still decipherable under water because the map of your skin is smooth to the touch, tip, tongue, this loose goose chase you lead me on because the map of your skin sends me sureño again and again in search of stolen minutes, miles, smiles I would voluntarily drown in if drowning is the punishment for such witchery, I’ll take it because look, my love, how perfectly we fit together Crystal Karlberg *Title from Can’t Feel My Face, written by Max Martin, Peter Svensson, Ali Payami, Savan Kotecha and the Weeknd Crystal Karlberg is a Library Assistant at her local public library and a speaker for Greater Boston PFLAG. ** Comeuppance If his arrogance wasn’t so off-putting, if she hadn’t resented him for the years of denigration, wordlessly bottling up negative emotions emerging in their marriage, unsure if Indifference would have saved them; hadn’t he made her feel like a shattered porcelain doll with every snide remark delivered in a condescending voice, putting up with his belittlement for as long as she could remember; hadn’t she lost the gist for her artistic expression after his narcissistic Self hijacked her grand opening last month, knowing full well how much it meant to her career, peer recognition, blaming it all on her insecure nature once confronted; ohh… and that sarcastic look in his eyes melting her into a puddle of self-doubts, shattering her spirits to smithereens because that was his power over her; she wouldn’t have allowed herself to lose control under the thousands of shimmering lights in the gloaming of her bare spring garden as the skies wept for her, but what’s done is erstwhile and silencing him was the only way to tip the balance of power. A glance through the bedroom window at the exploding beds of asphodel and white lilies, a tiny sting of remorse vanishing at the speed of light, the memory of last spring expunged with the pure willpower of constraint before it took root. Andrea Damic Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She thinks there is something cathartic about seeing your words and art out in the world. Her literary art appears in The Ekphrastic Review, Sky Island Journal, The Dribble Drabble Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/. ** With Sappho's Blessing I had her paint on your skull like she would with a needle. Bearing your last name - which should’ve been mine. You’re my one thing from home he said I could bring. There is nowhere I’d go where you would not come. This crown on my head should be on yours. We could be the first. Queens together. No king. But I’m sorry, so sorry, this must be my fault. If I could’ve been normal - we would be together. Now he has taken me to rule in his kingdom. He’s fine, he’s knightly. But he’s not you. My beloved, I need you. I’ll miss you forever. My everything, darling. The queen to my queen. Maeson Roucoulet Maeson Roucoulet (they/them) currently lives in Providence, Rhode Island, and is originally from Connecticut. They've been writing poetry since around the fourth grade, and were published in The Ram Page and The Ekphrastic Review. Maeson is now interested in creative writing, literature, and music. ** Where be Your Jibes Now? From Hamlet, By William Shakespeare I gaze into the sockets of your eyes, See mischief there, embedded in your skull, As if pale bone and shadow could disguise The memory of jest, before the days were dull. And now my one true love Ophelia Has slipped beneath the lake, her golden hair threaded into the silky weeds, skin a ghostly shade of moonshine cast in prayer. Yorick, is it fair to seek revenge? I miss the rhythmic skip of childhood, Your smiling face and mine a mirrored lens But nothing breathes where once you stood. We all return our bones to soil and earth, We are but spectres, we have no worth. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar and ukulele. Her poems have appeared in various webzines, magazines, and chapbooks. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlet A Spark in the Darkness has been published by Hedgehog Press and her next pamphlet Beyond the School Gate is due to be published in the next month. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet. ** Eternal Grin You made us howl, primed our pumps with spurts of laughter that - at last - exploded in geyser guffaws, soaked with tears. Your last line echoed inside, erupting in spastic dribbling giggles long after your schtick was done. As a child, I assumed you fed us funny fluff. Later, I noticed glinting diamonds in the mix, brilliance for the brave, razor edges making their mark. You mocked everything, even the King, to his face. You grabbed your manhood to proclaim my father as ever-protective of the Crown Jewels. Or not. Reckless, foolish, suicidal. Honest. Beneath your eternal grin, you still mean it. Life is brief; Choose with the end in mind. What constitutes an adequate choice? One in which you die trying and never miss the Joke. Sheila Murphy Sheila Murphy writes poems to slow down. She is a spiritual director, cancer survivor, retreat leader and adventurer. She is a music director and pub fiddler. She has published poems in Presence: An International Journal of Spiritual Direction and The Ekphrastic Review. Sheila lives in coastal Maine, is married and has two adult offspring. She plays fiddle, guitar and piano. ** A Reflection Of Dignity “While if not in jest; we speak of life.” One should easily be able to distinguish