Sarah Bernhardt: Ekphrastic Writing Responses

After the Storm, by Sarah Bernhardt (France) 1876

ٹنکا

سارہ برن ہارٹ (فرانس) کی تصویر "طوفان کے بعد" کی طرز پر

گنیش کے نام 


ہلدی رنگ پُتلا 
اُما کی گود میں بے جان--
شیو کی خلاصی: 
ہاتھی کا سر بچاؤ کو؛
دانا گنیش کا جنم!
 
 سعد علی
۳۱ مئی ۵ ۲۰۲ء
​

**
​Tanka
 for Ganesha

turmeric golem
inert in Parvati's lap--
Shiva’s redemption:
elephant’s head to rescue;
birth o’ Ganesha, The Wise!

Saad Ali

Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE) is a poet-philosopher & literary translator from the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management. His new collection of poems is Owl Of Pines: Sunyata. He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His work appears in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, Lothlorien, Lotus-eater, BRAWL Lit., Pandemonium Journal, Immagine e Poesia, and Poetry in English from Pakistan by Ilona Yusuf & Shafiq Naz (eds.). He has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and Best Microfiction. To know more: www.facebook.com/owlofpines

​**

After the Storms, the Surface Uncertain

The boy pretends to stumble, then flops across my lap, tongue lolling. He is poking fun at me for needing to stop and rest. “I’m simply ex-hausted!” he croaks in an old-lady voice, then shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. I’m glad he still thinks this journey is an adventure. He never heard the late-night grumbling. Never suspected that some of the others are no longer content to dine on bats or whatever we can catch in the nets we made after retreating underground. Now the boy is having trouble keeping a straight face—he clasps my cloak to keep from cracking up. I still think of him as the boy, even though I call him something else, this waif I found after we all fled the storms on the surface. He is mine now, and I bend over him, “Blech! What’s that smell? I must have snared something rotten in my net.” He laughs, then says, “Tell me again what my name means,” and I reply, “Well, you are my sunbeam. You look like a Ray.” His smile is luminous as he stands, and we resume our upward climb. Together, we approach a world he cannot recall, and I cannot fathom.
​
Tracy Royce

Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in / are forthcoming in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Scrawl Place, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. Find her on Bluesky.

​**

Sioulder Bras

ar re-mañ a davas, hag e voe ur sioulder bras
Luke 8:24, Breton version
(and the storm came to an end and there was a great calm)

Look at the catch: my little sea-star, Per,
Just as I’ve dreamed.  He always was too quick.
No flesh on him, but see his hair: so thick,
A man might fish with it.  His mother’s hair.
They caught him in the nets tonight.  She’s gone
Long since, my daughter, in another storm,
Thank God.  His hand’s curled up, but it’s not warm;
He used to glow like fire. The sea goes on.
I dreamed once of Our Lady: she looked young,
Although her boy was grown.  For near a week
I’ve seen it coming and I’ve held my tongue.
We nodded, in my dream.  We did not speak.
We understood each other, and we sat,
Minding our words.  Good night, Perig.  Noz vat.

Julia Griffin

Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia.

**

Pieta

Mary, the Blessed Mother, the Theotokos, the God-bearer, holds her son, Jesus, the Paschal Sacrifice, the Word made Flesh, Lamb slain from the beginning of the world. 
 
But it could be any mother and her son 

A mother whose son washed ashore after a storm 

A mother whose son did not come home from war  

A mother whose son was on the plane aboard

A mother whose son did not wake up one morn

A mother whose son, happy and healthy for the first twelve years of life, only to give way to slurred speech and neurological decline. 

Mothers offering up their sons on the altar of life’s painful circumstances.  A sword pierces her heart. 
For he became sin who knew no sin that we might become the righteousness of God.  He left his throne in heaven and humbled himself, taking the form of a servant, esteeming not equality with God a thing to be grasped.  And we do not have a Great High Priest who is incapable of empathizing with us in our weakness.    

We serve a God who suffers with us.  

