|
Editor's note: These are some of the selected entries for the Christmas Isn't Cancelled contest. There will be another showcase of entries next week, and the winner will be announced and awarded in the early new year.  Return From the Woods, by Giovanni Segantini (Austrian Empire) 1890 Otherwise Before you write a poem about my life in some frigid, unnamed place – how I leave my house at sunrise in my shabby unlined coat to chop wood, heft it onto a crude, splintery sled, tow it through the snow, build a small fire in my small house to cook a small pot of soup – write about your own. Write how you bully yourself out of bed at sunrise, put on leggings and a fleece, and run around the reservoir, listening for birdsong but hearing only cars. Write how the soles of your feet blister, how the wind whips your lungs and singes your eyes. Write your small house, where you sit in a hard-backed chair and stare at a black and white box for three hours. Write how you stay in one position, your face immobile but your fingers twitching and clicking, desperate to tease out meaning. Write how you neither speak nor smile, how at five o’clock, you collapse the box and go into the kitchen, take out the cutting board and vent your anger on the cucumbers like a woodcutter wielding an axe. The only difference between you and me is that you could have chosen otherwise. Shira Atik Shira Atik is an award-winning poet and a Hebrew-English literary translator. In 2018, she and sculptor Alice Kiderman co-published Stone Word, a book featuring nine of Shira’s poems alongside the sculptures that inspired them. Her poems have been published in Poetica Magazine and The Ekphrastic Review, and were displayed at the Beachwood Jewish Community Center and the Nature Center in Shaker Heights, both in Ohio. ** Return From the Woods Although she's not tired, Gretel stops, drops the reins. The toboggan she has pulled for miles glides over the crust of snow, bumps her calves, knocks loose a dusting of green needles from her shoulders, a cone of gray hair from her cap. She stares at the village, its low slung roofs, the yellow lights that shimmer from this window, that. No smoke billows from any chimney. They haven't changed, still cold, still hungry, still living by dim candlelight. She wonders who might notice her return. The father, the mother could only be dead. But surely someone remembered – Hansel, Gretel, the girl, the boy, their journey into the ravenous wild? Something black flaps in the church belfry. Crows? A new priest drunk on wine and winter fumbling up the spiral stairs to ring the vespers bell? Did the people pray anymore? A weight of bread bulges in Gretel's coat pocket, presses against her thigh. She pulls it out, bites into its brown sweetness. It tastes of smoke and ginger, witches and brothers, sin and cinnamon. It sucks at her teeth like sour fruit and jelly. Oh, the village. They would only understand salt and fat, never sugar or skin, incest and lust, witch and boy, boy and girl, girl and woman. It was how they lived, safe and warm in a magic cottage, all appetite and answer, touch and pleasure. These people in those dirty dwellings only knew pain. They bore so many children for the oven. “Why are the children the ones we always sacrifice?” Hans had asked once. “Because they are so delicious and fat?” The witch had answered. Who grew tired of the dirty kisses first, the squall of birth, the cloying odour of mother's milk? Meat made them all angry. Hans said he was tired of picking out the bones. The witch's spices grew bitter and exotic. Gretel found herself wandering away, never bringing back the mushrooms or the wild strawberries she found. Hans would not chop the wood anymore. The witch refused to bring in the water, choosing to fill their cups with supernatural wine instead. They all grew gaunt, moral, quick to argue about what was wrong, what was right. Hans succumbed first, his eyes, his mouth wide open as if screaming. The witch died in her bed, a smile on her lips, her sweet wine staining her sheets, her wand tangled in her tresses. Gretel grieved for awhile, but then she turned a rock into licorice, the river into marzipan. She transformed a bear into a tree trunk, snakes into branches. She stoked the witch's ovens again, but made only nut pies and raisin bread. Gretel looks at the village again, thinks of turning back. The people will probably throw her in a pit, hang her from a tree, stone her, burn her. Still she wanted to tell them of the house, its impossible arches, its sugar windows, its bitter flavour. She wanted to tell them of its promise and its lie. Yes, God walks its passageways, but the devil walks right beside Him. Gretel puts the bread back in her pocket. It's no lighter than when she took the first bite. She picks up the reins, wraps them around her shoulders, and trudges on. The wood piled high in the toboggan behind her writhes, kicks like a child waiting to be born. Nan Wigington Nan Wigington lives and works in Colorado's capital city. Her flash fiction has appeared in Pithead Chapel, The Ekphrastic Review, Gordon Square Review, and in After the Pause.  