 Fishermen, by Hector Hyppolite (Haiti) 1946 Going for the Gold The day started out as always. Paulo joined the others as they headed out to sea with their handheld nets. He expected their haul to include parrotfish, small grouper, and snapper. These fish reproduced quickly. They were plentiful. Sometimes the fishermen could hook a sailfish, large grouper, or tuna. More money to turn over to his wife. Paulo quickly scanned the waters, paying particular attention to the known breeding grounds, especially near the reef. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. Sat back in the boat and looked up at the sky. That’s when he saw them. A school of fly fish among the clouds. Gold, red. He could almost hear them squeal with glee as they somersaulted from pillow to pillow. Catching one of these could bring in good money. More money to turn over to his children. He couldn’t vouch for fly fish taste, but their rarity should speak for itself. He grabbed the net and aimed high. He stretched his arms again and again until he felt his muscles tear. And jumped. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including an ekphrastic collection, Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press) and a forthcoming ekphrastic poetry collection, The Night Watch (Kelsay Books). Her work has also been featured in more than seventy literary journals. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** Fishermen Our nets at the ready We think of our mothers, daughters, sisters, Aunties waiting. How might we outrun the storm To bring them our bounty? So close to the cliff our boat rocks, The fish mock us. We fear the rocks and the rain. These fish have no fear of stormy weather. They leap into our nets as if we were their mothers Calling them to dinner. Will we get home to our own mothers In time for dinner? Their braziers are ready. Our dry clothes, red, yellow, green, are waiting. We must not be late. Donna Reiss Writer, editor, teacher, bookmaker, and mixed media/paper artist, Donna lives in Greenville, South Carolina, where she is a member of the Greenville Center for Creative Arts, the Guild of American Papercutters, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Follow her on Instagram @dreissart. ** how not to catch a goldfish how to fish but not to disturb the spreading silver so that no small body leaves, or ever has to leave her. When I don’t hold a goldfish, and you don’t catch her, the sea has no orphans, no failing brightness, the gold remaining and the brightness is retained. We stand in the idling boat, threading the white silver with our bare hands. The white never loses her radiance since we decided to leave the goldfish Helen Pletts Helen Pletts: (www.helenpletts.com) Shortlisted five times for Bridport Poetry Prize 2018, 2019, 2022, 2023 and 2024, twice longlisted for The Rialto Nature & Place 2018 and 2022, longlisted for the Ginkgo Prize 2019, longlisted for The National Poetry Competition 2022. Second prize Plaza Prose Poetry 2022-23. Shortlisted Plaza Prose Poetry 2023-24. English co-translator of Ma Yongbo, representative of Chinese Avant-garde poetry. Her poetry is translated into Chinese, Bangla, Vietnamese, Greek, Italian, Arabic, Croatian, Romanian and Korean. ** Fishing When I was a boy, my mother would throw open the back screen door violently and yell my name into the summer Saturday mornings. Usually, I was hidden, beyond the backyard, out of visual range, if not aural. I knew when my father was going fishing, and that she always wanted me to go too. It was not selfish on her part. In the beginning, she wanted him to love me and with time, me him. But I learned to hide. I knew that his wispy patience would evaporate quickly, ending with him grunting loudly, “Maybe next time.” He would drive away, boat in tow, never looking in the mirror, each of us thinking we cared less than the other. We must have repeated a variation of that scene a dozen times. One Saturday, though, she laid in wait and pinned me before I escaped to the outdoors, making me sit and wait for him. When he entered the kitchen, he stared at me blankly realizing I was going along. He asked her about my lunch, to which she smiled and said, “whatever you’re having.” That was inconvenient as he was having beer. He stopped at the corner grocery and bought a cob of white bread, a half pound of pimento loaf, and two warm colas. He handed me the bag wordlessly, and I had nothing to add. My life was simple, but not bologna on white bread simple. We put the boat in on the Scioto River. Two of his friends from Kentucky, or maybe West Virginia, joined us. One of them smacked the back of my head and jokingly called me something vulgar. I don’t remember what. He smiled funny, so I wouldn’t take it poorly. We floated out to some sycamores near the ramp, and they immediately started casting. My father handed me a short pole with a bobber, and a small plastic tub of worms. He set the float about two feet above the hook and said, “when it goes down, you pull up.” I threaded the very end of the worm over the