The Art of Tarot: Poetry Winners and Finalists

A big congratulations to our finalists, winners, and everyone who entered the Art of Tarot contest in poetry or flash fiction. It has been amazing to see how the themes and symbols in the game of Tarot have evolved and continue to speak today. A giant thank you to our judges, Riham Adly, for flash fiction, and Roula-Maria Dib, for poetry. Both judges read the submissions blindly and chose their top ten, top three, and the winning work. First place winner in poetry and in flash fiction will receive a $100 prize. Well done everyone!

Lorette, The Ekphrastic Review

(Click here for flash fiction finalists and winners.)

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Winning Poem:

The Devil, by Shaun R. Pankoski (winning poem)

Top Three

The Magician, by Michał Choiński
A Conversation Upon Drawing the Hanged Man, by Kimberly Hall
The Devil, by Shaun R. Pankoski (winning poem)

Ten Finalists

The Hermit, by Jakob Brønnum
"The Magician, by Michał Choiński
III Empress of the Universe, by Calder Clare
Wheel! Of! Fortune!! by Calder Clare
Hang Nine Swords Above my Bed, by Gabby Gilliam
A Conversation Upon Drawing the Hanged Man, by Kimberly Hall​
A Conversation Upon Drawing the Tower, by Kimberly Hall
Magician,  by Lynne Kemen
The Hanged Man, by Lisa Molina
The Devil, by Shaun R. Pankoski (winning poem)

Devil Carrying Basket of Souls, Holkham Bible (England) c. 1320

Winning Poem!

The Devil
 
What is it about desire?
That familiar tug,
so urgent, so seductive,
pulling you
closer to your lodestone.
 
It could be power you seek,
or prestige, or possessions,
or that which is most mystifying-
the precious Other.
 
When you finally get your taste
and it's not quite what you imagined
or it's taken away
or you need more and more and more-
 
seduction turns into obsession.
 
You forget about your own fruit,
your own fire. And you certainly
don't need a horned goat,
of wild eye and protruding tongue
 
to know the value of what you've lost.

Shaun R. Pankoski

Shaun R. Pankoski lives in Volcano on the Island of Hawai'i with her cat, Kiko and more coqui frogs than she cares to mention. Her two most treasured possessions are handwritten thank you notes from Lois-Ann Yamanaka and the late Barry Lopez. She has kicked cancer's ass (twice) and makes a mean corn chowder.

The Magician (The Juggler), by Remedios Varo (Mexico, b. Spain) 1956

​The Magician
 
You fidget with the syllables
as you button up your shirt.
In your mouth,
they sound like a spell.
Gra-nu-lo-cy-to-sis.
You repeat it three more times,
before we leave  –
each time the inflection is lower.
Outside the building,
it's starting to snow.

Michał Choiński

Michał Choiński (he/his/him) teaches American literature at the Jagiellonian University (Kraków, Poland). He has written two academic books - his latest monograph, Southern Hyperboles came out with LSU Press in 2020. Choiński's debut pamphlet Gifts Without Wrapping was published by Hedgehog Press in 2019. His poems and translations of poetry were published in journals in Poland, in the UK and in Canada. In 2022, he'll be at Yale University, as a Fulbright Fellow, writing his next book.

The Hanged Man, by Renault Tarot of Besançon (France) 1820

Kimberly Hall

Kimberly Hall (she/her) received her master’s degree in behavioral science from the University of Houston-Clear Lake. Her poetry has appeared in online publications such as First Flight and Sappho’s Torque, as well as in several ekphrastic poetry anthologies. She still gets the idiomatic butterflies whenever anyone mentions that where she can hear it.

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Finalists in Alphabetical Order

The Hermit, by Quiringh van Brekelenkam (Netherlands) 1660

The Hermit
  
The great beyond, all contained in hands folded in prayer.
“Memento mori” everything whispers.
 
When you have been alone for a long enough time
the difference is marginal between your head
and the skull that wound up on your desk, a medieval artefact
 
But then again, one is never totally alone.
It is more about the feeling of being alone
and the lack of voices in the room
 
dead silence
 
The great beyond is destination and destiny 
there, this soul is to be found that once was lost
 
If it can be reached at all, it must be through this silence.
That is what the mystics say. Then probably
there is a Christ in the room somewhere.
 