Gray Tree, by Piet Mondrian (Netherlands) 1911 Weathering Tree is life is of life. The cluster of branches, once taut and new, now deconstruct, vault, and radiate in complicated patterns from the graceful bending of the central chord. A spirit of presence protects and secures the trunk and its spiral ballet from sailing unrooted into winter’s dark storm. Instead it grows wings, sweeps through the glimmering grey, a radiant snowdance holding the world’s naked grief in its arms. We silently offer a benediction, conferred with gratitude for what continues to nourish the days. All the earth and its creatures flowing through seas of fury. Beseiged by the crosswinds of collapse, but still singing and sparkling amid the sheltering choreography of boughing trees. the questions become listening surrender Kerfe Roig A frequent contributor to The Ekphrastic Review, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new from her residence in New York City. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Right Hand Pointing, Silver Birch Press, Yellow Chair Review, The song is..., Pure Haiku, Visual Verse, The Light Ekphrastic, Scribe Base, and The Wild Word, and published in Ella@100, Incandescent Mind, Pea River Journal, Fiction International: Fool, Noctua Review, The Raw Art Review, and several Nature Inspired anthologies. Follow her on https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/(with her friend Nina), https://kblog.blog/, and http://kerferoig.com/ ** Prelude No.4 in E minor Frédéric Chopin - Prelude in E-Minor (op.28 no. 4) - YouTube If I could arrange your organic form to music it would be the powdered chalk of Chopin rippling in ivory skies, arpeggio spine curled like an umbilical cord, life-giving, the rounded belly of seed, a gift to ground, roots teeming with the furrow of ancient scales. I hear your voice, primal tones a warning as December fog settles on bough and bark. It is lighter than lark song composed at dawn, lighter than tip of brushed wing tracing grain. I feel its pull, the hang of its damp like discarded wrapping left to rot in wood. There is an odd stillness to the air. It is that moment before stone hits lake, this planet poised on semi-breve of imbalance. The very shape of you sketchy, twisted, trapped in the grizzled topple of time, your silvered lustre reduced to ash. Kate Young Kate Young lives in Kent with her husband and has been passionate about poetry and literature since childhood. Over the last few years she has returned to writing and has had success with poems published in webzines in Britain and internationally. She is a regular reader of The Ekphrastic Review and her work has appeared in response to some of the challenges. Kate is now busy editing her work and setting up her website. Find her on Twitter at @kateyoung12poet.  A Christmas Carol, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (England) 1867 To Art As Carol We Are Drawn From richly simple instrument a melody is heard as lullabye to Mary's child, acknowledged as the Word... We sing in peace the Child to sleep as message we proclaim of alleluia to our Hope now given flesh and name. The message etched beneath in frame makes clearer the intent. The voice unheard is beauty seen in patience brush has spent to clarify the sapphire eyes in upward thoughtful gaze and lips that also seem as gem of hymn's unending praise... that sings in peace the Child to sleep as message we proclaim of alleluia to our Hope now given flesh and name. And love adorning floral wall as art within the art enables eye to peer within the soul of sacred heart... ...and sing in peace the Child to sleep as message we proclaim of alleluia to our Hope now given flesh and name. Portly Bard Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment.  Dreamer of Dreams, by Edmund Dulac (France) 1915 Stealer of Darkness I Stand on the edge of beauty. To the East, Uluru clothed in night-shadow a whisper of Outback breath fresh on skin. I cut artificial light from screen. My stealer of darkness lies, naked in shame diminished by the spectacular. I tilt, neck at 45 to gaze at upturned cave. It descends, sprinkles its cosmic dust, starburst blaze from tip of wand and I am drawn toward dome, lost in its spirals, its violet freckles random patterns of pinwheel-spin. Sirius conjures Ursa Major, the hunt, her constellation pinned in time her bears weightless in a veiled sky. Orion is wearing her indigo smile, it is splattered across the sheer expanse of space, leaving the shape of me floating Kate Young Kate Young lives in Kent with her husband and has been passionate about poetry and literature since childhood. Over the last few years she has returned to writing and has had success with poems published in webzines in Britain and internationally. She is a regular reader of The Ekphrastic Review and her work has appeared in response to some of the challenges. Kate is now busy editing her work and setting up her website. Find her on Twitter at @kateyoung12poet. ** Sorrow’s Creation With chilled hands she learned how to shape bears, make art in spite of pain. A set of three she made for me, and every day since her death I see them, sitting next to my poetry and a set of Shakespeare’s plays the mother protecting her cubs. Some days I remember her swollen wrists gnarled fingers kneading dough into life forming clay the way a white dove might flap her wings on window panes. “Art from tragedy,” she would say, and I see her still, a maiden fair in white flowing dress, daisies braided in her hair. She breathes her vows in a puff of cloud amidst a pink orchard’s promising spring. The young prince’s love glistens cold and sharp, concealing winter’s frost, icicles hide in the trees. But as all heroes do, she shapes her sorrow into art. Sandra Frye Sandra Frye is the author of two memoirs, African Dreams, about serving with the Peace Corps in Africa from 1969 to 1971, and Fatherless, the story of her unique childhood in the 1950s and her yearning for a traditional family. Recently she published her first book of poetry titled Leaving Lessons. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin, where she loves to write in coffeehouses. She’s a graduate of the University of Wisconsin, a retired high school English teacher, and mother to four sons. ** Abandoned She’s been lost Long enough to forget There was ever anything else Standing there like her own ghost Like a pillar of snow against snow White on white, a trick of vision The shadow left after the flash Of too bright light Impossible and true as any fairy tale The shadow of some old memory The shape of some forgotten miracle Fragile and defenseless And yet safe enough Flanked by great white bears As though they were her dogs Outside barefoot In nothing but a dress and veil Gauzy as falling snow Everything bleached the pale Blue and white of ice But her red mouth And the blood red heart She holds out so tenderly Like an offering Cradled in her hands Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired RN, who has always loved writing and the visual arts. This has made Ekphrastic a particular favorite for her own work, which has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Earth's Daughters, Praxis, Third Wednesday and The Ekphrastic Review.  A Christmas Carol, by John Leech (Britain) 1843 How Heavy is Regret? How heavy is regret? Can it be weighed post death like a liver slathered on slab, drowned in the paddle of its own blood? In the hover between now and next I pray for that flash of life, that fast-forward spin of "best bits" promised by soothsayers and priests. Instead, I toss and turn, fold into the pages of my soil, coiled like a worm in earth hoping to pinken in reincarnation. The scales wait, sure as sunrise, colours balanced in cause and effect. I feel its mass, the press of it, regret, heavy as this leaden lid. Kate Young Kate Young lives in Kent with her husband and has been passionate about poetry and literature since childhood. Over the last few years she has returned to writing and has had success with poems published in webzines in Britain and internationally. She is a regular reader of The Ekphrastic Review and her work has appeared in response to some of the challenges. Kate is now busy editing her work and setting up her website. Find her on Twitter at @kateyoung12poet.  January Moon, by George Ault (USA) 1914 January Winter’s dark heart When all the lights of celebration Have gone out And we face a long fast Before the next resurrection. The world is silenced, sealed over, Reduced to black and white, Nothing growing But the ice on the water, The snow piling up against our doors, While we persist, thin and hungry For the first sharp greens of spring, For the ice to groan and break And let the waters rise Furious And wild with joy. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired RN, who has always loved writing and the visual arts. This has made Ekphrastic a particular favorite for her own work, which has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Earth's Daughters, Praxis, Third Wednesday and The Ekphrastic Review. ** Bob Ross Territory if only Bob Ross was here he would be towering above the easel appraising this canvas determining what needs to be done with soft words of encouragement to a reaching out audience perched on their sofas ingesting his every word his utensils in the right hand limited palette in his left perspective from perception happy little trees from his imagination blending very few colors prime, secondary, tones at every single stroke with the subtly of a sorcerer opening doors wide to the eager into barns of the boondocks feet deep in pristine snow awaiting to be overpainted alla prima rediscovered all within thirty minutes or less smiling wide to the camera as if Bob Ross was here Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by many literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Italy, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been a member of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the fortnightly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019.  Two Oxen in Winter, by Maud Lewis (Canada) by 1970 Maud At The Door Maud resides in a farmhouse as we’re chained up outside. She’s warm. She’s secure. We’re Nova Scotia cold, minus 30 or lower. We can’t stand motionless for a single minute more. I’m frozen. I’m bored. Been here for an hour, possibly two at her door. Maud walks round her canvas after opening up the door. She turns her head this way and that. Loads up her camel hair brushes then takes the oils off. It’s not as though we’re being paid, twin sister. Another bale of hay wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t break the bank account. But now she’s tutt-tutting, tells me not to move. Maud says she’ll be done soon now Everett is back. He still stinks of gutted fish through clothes, hands and head. He does chores round their house. Expect he’ll clean all her brush. Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by many literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Italy, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been a member of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the fortnightly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019. ** Tea With Tennyson I like to tell people that when we first met, I was unmoored. At the mercy of the wind and waves, the push and pull of the moon’s tides. But, that’s not really how it happened. There was no open water. No raft. Just ripples in my tea as I blew against its fevered surface. At the coffee shop, curled up in my favourite orange chair by the window, I tried to catch the warmth of the afternoon sun on my nose. My toes tucked under my legs, I perched my cup on the coffee ring collages left by those before me. I saw you before you walked in with your hands in your pockets. You were whistling, but I couldn’t hear the tune. The wind picked up and the leaves on the sidewalk gave chase around you. A young girl wrapped in a brilliant red scarf peeked up from her hot cocoa and waved hello. You smiled and waved back. Her chilled cheeks sprouted into a smile. A half moon filled with happiness and promise. I smiled too. When you wandered in, the bells on the door broke into song. A winter ballad of your arrival. One I had never heard before. Ringing in hope and truth. Ringing out sadness and doubt. A sweet serenade that unexpectedly gathered me in its arms and held me tight. Ringing, clanging, chiming, and wild. You looked at me. You smiled. And, I was adrift no more. Sarah Wolsey  Madonna on a Crescent Moon in Hortus Conclusus, by unknown artist referred to as Master of 1456 (Italy) 1456 Our Lady of Toil and Trouble Whose breath? She hides her divinity in fragments of spirit. The garden wall encloses both inside and out, expanding into the unseen, the realms of retreat. The rose and the lily. Doves weep golden ghosts into the distances between stars. The crescent conceals the ephemeral, the misbegotten regalia of repose. Hands raised, hands resting. Whose volition? The turmoil of why and the needs of limitations. Her compassion flows like water, like light, reflecting the purity of the fallen. Our capacity for sorrow exceeds all hurt. the passion of doubt-- who are the seekers? lodestars are always shifting Kerfe Roig A frequent contributor to The Ekphrastic Review, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new from her residence in New York City. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Right Hand Pointing, Silver Birch Press, Yellow Chair Review, The song is..., Pure Haiku, Visual Verse, The Light Ekphrastic, Scribe Base, and The Wild Word, and published in Ella@100, Incandescent Mind, Pea River Journal, Fiction International: Fool, Noctua Review, The Raw Art Review, and several Nature Inspired anthologies. Follow her on https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/(with her friend Nina), https://kblog.blog/, and http://kerferoig.com/  Mari Lwyd Custom, Welsh Post Card, by 1918 Welcoming By Welsh tradition, hobby horse of man beneath and more on course from house to house in Christmas tide for food, and drink, and warmth inside as acting troupe and minstrel choir auditioning for modest hire well knowing they will be denied until thee times at least they've tried beseeching strangers some have said to mimic night of Mary's dread -- her faith so often turned away in search of place to humbly lay and change the course of heaven's earth where those unknowing gave her berth. Portly Bard Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. ** Mari Lwyd Is not the spectre of death always waiting, a bedazzling skeleton disguised with ribbons and glittering lights? So tempting. So close to the journey that has no map, no clear end. Can you reason yourself out of following it to the Otherworld? The young men sing their challenge. The ghostmare waits to hear what reply is given. Will it save the souls of the house and its inhabitants? The lamp throws shadows into the night, blending with the dusky dark. Who can resist the pull of the starlit sky? When does the song move beyond play, beyond a simple exhange of melody and rhyme? Who can say how thickly the spell becomes woven and which words will break the enchantment, returning both sides to a simple exchange of seasonal festivity—a drink, a treat, goodwill? We meet in the cast of the hidden moon-- the silences challenge us to complete. Who carries the ghost that shadows the tune? The silences challenge us to complete. Ashes to ashes they say. But the bones-- the silences challenge us to complete. Questions ring out reft by darkness, undone-- Answers brew bitters—unswallowed, unsung. Kerfe Roig A frequent contributor to The Ekphrastic Review, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new from her residence in New York City. Her poetry and art have been featured online by Right Hand Pointing, Silver Birch Press, Yellow Chair Review, The song is..., Pure Haiku, Visual Verse, The Light Ekphrastic, Scribe Base, and The Wild Word, and published in Ella@100, Incandescent Mind, Pea River Journal, Fiction International: Fool, Noctua Review, The Raw Art Review, and several Nature Inspired anthologies. Follow her on https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/(with her friend Nina), https://kblog.blog/, and http://kerferoig.com/
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. 
Join us on Facebook:
December 2024
|