Lila Feldman

Lila lives in Upstate New York with her husband.   She currently works as a school nurse.  She enjoys creative writing in her spare time, mostly prose and memoir. This is her first submission to The Ekphrastic Review. 

**

The Drowned Child

I told him not to go
You’re only a child I told him 
As he left my home for the sea 
With his delicate hands and soft skin  
                 
He said he was ready
For a fisherman’s life
He didn’t know the hell
Salt, winds, and stormy seas

Could wreck upon his face
Upon his body and the heaviness
Of the nets filled with the sea’s
Offerings entangled him instead

Poor child swept overboard
Poor child caught like a fish
Writhing against the currents
Unforgiving sea throwing him
 
Back ashore, I found him face down 
In the sand and carried him home, 
his tiny fists clutching my skirts, 
Hoping his strength remained, 

Then his body lay still, 
Frozen like marble,
Frozen across my lap, 
Is this what Mary felt

When they brought her 
Son down from the cross
His bloody fingers furled
Around her blue robes?

Laura Peña
​
Laura Peña is an award winning poet born and raised in Houston, Tx. She holds a BA in English Literature and an MA in Education. She is a primary bilingual teacher as well as a translator of poetry into Spanish. Laura has been a featured poet at Valley International Poetry Festival, Inprint First Fridays, and Public Poetry. She has been published both in print and on-line journals. She has been a workshop presenter at VIPF in the Rio Grande Valley, Tx. and People's Literary Festival in Corpus Christi, Tx.. One of Laura's annual traditions is to write a poem a day for August Postcard Poetry Festival and has participated in the fest for the last 12 years. ​

**

Apres la Tempete

On the shore a pieta, a drowning:
the wet body returned, wrapped in nets.
It is still a child’s, slender and broken.

The sea’s a liar, it stole his warmth
with cold fingers, but the heart
knows no boundaries and his life

lies beating in this mother’s heart,
never to be taken,  though
green surges batter the beach

and the long shoreline shakes
with the pounding, in this heart
the child lives, lives still.

Martin Rieser

Martin Rieser is both a poet and visual artist. His interactive installations based on his poetry have been shown around the world.  Published: Poetry Review; Write to be Counted; The Unpredicted Spring; Magma 74; Morphrog 22,  Poetry kit; Primers, Artlyst Anthology; Pendemic; Alchemy Spoon; FFF Anthology; Shortlisted: Frosted Fire; Charles Causeley Prize; Runner up Norman Nicholson; Winner of the Hastings Poetry Competition; Shortlisted Wolves Poetry Competition; The Ekphrastic Review; Steel Jackdaw; Acumen; Obsessed by Pipework; Allegro; Cerasus Magazine Anthology; Vole Spring Anthology; Ink Sweat and Tears;Brussels Review; Longlisted Erbecce Prize; Shortlisted Artemesia Arts Poetry Competition and Anthology.

**

After the Storm

A sculpture carved entirely from white marble, the image captures a scene of intense emotive gravity, rendered with precision in mineral permanence. The stone surface, cool and luminescent under studio lighting, exhibits an even matte finish across the bulk of the sculpture, with only isolated zones of gentle polish — the bridge of the elder’s nose, the young man’s shoulder blade, the fingertips grasping fabric — betraying a slight glossiness born from incidental contact or intentional buffing during final toolwork. The overall hue is a uniform alabaster white with subtle gradations caused by the interplay of light and concave recession: folds in drapery fall into shadow with soft gray dimming; interstitial spaces, such as beneath the boy’s outstretched arm or between the netted fabric and the elder’s thigh, exhibit deeper zones of shade, verging toward bluish tones at the farthest recession points, a phenomenon of both sculptural carving and photographic lighting artifact.

