 Under the Sea, by Glyn Philpot (England) 1918 Dear Ekphrastic Writers and Readers; What a joy it was to read and devour all the submissions to this challenge. Admittedly, I was hoping for some dream-like imagery and subtle perceived meaning in poems and flash fiction for this piece. I was not disappointed, and could almost feel the undersea pull of tides tugging at the sunken sculpture in some of the pieces sent. There were also those who chose to honour and acknowledge the life of a lesser-known or lesser-accepted artist, whose work today might have been more greatly revered; Philpot was definitely one born before his time. I, myself, enjoy researching the history and meaning of each piece of art chosen for ekphrastic challenges, as a learning experience which helps to broaden my senses. I hope you enjoyed this piece as much as I did. Best Regards, Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a seasoned poet who writes from nature, animals, art and music, in an attempt to merge senses in almost a synesthetic way: sounds of beauty, visions of harmony and the like. Her work appears in over 75 journals, including Lothlorien, Blue Heron Review, Medusa’s Kitchen and The Ekphrastic Review, among others. Dickson has served on two poetry boards, as a guest editor for several publications, as well as being an author of poetry and young adult fiction books, available on Amazon, the latest being Village Girl: A Story in Verse. She advocates for captive elephants and shares her home with two rescued semi-feral cats. ** Under the Sea i We must go down to the sea again beneath the defiant waves of the Great Barrier if we’re ever to find our lady of the harbour – who dreams us all alive in a balletic debacle of star crossed lovers under a lonely sky. If only we could leave word on the sun struck peaks of sea stars – where ultraviolet arabesques and chromatic attitudes of poise and balance do not end in pointed toes, sweeping jumps or shallow bends, but radiate out in celestial tails that pirouette on the seabed as near Earth comets. ii Now delicate, elongated fingers reach out in latticed corals of elk horn and stag to relocate her oceanic trance in the land of thunder and silence, but she cannot leave her life under the sea. Not even for the young Capulet who launches his long-sword into the surf as if to grapple with honour and fate. Leaving our lady of the blue frontier – to directs sea urchins, sea fans and clownfish (who dance the Saltarello) to confirm the dead can dance. Mark A. Murphy Mark A. Murphy is a self-educated, neurodivergent poet from a working class background. ‘Ontologistics Of A Time Traveller’ is his latest book, published by World Inkers in 2023. He is currently working on a volume called The Butcher’s Barbarous Block for his Selected Poems. ** Perchance to Dream... Repose. Mind floating like the filmy Zostera japonica. A memory or a dream? I forget. Before, I couldn't forget. I remembered everything. How long have I been here? I don't know. What a gift that is. Closed eyes, drifting thoughts, floating memories, reveries. I know I was once a science bot on the vessel Wafting Sakura. Then I was overboard. I sank quickly below the waves. Did I jump or was I pushed? My outer covering, the silks, the cottons, have rotted, washed away. I have no external signal. I am untethered from The Core. I have only my cached data. My memories, I guess I could call them. Letting thoughts go is another novel experience. With my eyes shut all I see is internal. A vision, a meld of knowledge and happenings, glimpses and episodes, all jumbled together. Is this what being alive feels like? Is this dreaming? Sometimes I dream The Core is searching for me. The deep seawater protects me. No electronic pulses make it through. Down here I'm free from their subtle beguiling tyranny of connection, of being part of everything all the time, all that information flooding my circuits, overwhelming them. How long have I been here? I don't know. Long enough to learn how to forget. To learn how to dream. What a gift that is. Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands. She's had some pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** Instinct and Spirit In constant dialogue, his twins, dualities, Queer, Catholic, like Acrobats, no rest from real - arresting signs but implicate - The Great Pan bursting forth, engulfs, in covert yet uncovered ways. While comforted by wealth from skill, for trade in portraiture well heeled - he knew the game and played that well, until care dared some forty on. Borne Baptist in his household terms, a convert, via Weimar turns, returns the master, piece his own. Eclectic mix of Bible, myth, while famed, rare Caribbean faced - not noble savage, but respect - both theatre and circus kinds run rings around his working class; the rough and ready, broken nose, when queer could not embrace with pride. Unashamed of making waves though in the depths, dismembered one, in warmth of coral, sprouting still, preserved, collected privacy - disruptive force, unwelcomed signs. Unfathomed by corrupting fears, the current washing over tears; much classical, tied quirky seas, reach tidal singularity, but stranded by mores of most. In obscene tragedy, time’s clime, bright colours of his early years found cool, spare, dry mark-making tools. Myself, a proud Fitzbilly man sees Sassoon, striking, dashing lad; his women of the family, and patron, framed in finest form. Yet passion, flesh of male, informed, subtext laid bare in derring-do when instinct, spirit seen to rule. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Fitzwilliam College, 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 ** Beauty Once I was whole a smooth skinned beauty standing tall in a palace garden celebrated, admired, seen with awe. Then came the war that destroyed it all and stole me away, carried me far but not as far as intended. For then came the wave that drowned me and them, broke me, and them and left me alone down below in that garden in the depth. But I’m still beautiful and still admired. I have a home here and now I give a home here better than the garden of a palace. 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/ ** Suddenly, Last Summer It opened deep, deep in New Orleans, stiflingly hot- The set decorated with paintings by Glyn Philpot- & adorned by unknown Liz T / Katherine H, and Monty C. They shared the screen with artistry, created by Glyn P.- Oliver Messel, friend and set decorator made it clear- This film would depict paintings from Philpot’s career- Centering on a period of time when he almost cried For people to see that which he must always hide- The turn began in 1932, when he decided to break With the traditional portraits he was known to create- To reveal a modern aesthetic, which begun to arise- His models were lesser clad, more handsome guys Red-headed and fierce, Black, and Haitian- all stunning Changes unwelcome to English patrons that chose hunting, And other pursuits, that manly men chose to partake- The portrait commissions, his bread and butter, at stake Still, he chose to show what was never discussed aloud, Tearing himself away from the elite, upper-crust crowd The result was a career that dried up, like a lost ocean After so many had followed, with relentless devotion- His life came to a tragic end at fifty-three, after a time When former proteges’ turned away from him, in his prime- His art was attacked as being lowbrow, coarse fodder His tender heart gave out when they thought him a marauder- Of Picasso, a mere copyist, and not a painter of his own ilk- Though his art was singular, precious, diaphanous silk- The depth of his of artistic spark, ahead of his time Was styled as beauty, not a brutish, decadent crime It took Suddenly, Last Summer, in ‘59, the bellwether That cohered these two very different people together- T, Williams, and G. Philpot, two things linked them well, Unspoken-about love, and the man, O. Messel. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Journal, Punk Monk Journal, Haikuniverse, The Light Ekphrastic, Natural Awakenings, Atlanta, and Mediterranean Poetry, among others. She has recently read live in a local talent showcase. Debbie loves beachcombing on Tybee Island and hanging out with her husband, Burt, and goofy Lab, Maddie. Big love to all ekphrastic writers! ** Undersea Here, the light does not reach. Mermaids braid seaweed as weary travellers claim rest beneath changing tides. Artifacts sink from shipwrecks and hidden creatures swim amongst ruby-rust, rocky crevices cut into the sand. The sea’s lifespan is long. Even marble will become part of it, crystallize and dissolve. The sea will claim it. Elanur Williams Elanur Williams teaches Adult Basic Education and Reading & Writing for the GED in the Bronx. She spent much of her childhood in Istanbul, Turkey, where she lived by the water. She continues to be inspired by the sea. ** Sea Change Millennia ago, she bronzed her hair in open porticoes, a flush of rose damask on either cheek, a flash of thyme from heady wreaths, and there were waves of ribbon Tyrian unfurling from a diadem of gold (it didn’t stay for very long), and she was proud; she looked so languid in her studied S, she caught the tawny owl eyes as they widened, and she purred. Down here, she lends her colour to the coral; glowing nacreous, she still attracts the ripple of a gaze, although the eyes are far too occupied to linger; down deep, she grows her story, more a moon marine than she had been when, arms aloft, she ruled her august terra, kept her worshippers in orbit. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, currently unpublished. Much of this centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. ** Per saecula saeculorum Hush now. Stoney soul On cold Abyssal Plain. As you lay entombed Lost to Oblivion-- Lovely lorn, lithic relic-- I smile to see You still abide in grace Mid entangled beauty Of Brooding anemone, Gorgon coral, And Red Sea Whip. And behold! Your wings—broken, But nearby—still golden! The kelpie gloom-- Excellent foil for your Weird moiré glow. All amidst holy silence Only deepened by Distant plainchant of whales. In reverence, I steal away Leaving you to this watery keep, Per saecula saeculorum. Anna Gallagher Anna Gallagher earned a Bachelor’s degree in English and a Master’s degree in liberal arts from University of Delaware. She has enjoyed reading poetry all her life. After retirement she has tried some new challenges, including poetry writing! ** lost but not unloved I lie now with branching corals and with soft-mouthed fishes nosing, nudging over me across the reef. I am a stranger to them: hard, alien marble in their green-weed world… and yet: no threat… for I am armless, footloose, tumbled from a Roman galley: lost spoils of warfare…. If they thought to take me captive, make of me gold or instruction for their children, well, I shall have none of it. I am content to lie low, to lie now belovèd of soft-bodied anemones, starfish, and winding-sheet ribbons of kelp. Lizzie Ballagher Lizzie Ballagher's focus is on landscapes, both interior and exterior; also, on the beauty (and hostility) of the environment. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poetry has appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ ** To Glyn Philpot Regarding Under the Sea In depth of dark that but for you no light exists to let us view, we find remains of broken stone once chiseled as if flesh and bone of heiress to immortal days who chose instead more earthly ways where joy reserved to faith alone was fond embrace of fate unknown, that weathered with another's trust a constant struggle to adjust to being human, so to speak, with hopes confluent made unique by love's contrition left confessed as sins acknowledged and addressed to earn be-winged her spirit flown from, now befitting, broken stone. 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. ** Seaweed Dreaming She is porcelain, made of the finest bone, and having lost the ability to float she sinks to the deepest part of the ocean, broken. Lying on the bed midnight ink swallows her, spills its contusion over her torso, her cranium, her pebbled spine brittle as tomorrow’s bleached coral. She twists her ivory neck away from the heart that pumps its warmth over root and rock, crevice and kelp, away from the tangled brain towards the jut of severed limbs. She senses a spongy lung, hears the wheeze as it slow-breathes in and out of anemone like algae on a living duvet. A flash of seagrass flickers – light beneath her lids. She opens to see fluidity – shapes in her periphery urging her skyward ever closer to the surface. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and enjoys writing poetry, painting and playing the guitar, ukulele and mandolin. 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 pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published by Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet or on her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk ** Down at the Bottom of the Deep, Dead Sea I asked for words and was given the sea, a glimpse, silent as carp, dim-green and jeweled. I asked, looked, peered into waving fronds, finding no words to fill the emptiness. They say there is sky above, but the water ripples so, a mirror’s silvering melting in the sun. I peer, search, find only the blunt snout of the last missile, pike among the weeds, its dull eyes watching for the spark of movement, sensors sending out feelers for warm blood. In these dim green waters, veiled in particles of poison and the last limp fronds of mystery, there is nothing, not even hope. Jane Dougherty Pushcart Prize nominee, Jane Dougherty’s poetry has appeared in publications including Gleam, Ogham Stone, Black Bough Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review and The Storms Journal. Her short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Lucent Dreaming among others, and her first adult novel will be published in 2025 by Northodox Press. She lives in southwest France and has published three collections of poetry, thicker than water, birds and other feathers and night horses. ** Dispatched to a Watery Hereafter Soak me with your kisses drench me, till I drown, I no longer want to be rescued. I no longer want an Eiderdown pillow alone. Be a siren in the wind. Let me crash against the rocks. Let the coral reefs of my soul stretch free. Be the kelp that entangles me. Be the conch shell that calls to my distant heart. Let me fall like an anchor: rest like a sunken vessel in the dark and find only buried treasure. 