Joseph Van Bredael: Ekphrastic Writing Responses

The Adoration of the Magi, by Joseph Van Bredael (Flanders) before 1739

Editor's Note: Apologies. This was supposed to post automatically on Dec. 29 and it did not. Posting it manually today (Dec. 31). So sorry! Thanks everyone!

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on the painting The Adoration of the Magi by Joseph van Bredael

joseph
you painted  
a story of near   far   far off
the secret gospel code
of who was in and who was out
like all parables we’re there:
some moving on yet huddled for safety in their travel
some with bodies also huddled close
around the canopy of a house falling
into a stable of shambles
pressed together like wheat bending under wind
and  then there are some among the crowd
men from the East
the distant ancient enemy
who carried off His history’s people
now have returned with its own treasures
presenting to this child the priceless omens of His distant costly gift

Sister Lou Ella Hickman

Sister Lou Ella has a master’s in theology from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio and is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director as well as a poet and writer.  Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, US Catholic, Commonweal, The Christian Century, Presence, Prism, and several anthologies.  She was a Pushcart nominee in 2017 and 2020. Five poems from her book, she: robed and words, set to music by James Lee III were performed on May 11, 2021. The soloist was the opera singer Susanna Phillips, principal clarinetist Anthony McGill of the New York Philharmonic and Grammy® nominated pianist Mayra Huang.  The arrangement was part of a concert held at Y92 in New York City. The group of songs is entitled “Chavah’s Daughters Speak.” Another concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023.  The soloist was Elena Perroni.

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The Mission Tree

Christmas is standing alone as a far off encounter
Then the day comes where perfection must be found
An ornament, a testament to all that is natural-
Casting drudgery aside to climb the mountain in hope
Father, son, daughter, mother, brother, sister all along
Shielded from boredom on a glistening winters day
Talk of the mission paramount at the table the night before
The plan, the saw, the axe, the readiness- the size discussed
Waiting to be felled as a fallen soldier taken to soon
Armored with thorns and a resilient sap greenly hiding
Among the many there are candidates, which to be found Just
But there is one that must be-the one, the chosen one
Who will decide the merits of what is rich and what is gold
The youngest, the oldest - those in between being undecided
It is all too much trouble, please just pick, pick one, pick me
What voice is that surrendering to the family - Beauty
It is I, for I am the perfect tree; have you seen another fairer’
A child knows do not argue -this is the tree
the mission tree

MWPiercy

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 do not always cohere. Trying to manipulate- Ideas."  

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Innkeeper

Something happened in the dark
that suddenly was not dark
but full of burning light…and song--
crazed fools singing in the midst 
of Roman occupation--and in the dead of winter
when there’s little enough to celebrate. 

Bethlehem heaves with footsore pilgrims.
Each bed & board is full this week.
Even my shed out back was booked
by a weary carpenter & his wife.
Humbly they were glad to share
with donkeys, cattle, camels there.

Today I wake to bedlam in my small estate!
The pasture’s crammed with wayfarers—more 
than I can count. Has all the world gone mad? 
From the tavern’s balcony I see travellers 
never known before to mingle. What mystery 
is here? Sure, something happened overnight.

Shepherds I see—though not their flocks;
tradesmen with their wares—and do my eyes 
betray me?—regal folk with glorious clothes…
treasures in the straw. Must I join this tumult
of gathered folk? Yes, now I shall run fast!
Something happened in the dark.

They’ve torn away the stable walls to let the people see. 
The child new-born sits open-eyed
upon his mother’s knee; chuckling with delight,
he raises happy hands: sages, kings & beggars
fall to the ground to honour the child. 
I gaze on him, and he on me.

Never have I witnessed such a wonder.
Who cares for censuses, or for Roman laws
when God has come to stay with us?
Yes, something happened in the night!

Lizzie Ballagher

​Ballagher has travelled widely and lived for years in different countries: a kind of life that has greatly affected her writing. This year wintering in Pennsylvania, she is for the first time in many decades contemplating the beauty of the North American wilderness in winter.  Her work also appears intermittently at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/

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Adoration of the Magi

Holiday Express -- No room at the Inn.
Hyatt -- Try down the road.
Red Roof -- Sorry.
Courtyard -- Nothing.
Radisson -- All booked.
Travelodge -- No vacancy.
Marriott -- Full up.
Hampton -- You should’ve called ahead.
Ramada -- Shriners in town.
Motel 6 -- You're in luck.

David Jibson

David Jibson (past contributor) lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He is the managing editor of 3rd Wednesday, an independent quarterly journal of literary and visual arts, a board member of the Poetry Society of Michigan and an events coordinator for The Crazy Wisdom Poetry Circle. He is retired from a long career in Social Work, most recently with a Hospice agency. His poetry has been published in dozens of journals in print and online.

