 In the Clouds, by Jacek Malczewski (Poland) c. 1894 An Ordinary Day "You've seen the refugees going nowhere, you've heard the executioner singing joyfully... Praise the mutilated world and the gray feather a thrush lost and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns." Try To Praise The Mutilated World, Adam Zagajewski It was an ordinary day: I saw the angel rise wearing handcuffs, the black wall of forest trees trimmed of individual identity obstructing movement in the background. I have dreamed of fields where foliage wears a crown of saffron; seasons when an ideology of earth clings like lost ideas to a wind- buffeted angel -- like children, words are spirits of new life, the harvest of the past. So I believe I have held newborns and watched the light illuminate a window; read poems by a professor, born in the Ukraine where now war mutilates the people, toppling cities; crippling everything but hope... How slim the stalks are, this past we've harvested, praying gun fire would grow silent; praying we can hold on to one another, tangled, as we are in the leitmotif of clouds where nothing guides the bare feet of an angel toward the breath of dawn above the ground. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp's book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationship between art and words. Honoured multiple times by The Ekphrastic Challenge, she studied poetry in The University of Houston's creative writing program at a time when Adam Zagajewski's poem, "Try To Praise The Mutilated World," appeared between black covers as the last page in the New Yorker issued after 911. ** Spinning Dust-Bowl Dreams
The clouds Create havoc in their wake — splitting atoms in the sky prospecting gilded wheat extracted from an emulsion of grime spinning dust-bowl dreams from fool’s gold delusions If you spin it, they will come, quoth the silence to the lamb whistling through lips greedy with I, spewing silence evading her starving ears fighting for just a nugget Foraging among a carrion of broken fences— shackled in a saucer of milk and honey intentions, she watches as these demons in angel’s clothing tumble from the sky Dethroned, denied their place in this dystopian debacle tempting fate as hellions grapple with her thirst for I fearless spectres eradicating sovereignty in this whirlwind And the clouds in the distance, witnessing the carnage spinning from its loins with eyes wide shut — rain icy tears on the stark meadow this boulevard of broken dreams, exposed and bowing to the ominous reality of stark days to come. Ann Marie Steele Ann Marie Steele, who resides in Charlotte, NC, America, is a writer who dabs mainly in free verse and prose poetry. She holds a BS in Journalism (News-Editorial), and an MA in Secondary English Education. Ann Marie pens pieces about love and loss, and what she observes and experiences. The loss of her youngest son, Brandon, has influenced much of her writing. Her works have been described as “resiliently defiant.” Ann Marie has been published in The Ekphrastic Review with her pieces, “Every Lilly Donned with Grief” and “I Dare You, Pretty Please,” and in Exist Otherwise with her piece, “Scintillating Symbiotic Sea.” ** A Day's Work A leg broken and healed out-of-shape betrays its farmhand, the wheat-worker, my grandfather. One day he will leave to mine coal in the Alleghenies and die of something else entirely. But today he is more than a man: his the rough hand that feels for God when leisure won't, who knows angels dirty with a day's work. Kathryn Borobia Katy Borobia is a recent graduate of Hillsdale College. Her poems and prose have been published by Ekstasis, Glass Mountain, and several others. ** Birth of Spring Demeter spins and seeds scatter, burrow, and are sown. She stalks the rows, protecting the tiny shoots bursting through, pushing further away from Hades’ black below. She haunts and hunts the snacking crows as her daughter, Persephone, snakes her way up through the silt and soil with loam in her pores and worms in her mouth. Persephone’s hand breaches the land, and Demeter, feet planted and toes channelling the strength of roots, grunts and pants to heave her free. Hades spits out the girl and her grubs, and Demeter’s sweat and tears rain joy on the grains to the music of Persephone’s vernal scream. Bayveen O'Connell Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer whose words have been nominated for Best Microfiction, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. She loves art, history, folklore, and myth. ** The Moments of Tomorrow Bound we run, slightly unhinged through the buoyant clouds of golden dust Haunted by the shadows of the past blending with the nature that surrounds Embraced in the dense canopy meeting the sky sheltered from the torrent of time Disappearing footprints wear our names tow-coloured meadow, a soothing sanctuary Emanating endurance of our weary shape indestructible perseverance of our inner spirit Ohh, how we mourn the loss of Humanity; the enslaved homeland left behind Our minds, dust clouds, floating forward tentatively towards the moments of tomorrow Andrea Damic Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, resides in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of poetry and prose. She writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express herself, she uses photography to speak for her. Her poems can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, the other side of hope, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, The Piker Press, Mad Swirl and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website: https://damicandrea.wordpress.com. ** Breakfast Cereal Oh to break fast with wing-milled wheat And the milk of angels aged ! Fresh from the field Where cherubs are chained And Polonia’s sunny yield preserved. Alas, all we consume is twisted and free In the shade of trees askew, For we deserve not she who We fasten with our fresh air, No, we break fast with milky shadow, sucked from above her greying hair. Sophiya Sian Sophiya Sian is a UK-based