The composition consists of two principal human figures: one upright, seated with an inclined forward posture, and the other supine, limp, and draped laterally across the lap of the former. The seated figure — older, clothed, turbaned — gazes downward with head slightly tilted leftward, brows knotted with chiselled concavity, upper eyelids pressed low in a gesture of somber witnessing. The turban is sculpted with parallel ridges of stone that wrap circumferentially about the cranium, each band deeply undercut at its boundary to accentuate fabric layering. The face emerges from this encirclement with a prominent nasal bridge and slightly sunken cheeks; the lips are pressed into a tight horizontal line, not parted, not sealed, with the upper lip incised more deeply than the lower to cast a shadow and define its curve. The figure's shoulders are covered by a thick mantle, carved with deep vertical pleats that fall from a loosely gathered collar region. The folds descend in diagonals across the torso and terminate over the knees, which are bent and level, serving as a platform for the boy’s collapsed body.

The younger figure is positioned with an arching of the back, the left arm dangling toward the base with open fingers, the right arm stretched across the robed knee of the older figure, the wrist angled unnaturally downward. His head is completely slack, neck hyperextended such that the chin nearly touches the clavicle, and the eyes are shut — lids carved with barely perceptible creases. His hair is mid-length, parted roughly at center, each lock rendered as a wavy, narrow ridge, tapering at the ends. These striations, flowing back from the forehead and clustering in flattened waves around the ear and neck, contrast with the smoothness of his forehead and jaw. The mouth is slightly parted, lower lip fuller than the upper, subtly shadowed to suggest the slackness of death or unconsciousness.

Both figures share a common base, irregular in shape and carved with vegetal and rocky motifs. At the lower left, two sheep heads or lambs emerge from the stone, barely raised in relief, their fleece represented with tight spirals and low mounds. These organic inclusions — symbolic perhaps — are not given the same dimensional prominence as the human forms but ground the scene in pastoral or Biblical suggestion. The boy’s garment consists only of shorts or a draped piece about the hips, detailed with an open netted pattern over the right thigh. The individual diamonds of the netting are cleanly bored through the marble, revealing darkness beneath and enhancing the sense of fragility. The net, though stone, appears as if it could flex or tear, its intersections knotted, the threads thickened at junctions. The fabric beneath is smoother, loosely hanging, with scalloped edges and minor vertical creases that collect in depressions as it is pulled by the boy’s falling weight.

The elder figure’s right hand is clenched against his chest, index finger bent at a downward angle, as though recently moved or about to shift. The hand is not fully relaxed but shows tension in the thumb’s compression against the folded palm. The left hand is buried beneath the draped torso of the youth, not visible except for a glimpse of the wrist emerging near the lower ribs of the younger figure. The elder’s exposed chest is bare, delineated by muscular striation and planar geometry, a stark contrast with the bulk of the robe, whose weight is indicated by deep, plunging folds that shift abruptly at the contour lines of the seated knees.

The base plane upon which the sculpture sits is a rectangular plinth, bevelled at the top edge and unadorned except for surface toolmarks, fine striations running at oblique angles likely left from rasp work or sanding. The composition is triangular, with the apex at the turbaned head and the base defined by the arc of the younger figure’s body. The centre of mass lies low and toward the front, creating a forward-leaning momentum that underscores the gesture of collapse and support. The entire sculpture is positioned against a matte black background, which amplifies the white stone’s radiance and allows the shadows cast by the folds and limbs to take on greater spatial presence. No armature, external prop, or restoration marks are visible; the figures are complete in themselves, unified in gesture, and isolated in silent stasis.

​Albert Abdul-Barr Wang

Albert Abdul-Barr Wang is a Taiwanese-American Los Angeles-based experimental writer, conceptual painter, photographer, sculptor, video, and installation artist. He received a MFA in studio art from the ArtCenter College of Design (2025), a BFA in Photography & Digital Imaging at the University of Utah (2023), and a BA in Creative Writing/English Literature at Vanderbilt University (1997).

**

​This Sculpture is Not Representative
 
My mother called me Sarah Bernhardt.
All those times she believed I was overreacting to a telling-off 
or when I didn’t get my own way.
Stroppy, sulky, I knew no other response.
I was six or seven and Sarah Bernhardt meant nothing to me
but the tone of her voice and the look on her face told me my mother’s comment
was not meant in kindness.
 