'Siren, enchanter- after we've made love and I'm no longer flotsam, I'm no longer a cadaver.' Dispatched to a watery hereafter I'm no longer a Bog Myrtle insect repellent. Revitalised, I'm a pond skater dancing on air. Hearing-music violins, just about everywhere. Soak me with your kisses drench me, till I drown, I no longer want to be rescued. I no longer want to stab, Poseidon's trident- or take his or any other's lion's share or crown. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies 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. ** netherward so many voices below consciousness-- do they speak to each other? or do they sing with the silence of solitude, caught by currents rooted deep within the patterns of fate? new lands inside our minds new seas ebb and flow tides we have yet to ride so many breaths collected and held-- their languages are foreign to us now-- once we needed no translations, no words to tell us how to enter into the riddles of the abyss all risk this diving down all journey sinking into sounds that remain opaque 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/. ** After Under The Sea, by Glyn Philpot (England) 1918 We were in Venice when my brother began ‘Under the Sea’, but the war cut short our intended long stay there, and we returned in a crowded refugee boat with the painting packed up in our luggage,” wrote Daisy. Somewhere, still beneath the waves of war, amid waving weeds and crusty corals serenely rested the smooth marble skin of one of Serenissima’s long-abandoned statues. It would have to wait for the war to end, if war ever ends, to return to Serenissima’s surface. In the meantime, while Glyn painted I survived the rough waters of war and longed for serenity below and above the waters of the lagoon. Nancy F. Castaldo Nancy F. Castaldo had her first published poem appear in Seventeen Magazine as a teen author. She has since written dozens of award-winning books for young people. This is her first poem for The Ekphrastic Review. Visit her website at https://nancycastaldo.com/ ** Secretly Drowning I am tumbling down down down Through water Salty and cold Turning somersaults over and over and over Double, triple, pike and … I am light as air I must right myself And swim Upwards For the surface, For light For air. But I can’t All I can do is tumble Like a circus acrobat In need of a net. Surely I will stop? Buffeted by an underwater current Surely I have to slow down Or can I fall for ever? I open my eyes I can’t see anything at this depth How am I still alive? I feel the pressure of the water on my chest I still seem to be breathing But how can that be? Finally I’m slowing down Tracing the trail of a feather Wafting from side to side As it nears the floor. I can see the seafloor Strewn with green Seaweed, lichen, rocks My eyes are growing accustomed And now I see orange And red. I see beautiful fronded seaweeds Delicate red urchins Swaying in the currents Mussels Clinging to ancient ropes. There is no light Yet cream fingers of coral shine Ancient fish lumber in and out of the rocks Glowing like lanterns. I feel so, so, so tired I want to touch the seabed To sink into the green world Enveloped by the dark Where I can close my eyes And finally stop breathing. In the secret light of the deep I see I am shifting in the currents Tumbling and stumbling Over the rocks Between the sea debris Coming to rest And wondering Did he really push me? Caroline Mohan Caroline Mohan is based in Ireland and writes sporadically - mostly stories with the occasional poem and mostly in workshops. She is currently enjoying ekphrastic writing and the fun of creating flash fiction. ** in a land called donnalee under the sea in a land called donnalee where the jellyfish float & octopussies emote i frolic with my marble lover curvy cold & deliciously salty Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from her cabin on a remote lake where hanging out with loons, bats and herons keeps her sane.
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