But is it that crucifix that’ll make you shout
until your prayer dries out?
Or is it the spirit, in the silence, in the folded hands
in directing the attention via Memento mori
 
towards the great beyond, towards which all hope flows,
destiny and destination. There, healing could be
to be found, there, remembrance, there, the bastions of loneliness
that brought you here in the first place
a meaningfulness now so thoroughly lacking
a connection to yourself
now plain lost in this vast void of
 
quietude. It began as a force
and wound up forced.   
 
Jakob Brønnum

Jakob Brønnum has published 40+ books in his native Danish. His work has appeared in The Ekphastic Review, La Piccioletta Barca, Beyond Words Literary Magazine and Line Breaks (Cover Story Books), as well as in magazines and anthologies in the Nordic languages. His books have been translated into Norwegian and Serbian (forthcoming). He lives in Sweden with his family.

Lady Fortune and Her Wheel, by Jean Pichore (France) 1503

WHEEL! OF! FORTUNE!!
 
Jeopardized by booze and stag-do rental shoes 
he traverses bowling alley lot, falls, strikes 
head, blinks sixpoint stars then drives, canopied 
by astral projections. Crossing himself all the way 
home. His dress: torn. His heels: stolen. Goy adrift
among the chosen. L’chaim. Truth is stranger 
than crucifixion, the divide between eons 
atomic ten-pin neon, iodine knees, threefingerhole 
Fates still endorse target sports, threadwork 
non sequiturs, secateurs at the ready. Spare 
prick at the wedding. Cut and uncut guttering 
balls in the days of emanation. Cosmos and 
chaos and lane transmigration. Sefirot screaming 
the unsayable name of their crossdressing G-d.

Calder Clare

Calder Clare lives and writes.

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Empress of the Universe
 
Every night with back to wall he skies 
the stars, smokes out the day. Mood 
stabilizers triangulate apostate positions.
 
Thesis: dispersal.
 
Immaculate Conception Feast falls a week
before his birthday. Abased by faith 
he deems the Virgin schtupped by Cosmic 
Rooftop Sniper. Alpha shotgun wedding.
 
Antithesis: God is pi rounded down.
 
Triple-threatened he evicts all former tenets 
tented on the Holy Tripod Corporation
Pater, Poltergeist, & Son.
 
Synthesis: none.
 
He thinks a woman would have done 
a better job of Astral Autocrat but takes 
his losses well. Stays on the trail of broader 
gods like any doleful infidel.

Calder Clare

Calder Clare lives and writes.

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Nine of Swords, Rider Waite Tarot Deck, by Pamela Colman Smith (England) 1909

Hang Nine Swords Above My Bed

I worry I can no longer 
keep you safe. Independence 
warring with youth, trying 
to respect widening boundaries 
but my dreams reveal 
my stifled anxiety

there you lead elementary students 
in an echo of your old patrol post 
down to the bus stop 
a chaotic rush because 
everyone is beyond late 

there is a sharp squeal 
               of brakes and tires 
                            a wordless scream 
                                         then everyone is running 

there is a body in the street 
a crowd crouches around it 
unintelligible shouts carried 
away by the rush of panic 

sirens growing louder 

I crane my neck 
as I usher frightened children 
to the idling bus 
shielding us all 
from the spectacle in the road 

but I still catch a glimpse 
of a chicken nugget backpack 
             maroon fleece pants 
                          a discarded sneaker 
                                       painted with flames 

and I can’t tell 
if I’m going to vomit 
or scream until the rawness 
of my throat robs me of voice 
and I can’t speak your name 

I can’t move closer 
relying on the denial 
that since I haven’t seen your face 

it could be another mother’s son 
             a neighbour’s tragedy 

instead of my shattered heart 
bleeding out on the pavement.

​Gabby Gilliam

Gabby Gilliam lives in the DC metro area with her husband and son. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Tofu Ink, The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Deep Overstock, Vermillion, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and Equinox. You can find her online at gabbygilliam.squarespace.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/GabbyGilliamAuthor.

The Tower of Babel, by Pieter Bruegel (Netherlands) 1653

Kimberly Hall

Kimberly Hall (she/her) received her master’s degree in behavioral science from the University of Houston-Clear Lake. Her poetry has appeared in online publications such as First Flight and Sappho’s Torque, as well as in several ekphrastic poetry anthologies. She still gets the idiomatic butterflies whenever anyone mentions that where she can hear it.