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The (Timeless) Adoration of the Magi, by Van Bredael

Long before peasants or kings gave a darn,And long before Ann Landers;
Jesus was born in a ramshackle barn
In 18th-century Flanders.

Magi and peasants, St. Mary and Joe
Wear clothes in the old fashion,
Down in the corner, crown-bearer in tow,
A Prince bends knee with passion.

He wears a cape and a Renaissance sword,
A clear anachronism.
So is the skyline that he’s looking toward,
A time-travel collision.

Jesus seems neither to notice nor care;
He stretches out his fingers.
Then, for us now, with us here, with them there,
His Incarnation lingers.

James A. Tweedie

James A. Tweedie is a formal poet living in Long Beach, Washington, with four books of poetry published by Dunecrest Press. He is the winner of the 2021 Society of Classical Poets International Poetry Competition, a Laureate's Choice in the 2021 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest, a First Prize winner in the 2022 100 Days of Dante Poetry Competition, and recipient of the quarterly prize for Best Poem by the Lyric.

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Fresh From Above

The heavens are opening and delivering light
In the form of flesh, fresh from above
To those in ramshackled shelters or gilded glory.

News is breaking like the day,
Washing away shadows and forms,
And defining the face of hope.

The cry of a babe takes away the breath
Of wanderers, seekers, and finders,
A birth, known before conceived, is being recorded.

The Word is becoming known by word of mouth,
Surety is being captured, captivating us,
All the earth is Bethlehem.

We are there, all of us,
Juxtaposed with those opposed,
Being united by one who can’t yet speak.

​Donna Harlan

Donna Harlan has published one collection of poetry titled Bench by the Pond. She is a reader for three literary journals and has had her works featured in several publications. She resides in Jonesborough, Tennessee with her husband where they delight in watching the sun rise and set over the lake every day.

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Denial
 
It's the things on the periphery that don't get noticed. The falcon in the white of the cloud. The dark cloud retreating (we know why). To the left, the town in its grey stone stiffness, no apology to the life in the foreground. The buildings on the right, pushing against each other and the river, going about business denying the distraction, oblivious of what is to come. There are people ignoring the commotion, hawking their wares or walking a horse into the river in anticipation of future baptisms. This is the world, this is the steely cast of life that spreads beyond whatever miracle is hatching in the foreground. So why is the falcon not joining the small birds on the roof of the barn?

Amy Jones Sedivy​

Amy Jones Sedivy grew up in Los Angeles and has lived in many of L.A.’s neighbourhoods. She admits that the best was her childhood home a block from the beach. Amy currently lives in the NELA neighborhood of Highland Park with her artist-husband and their princess-dog. She spends her time reading, writing, and exploring the rest of Los Angeles. Amy’s most recent stories have been published in (mac)ro(mic), Made in L.A. Beyond the Precipice anthology, Big Whoopie Deal, and The Write Launch.

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It's About Knowing Jesus

Those two in the middle look like a marriage
and the one on his own in a starlit carriage 
seen cradling a star above his nodding crown 
looking like an infant in a glowing kaftan gown.

Those five lit candles of different shapes & sizes 
could they have a significant meaning? 
The three in the foreground share gifts & spices
like three wise Kings, come supervening.

I mean, there is something here familiar. 
Thou I've never visited this Bethlehem town
there is something here, here like, sand scripture
it's about knowing Jesus didn't die and didn't drown.

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.

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In Bethlehem... 
 
Oh come! 
Let us adore him! 
know not the reason 
he is born to 
pave our way 
 
Oh come! 
Let us adore him! 
questions unasked 
answered 
in him today 
 
Oh come! 
Let us adore him! 
follow his footsteps 
peasant, scribe 
humble serf 
 
Oh come! 
Let us adore him! 
while his life unfolds 
therein lies our worth 
 
Jane Lang 
 
Jane Lang’s work has appeared in online publications including Quill and Parchment, the Avocet, Creative Inspirations, The Ekphrastic Review, and published in several anthologies. She has written and given two chap books to family and friends in lieu of Christmas cards. Jane lives in the Pacific Northwest. ​

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Too Many Walked Into an Inn

The painter Joe Van B had stopped to paint
the throng he saw that gathered out in back.
Confessing that he had a slight constraint--
his funds were sparse since income had been slack.
 
“I’m sorry, there’s no place for you to stay;
the manger has a pregnant bride and groom.
You see, we’re celebrating Three Kings Day.
I’m booked up to the hilt, so there’s no room.”
 
But since the innkeep loved the finer arts
he offered him a cot behind the bar
and though, at best, he’d sleep in fits and starts,
he’d get to paint before his au revoir.
 