creative and undergraduate student reading Comparative Literature. She recently wrote the screenplay Pigeon-Livered, an independent short film set to be released early this year. Catch her over on Instagram @thinkinfin. ** When Souls Can’t Rest She soars on gossamer wings into a silent sky, safe from the deafening thunder of war below, her fragile wrists shackled behind her back, still bearing the battle scars of hatred. Who will save the children left behind in despair? Who will feed their shriveling bodies and nurse their open wounds? The children beg her to stay but their voices fade from afar as she focuses on the trees beyond that continue to thrive while children die. Clouds thicken and gray as her wings slip into the mist. Cries of anguish still linger in the breeze and her tears spill, too. No one wins when souls can’t rest. Shelly Blankman Shelly Blankman lives in Columbia, Maryland with her husband of 43 years. They have two sons, Richard and Joshua, who live in New York and Texas, respectively. They have filled their empty nest with four rescue cats and a dog. Richard and Joshua surprised Shelly with the publication of her first book of poetry, Pumpkinhead. Her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, and Muddy River Poetry Review, and Open Door Magazine, among others. ** No Turning Back In the far distance they saw something moving. Heat shimmer down the road, a mirage growing. Not water, pooled on black tarmac, but something golden, alien – angelic. Rising silvery in a tumbling cloud, as once the prophesising angels must have seemed. But here in the bread basket, while rye and wheat and barley baked in the summer sun, something else was loosed. Dust bowl America, overworked earth. Seventeen-year cicada hum groaning into life. Or on the Great Steppe, dry air, winter cold as dusty death. August breezes blasted from a broken car muffler stripped the topsoil away, flung it skyward, as if to declare, here are my children, here, their inheritance, which, like your progress, are promises reduced to just so much hot air. Only the poltergeist is left, alone in its abject fury. Jo Mazelis Novelist, poet, photographer, essayist and short story writer, Jo Mazelis grew up in Swansea, later living in Aberystwyth and then London for over 14 years before returning to her hometown. Her novel Significance was awarded the Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Prize 2015. Her first collection of short stories Diving Girls was shortlisted for both Wales Book of the Year and Commonwealth Best First Book. Her book Circle Games was long-listed for Wales Book of the Year. Her third collection of stories Ritual, 1969 was long-listed for the Edge Hill Prize and shortlisted for Wales Book of the Year in 2017. Blister and Other Stories was shortlisted for the Rubery Award in 2023. ** The Northern Line No one remembers getting on the train. Amnesiac, we’ve always been traveling, always riding. Our folks paid our fare, but we only remember how July heat rose from the fields and women cooked all day, red-faced, bickering, envying their menfolk’s outdoor life. But that prison’s drawn by a tall black line fencing their reach, the wide blue yonder just a torment. Aunts and uncles fall by the wayside. Bits and pieces abide, moving along with us, outside our train window. Now, my mother joins them, the smartest of thirteen kids, born with both hands tied behind her back. No. I did not agree to this. The train’s moving too fast, I say, as we fly through Rapid City, our people trailing behind us. Sarah Holloway Sarah Holloway lives with her husband and lots of books in Savannah, GA. She’s a recovering tax accountant. Her recent work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly's blog, Roi Fainéant, Emerge Literary Journal, Cowboy Jamboree and SugarSugarSalt. She’s on Twitter/X @Sarah31405. ** The Incident Those kids were asking for it, who told them to joyride the tractor like that─ slamming on the brakes for a bird whiffling through the air like some corkscrew opening dreams that they (like everyone) had of flying, knowing they would surely fly someday but never thinking it would be that day, the dust cloud rising, harsh braking lifting them out of their seats, tire tracks furrowing the field where grass won’t grow, not to this day, especially not on the spot where, if you view it from a distance, it looks for all the world like angel wings opening. Cheryl Snell's books include several poetry collections and the novels of her Bombay Trilogy. Her most recent writing has appeared in Does It Have Pockets? Switch, Gone Lawn, Your Impossible Voice, Pure Slush, and other journals. A classical pianist, she lives in Maryland with her husband, a mathematical engineer. ** Fields of Witness Wheat fields of Zaręby Kościelne loom brittle, no longer incubated in Brok River bed soil, no longer trampled by naked boys racing to splash in their Sunday swim, no longer rented to their parents to eke their week’s zlotys. My shoes crunch on crispy stalks, stomp on my grandfather’s memory clouds, slipping between blades of long-gone windmills. Dew insists life once existed here, before Russian occupation, Soviet takeover, Nazi invasion. Shrouded ancestors, you omnipresent sentinels, why did you not emerge from struggling vegetation, breathe your warnings? They whisper: We lost our voices in troop dust. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner visited her grandparents’ Polish village in 2008. She holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies from Gratz College. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod International, Paterson Literary Review, Typehouse, Cimarron Review, Rust + Moth, and other journals. She lives and teaches in New Jersey. ** From the Cloud of Dust From earth to earth, and dust to dust, is this a ghoul, ghost of the swirl from yellow field, sand sundried track where sky, trees, field, path stratified? With speckled cloud, long pine line thinned, weed growth of green ’gainst meadow gold, though wheel tread rutting parallel, set lines are drawn for wight erupt. So are they shades or one in whirl, these dancers of one move unfurled, dust devil’s grit confusing eye or phantoms raised as spectral wraith? No will-o’-wisp, phosphine oxide, or lantern swamp to misguide fools, this dry five, more, evolving shape writhes wrist chains, grim skull, digit reach. Polonia, emerging sons, from shackled hands of Poland’s past, can Motherland be symbolised; or demon mad, Poludnica? A tromp l’oeil, imagined mind, a marriage, surreal, well-earthed, out on a limb, unmeasured step, that breath, wind, spirit blows as will. 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. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Apparition Did you descend from the sky or ascend from the earth, your ethereal form hovers over brush and scrub. You could be struggling to escape the shackles of motherhood or liberating yourself from a homeland steeped in tsarist autocracy searching for a more vibrant, independent palette of landscape. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino, communications director by day, poet by night, has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Writing in a Women’s Voice, Global Poemic, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Agape Review, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Panoply, Etched Onyx Magazine, and at wildamorris.blogspot.com. ** I Don’t Know, Angels Maybe I’m trying on the vestments of angels, I’m trying to be good. Remember when you asked me what word do I misspell? It’s definitely. Somewhere inside me, I want the base to be define instead of finite and it fucks me up every time. Finite leads to infinity and then the idea that I could go on living for who knows how long and that’s a downer even though I’m not ready to die yet. I still need more clarification regarding dogs. Most of the stories about them are sad stories unless they are happy stories, but I’m still crying by the end either way while a great dark mouth is eating all the trees and I keep thinking of that time your car died on the roadside in what we thought of then as rural Maine and I imagined a kind of fog rolling in from the fields to envelop you while I waited for a call back. Unacceptable! A hole like that is either a portal or it’s vastly empty. I promised myself I would never stop trying, but I’m so tired. I want my old clothes back, the jeans that you used to borrow. I love you so much, though I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud, in that way. Let the damned pendulum keep swinging. I’m easily as culpable as my own mother was but in completely different ways. God! I tried, I swear it. It was just the wrong day, I was wearing the wrong face, but now things are moving at an incurable rate, bridges are connecting people who never thought they’d meet. It’s beautiful, a golden hour. Maybe we could all be better than we ever dreamed of being. Crystal Karlberg Crystal Karlberg is a Library Assistant at her local public library. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in: The Threepenny Review; The Penn Review; Beloit Poetry Journal. ** Defiance Tumbling through time, a mist of loam enshrines —a glimpse-- of an angel’s untimely demise. An apparition of Atropos, cutting her threads shy, so when plucked, she might choose to die. Sworn never to be the unwilling bride of some dreadful lord, unwedded, her dress torn where faithful sisters stitched wings inside. In defiance, the goddess throws herself down, on a bed of nightshade sewed into the gown. Loosed, the spool begins to unravel, until uncoiled she’s freed, becoming immortal. Jory Como Jory Como is an emerging poet and songwriter from northern Minnesota. He holds bachelor’s degrees in Nursing and Organizational Behavior. Several of his short holiday stories have been published in local newspapers. As a veteran, Jory hopes to use his work and the art of poetry to help others realize healing from emotional and physical trauma. He lives on a hobby farm with his spouse and children. ** In the Gold Fields The gold. It hurts your eyes. And you see things that are not there. Are possibly not there. Were there, you said. You told me of a flurry, white and gold with arms or wings. You told me this in the evening, you had been waiting all day to tell me and admitted that you worried I would laugh. Or worse, deny. It was beautiful, you said. Three or four beings, maybe more or less it was hard to tell with the way the breeze whipped cloth, feathers, hair, bodies. I refrained from saying what I thought. That you were tired, that a wind stirred up the golden field into a twister, that you wanted it to be something marvelous. The fields are a vivid gold I said. They are, you said, and that’s what brought them here. They were attracted to the gold. They whirled in it, like bees dancing to gather pollen. I tried to ask, did they see you, did they acknowledge you, but your face was aglow as if lit by the fields, your eyes were shining, you looked so enthralled I decided not to drag reality into your dream. But perhaps I should have. The next day you went to the fields. I saw from the porch as you stepped into the gold and you laughed and cried out in wonder, and I saw the moment you left me. Amy Jones Sedivy Amy Jones Sedivy retired this year and is happy to sit on the front porch with the dog, and read novels, short stories, and politics. She has been published in several online and print literary magazines. ** To Jacek Malczewski Regarding In the Clouds So well in dust you conjured theme where clouds and trees in tandem seem to hold the souls in captive state who suffer heat of demon's hate for yearning's thirst to labour free and self determine destiny tradition long has held as trust bequeathed by generations thrust where love would flicker into flame becoming home and hearth and name -- a blaze that would sustain and heal and forge a will of tempered steel assured forever to survive as spirit in which they would thrive. 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.
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