Magician, by Remedios Varo (Mexico, b. Spain) 1956

​Magician,  by Remedios Varo (Mexico, b. Spain) 1956
 
In the plaza, he pirouettes,
juggling, glittering mysteries.
Balls of light traditional, rings untouched.
 
Enlightenment, lit up orbs. 
The man, a mysterious specimen. 
A traveling show, a waste of time passing
confederates tucked away. 
 
Ashen acolytes peer, anxiously, wary, 
wearing a single cloth.
Appearing in an identical piece,
looking longer,
faces sad, mad, and fearless.
 
Like the acolytes, the woman 
alights the stage,
unawake.
 
The magician, credulous, 
doves dart and
owls observe.
Goat devil prances, yellow-slitted pupils,
looking at the magic man lying like the lion.
Trickery, fakery, fraud. 

​Lynne Kemen
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Lynne Kemen lives in Upstate New York. Her chapbook, More Than a Handful was published in 2020. She is published in The Ekphrastic Review, Silver Birch Press, Fresh Words Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Blue Mountain Review. Lynne stands on the Board of Bright Hill Press. She is an Editor for the Blue Mountain Review and a lifetime member of The Southern Collective Experience. Her book, Crows Fly at Midnight, will be published in 2023.

The Hanged Man, by Renault Tarot of Besançon (France) 1820

The Hanged Man
 
He mocks me today.
 
It is the 15th anniversary
of the day we learned
the cancer had returned
 
to our eleven year old
son’s blood after five years
of being cancer-free.
 
He was pronounced
fully “cured” just 
three months before.
 
We were told a relapse
this late only occurs
once or twice a year;
 
in the entire country.
 
This is the day 
our lives turned
upside-down.
 
Again.
 
The prognosis
much worse
this time.
 
Life
hanging 
in the balance.
 
Again.
 
***
 
Two years of
life-threatening
treatments,
 
and a complicated,
unrelated double umbilical 
cord transplant later;
 
My son survived.
 
Again.
 
***
 
I decide I will not 
look away this time
from “The Hanged Man.”
 
I will face him,
even though he
brings memories of 
 
Pain. Suffering. Grief.
 
We stare at one another.
 
Who will blink?
 
***
 
What’s this?
 
I see now that 
the corded rope
around his ankle
that holds him from 
 
crashing
to
the 
ground,
 
is red, like blood.
 
Just as my son’s life
was saved when
an unknown couple
 
donated their newborn
baby’s umbilical cord
blood to be transplanted
 
into my son’s bone marrow.
The cord which also 
holds him from
 
falling 
to
his 
death.
 
I can see the blood of
The Hanged Man’s
rope being
 
pulled by gravity
down into his leg and chest, 
filling them with life.
 
And his hair!
 
It has grown,
and flows
long
and 
white,
touching 
the 
ground;
 
Just as my son’s hair
now sticks straight
up out of his head.
 
I see cut branches 
with blood at their tips
all around The Hanged Man,
 
much like the hundreds
of IV tubes that infused
blood into my son when
 
the chemo destroyed 
all of his blood cells 
through years of treatments.
 
***
 
This Hanged Man
is alive 
and well.
 
Held faithfully by
the rope of new life.
With hope. 
 
And now he is
able to envision
and comprehend how,
 
one’s life being turned
upside down
allows you
 
to see the brightness
and beauty of the 
green grass and solid ground.
 
And that, in this
upside down world,
sometimes,
 
the blue sky
can catch
even those
 
who fall.
 
***
 
The Hanged Man
isn’t mocking or
haunting me.
 
He blinks,
winks, 
three times:
 
My son:
The Hanged Man.
 
My son:
The Saved Man.
 
My son:
The Changed Man.

Lisa Molina

Lisa Molina is a 2022  “Best of the Net” nominee for poetr. Her digital chapbook, Don’t Fall in Love with Sisyphus, launched in February 2022, by Fahmidan Publishing, and her first print chapbook, Womb Worlds, is currently available for pre-sale at Finishing Line Press. Molina’s poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction can be found or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Sky Island Journal, Beyond Words Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, POETiCA REViEW, and Miniskirt Magazine.
 
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