barb, hoping not to hit a vital organ. They laughed, and my father waved one of them off when he started to help me. We caught perhaps a hundred perch or bluegill that day. Each about the size of a grown man’s hand. I caught perhaps four or five myself, one on a hook I forgot to bait. When we got home, my father just said “yes” when my mother asked if I caught any fish. He cleaned them and then cooked them on a charcoal barbecue in the backyard. Smiling, he gave a lot away to neighbors. It was the best day I ever had with him. We did not go fishing again. I joined the Army a few years later, and we saw each other once or twice more before he died. G. L. Walters G. L. Walters lives in Boston, Massachusetts, with his partner and sits in the guestroom writing most days. He holds a J.D. from Cornell, an M.M.A.S. from the School of Advanced Military Studies, and an M.A. in English from SNHU. He is currently writing for an M.F.A. at Lindenwood. ** Deliverance Don’t be guided by me. I am Both more and less than all I seem. My words may glitter, but they are False friends, with mocking smiles and knowing eyes. This gate that I have guarded And for which, even now, I keep the key, Is wide enough for two, provided They walk through it side by side, holding hands. It leads to paradise, they say, And who am I to dispute their wisdom? I’ve watched it, night and day, for many years And yet I’ve never, ever, seen a unicorn. I quite agree. Just what does make paradise? For some it’s sunshine, and lone and level sands, For others, the mere fact of being born. 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 ** Craftmanship I met my wife in Port au Prince, by watchful eyes of Baby Doc; I will forebear to bore withal, not weary with strange circumstance, for fear Tonton Macoute about. Each taxi - Tap-tap - symbols swathed, a syncretistic blend of two, both Voodoo, Roman, catch-all type, dashboard paraphernalia, with Papa’s glower as final power. We learnt photography was out, one’s spirit stolen by the lens; but quite unfair, I took my chance, snapped fisherman atop his mast, before he bore us in his craft. He could not shield his eyes as climbed, for fear the crash would dash on deck; his hands tight wrapped around wood pole, this white man, tourist, flashed his cash, a stash more weighty than man’s food. She dropped sun glasses from boat side while, quick as flash, dugout canoe, a lad had dived, as finding pearl - retrieved and earned his dollar too, with admiration from the crew. We sailed to isle of La Gonâve, saw ceremony on the beach, converted oungan burning books, which incantations stormed his craft, while thunder rolled round heaving seas. I wonder now, some fifty on, that boatman, dare provide the scene - though not pathetic fallacy - the ciné, for tour mission fund, poor sailors of benighted land? Geography was not my strength, so I thought flight Tahiti bound; another art, though less a wife. I’m glad that Haïti entered life - some story for those folk back home. Engaged, for ring, we sponsored child, a Creole speaking girl at school. Her father was of fisherfolk, so she might climb some greasy pole, and wave goodbye to shifting sands. Hyppolyte - his canvas, card, with chicken feathers for a brush, discovered by surreal brand as the Grand Maître of his class - would learn to spread a wider net. 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 ** Big Bro Angles I bet you spotted the vintage net Grandpa bequeathed when fishing first hooked me – now my lucky charm lands me so many trophies. My eye’s snagged on at least ten desirables, plus Junior selling my fresh red snapper before we even reach shore. He handles sales. Says he’d rather do business. Says he didn’t inherit Papa’s sea legs. Peterson’s usual faraway look and slack line show me he’s meditating on lunch or Mirlande. He’s silent like a stealthfin. Doesn’t jig or troll. Doesn’t even read the teeming water or shifting sky. But I notice everything. Think I don’t see you? Helen Freeman Helen writes poems and flash fiction in Edinburgh and particularly loves responding to art. What a cool site this is! Her instagram is @chemchemi.hf ** Ellen’s Story Ellen was too late. The men had already cast off. She watched from the shore as the tide lured the boat away. Quint was at the bow, scowling and swearing, while Hooper fiddled with his equipment. And at the stern was Martin. She had missed her chance to persuade him to stay, to just let the experts hunt without him. Martin, who had narrowly escaped drowning as a child and now feared the water. He was nonetheless determined to help catch the shark that had terrorized their little island community: three people dead in seven days. In her dream the shark took Martin too, Ellen helpless as her husband was severed, consumed. She’d awakened to a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets, the man who’d lain beside her all these years gone. Then she’d run, sock feet slapping the ground all the way to the dock, but too slow, too late. Ellen watched the boat as it carried her husband out to sea, where a dorsal fin pierced the surface, and below... But then Martin looked up at her, raising his hand, and she saw that somehow a flying fish had clamped onto his sleeve. With a flick of his wrist he shook it off, then gave her a wave before turning back to help Hooper. Ellen took a deep breath, inhaling the ocean air, and for a moment it smelled of hope. Tracy Royce * “Ellen’s Story” celebrates the 50th anniversary of Steven Spielberg’s blockbuster, Jaws. Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Villain Era, and elsewhere. Jaws is her favourite film of all time. You can find her on Bluesky. ** Inheritance What lies ancient, dark, over the ocean the sea-- deep, unending, without form? Our ancestors call us to return, echoing across the ebb and flow of time. Who arrives ready, open and fully awake, shining within what endures? Light glimmers, netted, caught as if in a held breath-- to be released, singing the stars. 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/. ** Brightly Coloured Fishermen You’d think they would be hidden, these brightly coloured fishermen, from the fish beneath them, to be camouflaged from bass and cod, these men donned as polychromed avians seeking to capture herring: like rosy female phalaropes or gannets crowned in golden. Their nets like beaks of red-pouched pelicans and clamps as sleek as a cormorant’s tongs, such is their equipment. The pod of boat that rocks them in the wavering ocean hides them when only seen from the bottom of the salted water sea. Flashy jacketed fishermen, like lures dangling, taunting, hoping for a catch, to load carnelian- patched salmon under the indigo hatch along with iridescent bluefish. When in the mix a luring sound. A low-pitched siren squirming, singing in the rocking hold-- a Mermaid, half woman, holding on, emerging from unknown origin. Silver-scaled, her lower half reveals the mystery of abandoned paramours lost at sea, cast overboard to ever swim in the eddying coves collecting knobby domes of sea urchins in their secret pockets. Brightly coloured fishermen want notice from this damsel through their dress to woo the creature morphing into human when lifted from the hatch, with seaweed dangling from her palms of upraised hands clutching gems of sea glass, their milky hues reflecting vividly jacketed fishermen. Cynthia Dorfman Cynthia Dorfman writes in Maryland and Wisconsin, depending on the season. Her work has appeared in Bramble (literary magazine of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets), Moss Piglet Journal, and A Catalog of Small Machines (online publication of the Driftless Writing Center). ** Agwé’s Believer It was an ordinary day for fishing. The cotton coastal waters were calm though a distant storm brewed in the open ocean. Ten cichlids flopped in their twig-thin nets. The three young fishermen rowed their way back to the beach. Their friend in the crimson shirt was waiting for them. “I see today’s catch was good.” He anchored the boat for them. “Got enough cichlids to sell to the merchants,” the fisherman in the dandelion shirt said. “I’ll make enough money for my family,” the fisherman in the crimson vest said. “The catch was so good because I gave a good tribute to Agwé,” the fisherman in the emerald vest said. His warm-coloured friends stared at him coldly. “Not so loud! You want some nonmblan to hear you?” His friend in the dandelion shirt shushed him. “They’ll burn our boat if they catch on!” “I only spoke the truth…” “We know.” His friend in the crimson vest said. “But if they ask you, just say it was Jesus.” “But…” A red snapper splashed out of the blue and bit the fisherman in the crimson vest. The irritated man flung his arms like worms wriggling on hooks until his micro assailant let go, swimming away with leisure. This ordinary day for fishing went on differently for the four fishermen. As he wanted, the fisherman in the dandelion shirt sold his cichlids to merchants and made money. However, the red snapper that assaulted him got the final laugh: merchants and their customers got salmonella, and because most of them were nonmblan*, the fisherman lost to their ruthless request for retribution. As he wanted, the fisherman in the crimson vest sold his cichlids and earned money for his family: food on the table, clothes for the children, and a nicer house on the hills. Unfortunately, a week after the move, a landslide buried their home. With nothing left, the fisherman and his wife sent their children to a relative overseas. As he jinxed nothing, the fishermen’s friend in the crimson shirt lived an uneventful life. The fisherman in the emerald vest sold his cichlids and went back home. He thanked Agwé with a tribute of dirikwit** and a bottle of siwokann***, his only luxury. Unlike his first friend, salmonella did not attack his customers. Unlike his second friend, his sturdy shack stood firmly against the landslide. Unlike his last friend, his life continued fulfilled and eventful. Bigger cichlids flopped in his net. His shack was rebuilt into a fish shop. When he retired, his