Years later I found out she was a famous French actress 
and I viewed my mother’s jibe another way:
as a complement.
Perhaps my drama or melodrama was particularly convincing to have summoned
the name and likeness of someone so accomplished.
Maybe I should have followed her to the stage.
 
But I didn’t
and so I live with my mother’s voice in my ears.
Critical, dismissive – and not in the least maternal.

Berni Rushton

Berni Rushton works in the health sector in Sydney, Australia. She recently came back to writing poetry, as well as flash fiction and is also working hard on her first novel. 

**

​​Pieta
 
Have you noticed how statues round here 
never weep? Okay, they have stone tears
fossilised on marble cheeks, 
a narrative of misery. 
 
People who pass by nod in approval 
at grieving acted out in stone, but show them
grief in the raw, wet and red as meat slapped on a slab, 
they turn away. 
 
The widow has nowhere to turn. The sunshine 
and the spring leaves are mocking her tears. 
How can she find sympathy in stone? 
Statues may not weep, but neither do they heal.
 
She is her story and the passers-by 
pass by, as cold as marble tears.

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

**

What Sarah Saw

There’s joy in catch for fisherfolk,
as witness lore of fishing smacks,
the fleet’s return with crew on board,
shoal haul continued, sacrosanct,
trawl, school, buoys, pots, gull hover nets.

So beach scene greeting Sarah’s view -
an overlap of fish, flesh cost,
in slumped despair, family loss,
forlorn with cradled cruciform,  
but draped, pietà, hanging free.

A limb entangled in the web -
that network on which trade relies -
patella hinge of dangled limbs,
no reflex, angle, shin to thigh,
like ankle dangle unattached.

Sea urchins, starfish, pebble dash,
here’s trigonometry of grief,
grandmother’s boy still, garment gripped
like crab caught in entanglement,
as she might grasp imagined gasps.

Both stranded, bare, a beach bereft,
with lanky strands, sleek silky hair,
a selkie now of nether world.
Bedraggled, rag doll, flap fish flop,
beyond once nestle of that lap.

A marble marvel of distraught,
that dead can grow from slab to life,
a living vein to bloodless corpse;
awaiting, too much, hope for soul,
in anguish for one laid before.

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

**

​​A Fist's Grip on Hope – a Ballade
 
The peasant family's home was worn
Against Breton's wind and water jets
A night like this was often the norm
Even though the stage was already set
When the grandmother saw a boy's silhouette
Mangled and tangled in knotted rope
Her scream shook the pale moonset
He still has a fist's grip on hope
 
In the scattered scene after the storm
Wrapped in an old fishing net
Laid the boy slumped upon the shore
Covered in sand; all cold and wet
Blue and limp; as never to forget
His grandmother lifted him to her robe
But the story doesn't end just yet
He still has a fist's grip on hope
 
The child must have not been warned
Or perhaps he had a stubborn mindset
To dive from the docks even if informed
Where loosened lines were a sure bet
And fishing gear had shifted and offset
Then reappeared where the sea crashes the stones
But with one arm stretched across his grandmother's garment
He still has a fist's grip on hope
 
So, fishermen, don't be rigid with regret
The storm is at fault for what broke
And the boy's fate remains unmet

He still has a fist's grip on hope

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.

**

​Bernhardt Portrays Love Scene

What the sea gives: salt and seal pups, 
crashboom of spangled water,
pearl-white oyster shells, 
and floating remains of wreckage: 
bottles, seaglass, driftwood.

And a boy fisher along the Breton shore,
tender-muscled, just past safety
of women’s skirts and helping 
to bake their sweet butter cakes.

Storm swells so deep broke waves so high,
gales no fishermen would try. Alone, 
he cast a wild net, tore him out, 
washed him in. 

Portrayed in marble, luminous death,
theater piece, as his mamm-gozh breaks 
toward him.