The hotelier allowed him one free drink,
obliging him, since he lacked wherewithal,
to paint his mistress, washing at the sink.
Her painting tantalizes from their wall.
 
An old man and a lady wandered in--
“Big Joe and Mary! Say, long time no see.
This day, each year, I wonder how you’ve been.
Your room’s upstairs, the one out back’s not free.”
 
The night wore on and three more guys arrived,
dressed up like magi, tipping on the cheap.
They asked the innkeep, could it be contrived
for them to feed their camels and to sleep.
 
The barkeep poured—the water changed its hue.
Amazed, he said, “Out back, behind the shed,
to make accommodations maybe you
can turn some hay into a king-sized bed.”
 
That’s how it’s told in Barkeep Twelve, verse Nine,
“The Guys Who Turned Their Water Into Wine.”

Ken Gosse

Ken Gosse prefers to write rhymed, humorous verse using traditional forms. He was first published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.

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Saviour
 
Tiny hut of hay.
Inside a baby is born,
the king, our saviour.
 
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.

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Adoration
 
The inn’s roof, windows and shed  
are broken but not sad –
they knew they were made to come
to that state at that exact moment
in order to set up the manger
to accommodate the birth
of the humblest hearts changer.
 
It was a census time, so math ruled the day  
in many ways, forms and shapes –
from his immaculate conception to his birth,
converged with the Magi’s promptly calculated trip,
crisscrossed with the comet’s precise guiding,
paralleled by the shepherds timely welcoming,  
all enshrined into an inn’s marginal backstage –
a world coming of age on history’s blank page. 
 
The birds knew it perfect right 
and, on their part, they flew around to scheme
the perspectives of these coinciding lines.
The comet, on its side, shined in so bright
a contrast over this so grey a place,
it was pointless to try escape its spells.
The people, themselves, were magnetized
by the gracious babe and his serene mum,
so their upshot was plump and prime – awe.
 
Today’s draw:
how did those bookless farmers know
when, how, why, what    
 was happening in the world
and were aware of its significance
from the start, while we,
after ages of wonders and miles of pages,
still keep searching for proof crumbs
like some pathetic existential glums.
 
Math is not a poet,
yet here its exacting vein cuts through
each event as a poetic refrain
embracing contrasts better than any rhetoric tract
and so poignantly against that crumbling old fact
ready to clear the space for the newborn’s
divine plan to take place.
Roman governor’s carpe diem live –
by fine metrics and aligned antipodes
he’s made alert to an all-changing birth.
 
The bird on the hanging window sees
our predicament and ponders in disbelief
while balancing the old timber’s wobbling
by deftly tuning to the matrix
of the universal rhymed throbbing,
which at that moment is so openly astonishing   
that the crowd keeps coming and pouring
swerving everyone on the way
and trooping around the three Magi
whose arrival turns into a festival
celebrating the divine in our very own
human form for the very first time.
Adoration is thy name.
 
In governor’s tongue - ad/to orare/speak,
adorare, or – the word, the one in the beginning
of all beginnings, tuned to the meaning
of all meanings, so, what we are witnessing here
is an ever-expanding adoring
without which the gist can’t be grasped
in the vast and loud speaking space,
unless we take our daily bread –
the mathematical refrain that keeps us rhymed
during our peripatetic soul searching
like the bird’s equilibrium on the rostrum’s wobbling.
Their landing’s balancing act.
Our adoration’s subliminal impact.       
   
Ekaterina Dukas
 
Ekaterina Dukas, MA, has studied and taught linguistics and culture 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. Her poems have been honoured by the The Ekphrastic Review pleasurably often. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021.

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A Remarkable Day 

"He's God in human form!" whispers the crowd
In motley clothes and groups of twos and threes
Beneath the bulky, partly-aqua sky.
As nighttime slowly drops, birds meet the breeze
And soar towards the heavens, grand and proud.

Under the shanty's thatched roof sits a mother.
A blue cloak, one white tunic, and a veil
Make up her dress. Her eyes endear The Child
All humbly, and her soul is chanting, 'Hail!',
Aware her Son is not like any other.

Three men of kingly rank have gathered here
To show their reverence to Him through gold
Censers and myrrh while bowing. They are garbed
In striking gowns, have horses, and look old.
Their true devotion fills the atmosphere.

Although The King is born, His home is small,
Haunted by cats and pigeons, and straw-made,
To show God chose to dwell among the simple
And that He's only Son has come to aid
Humanity and deliver us all.

None knew they were to get abundant grace
Yet rushed on hearing "Come and see the Boy!"--
Some children, elderlies, and Roman guards;
Though some hearts harbour doubts and some great joy,
Each eye's fixed to this Baby's lucent face.

Shamik Banerjee

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. When he is not writing, he can be found strolling the hills surrounding his homestead. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Westward Quarterly, among others.

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