the premises- What is Good and what is Right. My death… A concept- Of past lives lived-on to recount new visions. This skewed view of progress-watched. From above. Recounting- Having grown old enough to see- Bones that rejoice! Flesh, and the air ! I had loved. Once Michael W Piercy "At the intersection of Art, Poetry and Contradiction you will find my work, you will find me. Taking on memories and the present moment. Thinking- with an eye that shadows the natural world. Philosophy, Theology and Science are at the core of my writing. I have found that I am a synthesizer-managing ideas which to not always cohere. Trying to manipulate- Ideas." Michael W. Piercy ** I hold in tattoos the diary pages, fossilized last spoken now I want no more- I hold the hollows of time soaked in cries, I hold an evening falling quiet. Beyond ashen white is coloring the sky, dusty gold mounting in steppe meadows- impregnated air falters forgiveness into hollows in my hand I hold. 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, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Hamletiana Shakespeariana Heavy is the golden crown - its cold pushing from top down until history’s contender, once mouthful with pride, is reduced to clenched teeth fitting even into a girl’s palm – Zen flesh, Zen bones – fixed gaze taming the ghost caved into the bony orbits, while her other hand gracefully guides her intent to pat the being that is not. What fancy drives this curiosity? To touch or not to touch the un-being? That is the moment of Vicente’s screening into the trial of a Zen flesh to extract from a Zen bone the meaning. To be or not to be? Was Hamlet right or wrong to pose that brief and fateful polar question that bites the mankind’s lips ever since he aired it on that eventful Shakespearean page – as if on the heavenly stage. To be or not to be? Was he asking the earth or the heaven? This is uncertain, so, as each forfeits the other, Hamlet stood between these two contrary judges, who live in balanced tension for all ages, while he - pained, alone, to crown sworn, mind on earth, heart in heaven, took the enemy’s blade while his hand dropped his sword into the heart of his unrequited question. Now she tries to draw the answer from the teeth clenching it - maybe or maybe not - her pat may un-bite that tight knot, but until then while looking straight into his un-being eyes as in a trance she tells him her answer: thinking outside the box, be it golden crown or carton hoax, and being not prince Hamlet but from any hamlet on the planet freely flying my orange banner of a hair, over my white romantic frills, covering my heart’s beats, above my eyes’ inquisitive trills, seems a sufficiently noble reason for being and never put anything squeezing over my head, save heaven – a crown for each and all, auspicious for the mind’s orbital descend to the voiceless sound of Hamlet’s answer as written in the stars and these Zen bones. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in linguistics and culture has studied and taught at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on Mediaeval art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems feature on often on The Ekphrastic Review, among others. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni, 2021. ** Ophelia Lives On a different balcony, Or on a different page, The fool’s skull wears the king’s crown, And Ophelia lives To have an existential crisis of her own. Hamlet had hated the neck tattoo, It (nearly) drove him mad. “But you know how I love flowers, love,” she said, But he didn’t seem to hear. “Alas, poor Yorick,” she said to the skull, “You poor memento mori, you prop, Nothing more than what you stand for now, not what you really were. You were a man of infinite jest, but no one is laughing now. Only a man would harp on the inevitability of death Instead of remembering the possibilities of life. Life is only futile to those who fail to truly live. Sure, Alex the Great is naught but dust now, But damn did his life seem fun. Pillage and plunder and all.” Ophelia put down Yorick’s skull, tucked her long hair into her shirt to create the illusion of manhood, and felt the hilt of her sword at her side. A voice called her name from off stage. “I do not know, my lord, what I should think,” she answered, gripping the sword and smiling. “Though I have a few ideas.” Maggi McGettigan Maggi McGettigan is a writer and literature lover living in Downingtown, Pennsylvania. Her work has most recently been published in the beautiful Creatopia magazine, Capsule Stories, and The Stonecrop Review, and can be found at maggimcgettigan.com. ** Alas, Poor Yorick, You Knew Me too Well You, the Fool, most often recognized as the smartest man at court, but only to those with sharp minds themselves – you remain masked by buffoonery, me by beauty, both locked into our accepted roles. Such a shame! Two star-crossed lovers who could have had it all, but for your silly obsession with virtue. That second night after my arrival, you s o m e r s a u l t e d across the banquet hall, a rose between your lips, as you bowed and presented it to me. Milady, the rumors are true! But your niece Ophelia is a pale version of you. What remarkable beauty for a woman of 517 years! A cacophony of laughter eclipsed the band of musicians. I laughed, too. My dear Yore? Yock? Yammer? Pray you, forgive my forgetting your name. You are so kind and generous in your praise for a woman of 666 winters. Laughter exploded again as our eyes locked on each other, recognizing the truth. We could neither one be trusted to keep the other’s secrets. You would lie dead within the week. Death upon death, madness upon madness followed according to plan. Yet, all these years later, you remain my only regret. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she picked up her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. Retired now, Alarie delights in having more time to read, write poetry, and hang out at The Ekphrastic Review. Alarie was thrilled to win Lorette C. Luzajic’s first Editor’s Pick for the Ekphrastic Fantastic Award and to have her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, named Director’s Choice at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in 2022. alariepoet.com ** Reality Mends Cowards I ate some food today. I don’t remember what I ate. Just that I wasn’t hungry. What terrifies me more than grief and fear? It’s apathy. Indifference. I think. The numbness spreads and suddenly I have another tattoo. Still can’t feel the grief. They know not getting out of bed is a sign. The only thing that makes me eat is habit. All everlasting kingdoms fall to dust and here old Yorick stands, a mockery. I don’t think people understand all this. If they understood, maybe they’d offer help. All power stripped away and nought remains. I smiled for the first time in a year. It felt unsettling, like the wrong size shoe. Is depression made only for princes? Maureen Martin Maureen Martin is an aspiring writer from Ohio. Her passions include Shakespeare, literature and film criticism, overindulging in herbal teas, and working as an underpaid English and Theatre teacher. She has acted, directed and written her way through her undergraduate years, which are now safely behind her. She is a published poet, with several pieces appearing online at the The Ekphrastic Review. ** Your Dagger Look Hello again fine-fashion crisp murderess. Here we are, some time since my pooled blood washed-up in the lure of this blind-white-white, and all the blues have cooled, less royal dark than I recall. They no longer arrow, but bend lithe over the curve of your iced lyse-blue eye, onto classy cuff-ruffles, silken but stiff enough to hold in the tonnage of leaden deeds. Here now, touching dabs of child-green accenting, clean, clean. And a grey- tinged green veins along through, like a sequined spider’s micro-snipped web, within your sprawling neck tattoo, then wisps up into the reign of (oh-wow-it’s-grown) an ever-sharpening—nearly a jab of rosy cheekbone. You must to be sure, again, I am still tangibly dead. (my yellow-gold skull un-convincing) And so, can only threaten you from afar. But the dead have little to say on matters of state. You must keep piercing me however long it takes to sever a word or stab one clear out, clueless to what the rest of us access first: the little the dead have left to give, poor we are in words. We’re numbers of globed worlds away from where this is. And you won’t reflect on how like us you really are, as your framed word-pearls empty-out officially at the end of every day, tip elegant, back to the base of your taut neck, too rigid to ever betray—but in the flattened press of dirty red hair blunt cut just yesterday, there it is, a redder red-trickle along your severe midline part. You cannot see it very well in the million mirrors turning to follow you. Your brutal cold eyes pin you apart from a critical view. SP Singer I hope to always be starting over as a poet, satisfaction a good stretch ahead, blind-illumina colours in most directions as I slowly go. ** Yorick of Mine Alas, Yorick, lover of mine, I stole your life, As you stole my heart. You loved Ophelia best, My poor sister, Not of blood, but of my soul. You, my silent king, I still watch you closely, Searching for your fancy. Corrie Pappas Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living outside Boston. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and she is the author of the children’s book, Come Along and Dream. ** Memento Mori Yorick, you are beautiful in death I rubbed your skull with soft cloths until it shone And wrote your name in black letters on the front So no-one would mistake the skull for mine. On your head, I placed a golden crown To remember that this is how all mortals end Kings, and the sons of kings, and the kings’ fair daughters My books, my spotless linen shirt My lustrous hair, of which I am so vain Will turn to dust, will crumble into earth. As an aside, what gives, Señor Vicente? At least, unlike my sisters, I have clothes Still, I’m in some kind of pre-Raphaelite freak show My neck’s too long, my hands, impossible A hundred years from now, when gravediggers find my bones Beneath crumbling stone, the letters worn away They will call me Spider because of my long, long hands. Karen Kebarle Karen Kebarle was born in Edmonton, Alberta, but has lived in Ottawa, Ontario for the last 27 years. She holds an MA and PhD in English and has always had a soft spot for Shakespeare. She has taught grade school, college, and university, and now teaches English as a Second Language to public servants in the Government of Canada. One of her favourite jobs was her two years working as an art interpreter at the National Gallery of Canada.
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