Lynn Axelrod

Lynn Axelrod’s poetry has appeared in journals and outlets such as The Ekphrastic Review, California Quarterly, Orchards Poetry Journal; was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle; and is in the James Joyce Library Special Collections, University College, Dublin. Her chapbook Night Arrangements was described by Kirkus Reviews as “evocative and lushly detailed.” Lotus Earth on Fire, (2024, Finishing Line Press) was praised by a poet-reviewer as “an unflinching witness to the hungry and the homeless, to floods, fires, and the untold injustices of man to man.” She's been a disaster-readiness community organizer; weekly newspaper reporter; environmental NGO staffer; and a happily- and early-retired attorney.

**

​During the Creative Storm

my mind kept spinning thoughts and moved
in all directions. Even upside down
to navigate  through complex dreams
and theories The subject matter 
flowered around me. Half in light, half in shadow.
I flared with thirst, 
a ruby sunrise, an emerald spring 
but my brilliance shattered 
into stillness. My mother held me in her arms
and wept. Not a goddess  but a fragile pieta.
 
I stared at her  
with the seed dark eyes of a bird --
knowing I needed rest
and time to return
becoming merely human.

Wendy Howe 

Wendy Howe is an English teacher  who lives in  California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth,, women in conflict and  history. Landscapes that influence  her writing  include  the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a poetic kinship with the  Joshua trees, hills and wild life spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. She has been published in the following  journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others.

**

​My
Grand
Child

I heard the
   harpies singing 
after the storm

After
   you washed
 ashore

You lay
   across
 my marbleness

In shrouded
   god's
lament

I gave you
     my lungs
I gave
     you
         my 
              pulse

I lashed
    my
sorrow
    to the
               mast

I heard 
         the harpies
   singing
                  after the storm

Never
            more

Donna-Lee Smith 

DLS writes from l'île de Montreal where storms from the mighty St. Lawrence may wreak havoc. 
She dedicates this poem to her sister.

**

An Idol, an Icon. Sarah Bernhardt My Idol.
 
I have been impressed by Sarah Bernhardt for years.
Perhaps that is why a trilogy about her came to my mind, my heart and my soul:
The actress, the sculptor and the feminist.
 
In my mind, the actress
As a former speaker on academic success in schools and at conferences for many years,
I was influenced by Sarah Bernhardt’s modesty as an actress.
Every time I gave a lecture or a workshop, I had stage fright.
Once a colleague told me this charming anecdote about Sarah Bernhardt:
One day a young actress asked her if she had stage fright before performing.
She answered that she always had stage fright before going on stage.
The young actress, boastful and naïve, said that she never had stage fright.
Sarah Bernhardt told her this wonderful reply: “Those who are talented have stage fright, others don’t”.
I kept preciously this tasty reply, hoping, before each of my lectures, that I had some talent.
 
In my heart, the sculptor
I didn’t know that Sarah Bernardt was a sculptor.
Her splendid sculpture, After the Storm, reminds me of mothers and fathers in countries at war who are “In the storm”.
They are desperate and overwhelmed by a dreadful pain that ravages them
While they are seeing their children dying from lack of food and trapped in the (fishing) nets of horrible wars. 
 
In my soul, the Feminist
Sarah Bernardt, with her multiple talents, disturbed male artistic circle or her time.
Isn’t the same situation today when women have to fight for their rights and their place in a patriarchal world?
She particularly disturbed famous male sculptor Rodin who was not kind to her.
He would have said that her sculptures were “filth”.
Despite the criticism, she never gave up.
She «continued anyway”.
It was her motto:  to continue anyway.
From now on, I will make this motto mine.
It’s not too late…even at seventy-five years old.

Jean Bourque
 
Jean lives in Montréal. French speaking. Even if it's difficult, he continues to learn English anyway.