son turned the fish shop into a fish-themed restaurant. Decades after the fisherman had died, his descendants were running a chain of fish-themed restaurants in four different countries… After watching over them, his soul met with Agwé, who had set up a feast with every tribute the fisherman had offered throughout his life. Celine Krempp *white man ** cooked rice *** cane syrup Celine Krempp Celine is a French-American with her paternal family from the Northeast side of France. Working part-time as an art museum security guard inspires Celine in her ekphrastic writing. She is new to the The Ekphrastic Review, having written Her Final Performance. When she’s not brainstorming her next creative project, she walks her dog VanGogh, reads books, indulges in sweet cravings, and binge-watches adult animation and Tanked on streaming services. Celine is constantly jotting down ideas for short form writing inspired by her emotions, personal and professional experiences. Many people, including her therapist and colleagues, have described her work as "a relatable commentary." ** The Catch “Aha I caught fish!” The woman said with a gleam. “That’s not a catch in my philosophy” Said the man in yellow with a resemblance to her likeness, Gene “Ugh I haven’t caught any all day, I’m gonna scream.” Said the man in the vest of turtle shaded green. “If you do that you’ll scare the fish all the way to that man fishing downstream.” Said the man in the vest with the red sheen. “Not a catch? Why don’t you support me, are you so heartless?” She said with her eyes starting to drip like a faucet. “That’s not true, for you I go fishing everyday to raise money for your market. You found that fish on dry land, after a bird dropped it.” The man in green said “There is another reason I’m upset, If I don’t catch enough fish I won’t be able to feed my wounded Egret.” His friend in red said “Take a deep breath and don’t fret, There are plenty of fish in our orbit.” Ryan Steremberg Ryan Steremberg is a recent graduate of Muhlenberg College, having spent half of the past two years studying in Copenhagen, Denmark. Writing since 2018, his work comprises of poetry, short plays, and short fiction. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review. ** Oh, How They’d Row Oh, how they’d row for their lives. For a catch to fill many a deep, empty basket Before the waves would grow And swell in the throes of an arctic day Oh, how they’d row for their lives. And sing old sea shanty songs of the day. When their sails blew and sailed them away And they all came back with lots more to say. A tale of a killer whale and a headless mermaid And a gull that wasn’t too nimble or strong And fell from the sky their way And their fishing was gold that day. Oh, how they’d row for their lives. And laughed when the winds blew wild Dreaming of a fresh hot lobster bisque A blue crayfish dish, back at home – what bliss. Oh, how they’d row for their lives. And sing to the hissing of the waves. Remembering not so long ago… Another boat’s grave, not so lucky as they Still heard moaning in the gulleys and the caves. A tale of a ghostly crew capsized in the harbour Oh, how they’d row and cast off their fears, their chains. And count all the blessings of their days. And every good catch in fair weather or foul. Sending them home to a waiting lover, wearied in the night Gazing up at the moon. 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. ** The Fishing Party The clouds are tinged with the scent of ochre and vermilion. The afternoon is just born. The ocean is a snow-white foam of abundance. Three fishermen set out in a coracle shaped like a giant fish - no gills or silver scales, not breathing, but a magnet for the ones alive. The flying fish seek shelter in the salt of the breeze. Salmon and catfish frolic in the shadow of deception. Tadpoles gush to touch the face of the bubbling water. The minnows tangle in the underwater net of swirl and splash. A fourth fisherman perches on the precipice, waiting to be invited by the cobalt blue safety of distance. At the bottom of the ocean bed, below the clear waters, coloured pebbles glisten like jewelled rocks. Preeth Ganapathy Preeth Ganapathy is from Bengaluru, India. Her works have been published in several magazines, more recently, in Pensive, Braided Way, The Orchard Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Her microchaps A Single Moment, Purple, and Birds of the Sky, have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for Best Spiritual Literature. ** The Boat We are the tiny wooden boat, born of will and hope that carries dreams across the restless waters of life. Each stroke of the oar is a silent prayer Each drift is a testament to resilience The sea, a canvas of chaos and calm, mirrors our internal storms and struggles. And we then feel the urge the urge to move, to seek, to find refuge, even when the currents almost pull us under. We discover that survival is an act of faith. A delicate balance between the act of letting go and holding on to what helps keep us afloat. Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford and a professional Bharatanatyam dancer. Her poems have appeared in many national and international online and print magazines and anthologies. She has two poetry books to her credit (She: The Reality of Womanhood and Pa(i)red Poetry). Her profile showcasing her use of poetry was recently featured in Lifestyle Magazine. ** To Hector Hyppolite Regarding Fishermen You nurtured souls as cleric first retiring to become immersed in art you made from meager means, your feathers brushing local scenes in oil on cardboard to sustain the call to greater reach and reign as patriarch of Haitian lore unleashed to bear forevermore its testament to faith profound that resonates while storms resound with stern resolve to fate endured as destiny to which inured on land that breaks the sea alone and wakes to harvest never sown. 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. ** A Sacred Act The echo of church bells dispersed from a hill, the sky vespered in birds, the blue circling of swallows -- and I know I'm in flight, lifting from the scene of one page to the next, delving into the song of those who carry the fishermen's saint. Her torso draped in a white net, adorned with prayer beads and red flowers. Their Stella Maris who blesses the village; the men who sail at dawn and return at dusk, smelling of bass with paint --peeling boats, (the ruin of brine) while some saint of reading blesses me, often igniting my senses in a procession from book to book. And like votive candles, they burn through an endless night or the rain -- washed hours of an afternoon. Somehow she always sends me to the most significant work. Her presence cast over the chapters, illuminating the script as if it were a mullioned window letting in what's ever meant to be seen or inferred. A sense of divine intervention, a silence that floats inside our mind and knows the miracle of sharing thoughts and feeding the hungry with words. Their fish and loaves of bread. Wendy A. Howe Author's note: Stella Maris refers to The Virgin Mary and is translated from the Latin as "Star of the sea". In many fishing villages and ports, She is regarded as the guiding star that helps fishermen navigate the sea while keeping them safe and blessed with the possibility of a good day's catch. Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in Southern California. Her work is deeply influenced by diverse cultures, history, myth and women's issues. She often refers to her poetic self as a shape-shifter who assumes various roles that explore the circumstances of different situations or landscapes. Over the years, she has appeared in a number of journals including: Liminality, Silver Blade, Eye To The Telescope, Strange Horizons, Mirror Dance, Carmina Magazine, The Winged Moon, Crows and Cross Keys and many others. ** The Smiling Man A smiling man held out his hand. He called to fishers three: “Take me aboard and let us row across the foaming sea.” Said they, “We fish for pwason woz, for working men are we: We cast our nets to feed our kin who live beside the sea.” Then spoke again that smiling man, and full of joy was he: “The catch that’s waiting for you here is all humanity. Come cast, come cast, and fill your nets with souls that would be free, And you’ll be fed on sweeter fish than swim in any sea.” “Mèt mwen, mèt mwen,” the fishers sighed, “We’re far from Galilee: Ayisyen men like us may fish in never a white man’s sea.” “Frè m yo, frè m yo” he answered them, “believe in me, tan prie, And all you catch will pray for you to my papa and me.” Ruth S. Baker Author's note: Haitian Creole words: pwason woz - fish popular with Haitian fishermen; "mèt mwen" - "my lord"; "frè m yo" - "my brothers"]. Ruth S Baker has published in some online magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review. ** From Land I stand at a distance, never boarding the boat, nor testing the waters. Even when the sea-bound beckon, something holds me rooted where I leave nothing changed. Spray freckles my face as I feel wind tug my clothes like a compass toward the relentless waves; everything seems to whisper follow, follow—but I refrain. The boat drifts as a fish flashing the colour of power arcs through the air; an intrusive offering. And yet I reach, toes brushing the shores’ edge as my fingers brush the gills; so slight so heavy I release. The water reclaims it, and the current carries on. Emily Anne Rose Emily Anne Rose (she/her) lives and writes in Los Angeles. ** Caught by the Sea Caught by the sea, Haitian we sing Bought from a shared history Trapped among mountain shakes and storms Locked between boats and sanded shores Bound to hull shapes of misery Survived through conquest’s injury Found revolution’s victory Saw the sore souls escaping war Caught by the sea As pale fish freed from fisheries We swam to unthought mysteries Swore not to forget anymore Never ignored but life restored As Haiti is eternally Caught by the sea 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.
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