**

The Courage and the Beauty
 
I hold you draped  in my arms.
White is your skin of divine mystical grace.
Visions of the world at peace with itself.
You swoon with  the beauty of alabaster .
Untouched and unspoiled.
Blessing me with your body of purity.
We become one as forces of spiritual beauty remake our lives.
You have come to teach, to bless and to keep holy.
Behold the vision man has made.
Grant me the courage to see your wisdom.
To not be afraid.
To inhabit our shared souls.
You were created by the master of creation.
We live together in this one life now and forever.
 
Sandy Rochelle

Sandy Rochelle is an award winning poet, actress, and filmmaker. She is a recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement Award. Sandy produced and narrated the documentary Film, ARTWATCH, about famed art historian James Beck. Her poetry has appeared in: Wild Word, One Art, Amethyst Review, Impspired, Verse Virtual, Dissident Voice, Connecticut River Review, Haiku Universe, Indelible, and others. Her chapbook, Soul Poems, was published by Finishing Line Press.

**

Cradled Before Standing

Even in black-and-white, 
shades of gray in relief,

the last gasps of consciousness, 
satin marble for smoothness,

grip the soul. A mother’s love 
piercing, crying out to her gods, 

unheard above the crashing 
waves upon the shore. Like a stone

net, chiseled salvation, an alabaster 
eternity cleaves their souls under- 

neath a just-
clearing sky.

Todd Sukany

Todd Sukany <[email protected]>, a two-time Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over forty years. His work has appeared in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, Cave Region Review, The Christian Century, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, eMerge Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany authored Frisco Trail and Tales as well as co-authored four books of poetry under the title, Book of Mirrors, with Raymond Kirk. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, caring for a rescued dog, and four rescued cats.

**

​

​Join us for the epic event of the year.
You won't be sorry. It is wild, exhilarating, exhausting and wonderful.
A day of pure creation. Play. Brainstorming. 
​Join us on Sunday, or do it on your own time over the following weeks.
This year, to celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review, an optional Champagne Party follows the marathon on zoom.
Details are below.

Perfect Ten: an Ekphrastic Marathon
 
Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating ten years of The Ekphrastic Review. 
 
Join us on Sunday, July 13 2025 for our  annual ekphrastic marathon. This year we are celebrating ten years!!!!!

This is an all -day creative writing event that we do independently, together.

Take the plunge and see what happens!
 
Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts. There will be a wide variety of visual art prompts posted at the start of the marathon. You will choose a new one every 30 minutes and try writing a draft, just to see what you can create when pushed outside of your comfort zone.
 
We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. 
 
Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open afterwards. Participate when you can, before the deadline for submission. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the eight hour marathon in one or two sessions at another time and date within the deadline for submissions (July 31, 2025). 
 
Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five for possible publication on the Ekphrastic site.
 
One poem and one flash fiction will win $100 CAD each.
 
Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year!
 
Marathon: Sunday July 13, from 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks)
(For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 13, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.)

Champagne Party: at 6.05 pm until 7. 30 on Sunday, July 13, join participants on Zoom to celebrate an exhilarating day. Bring Champagne, wine, or a pot of tea. We'll have words from The Ekphrastic Review, conversation as a chance to connect with community, and some optional readings from your work in the marathon.   
 
Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2025
Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less
 
Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors.

If you are in hardship and cannot afford the entry, but you want to participate, please drop us a line at [email protected] and we'll sign you up. 
​
Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September.

​Sign up below!

Perfect Ten: annual ekphrastic marathon

CA$20.00

Celebrate ten years of The Ekphrastic Review with our annual ekphrastic marathon. Fourteen drafts, thirty minutes each, poetry, flash fiction, or CNF. You'll choose from a curated selection of artworks chosen to challenge, inspire, and stimulate.

The goal of the marathon is to finish the marathon by creating fourteen drafts. Optional: you'll have time after the event to polish any drafts and submit them. Selected works will be published in TER and a winner in poetry and flash fiction will each be chosen and honoured with $100 award.

Following the marathon, exhausted writers can join our Champagne Party on zoom to celebrate an amazing day.

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