 Male Harp Player of the Early Spedos Type, artist unknown (Cyclades, Greece) 2700–2300 B.C. Cycladic Harp Player (2700- 2300 BC): Three Views 1. To be so moved by a thing so still 2. Strolling through galleries, I refuse my friend's offer to take a photo for me with her phone of artwork I stand long in front of, looking, maybe writing, maybe sketching, as if I don't have a phone of my own, which I might as well not, I so rarely, in a gallery, take it out. It's not that I don't want a way to take it home with me, the art. I want it to become a part of me the way the arc of the harp frame seems to grow out of the player's arm just below the elbow the way the marble is hardly grooved to separate the sound box of the harp from the figure's thigh the way we say of virtuosi that their instruments are extensions of themselves. Still, I scan the gallery gift shops for postcards of the art that I've stood long in front of. I found one of this marble figure in the shop at the Getty Villa, that imagined replica I thought J. Paul had loved so much he'd had it disassembled and sent home from Herculaneum to Malibu. In fact, he loved what he hadn't seen so much he had architects design a new one for him, a mirror-image of the original whose 2000-year-old remains are still buried beneath what remains of the Vesuvian eruption. If I want an image later I will want it bigger than the little screen. I will want to hold it or lean it against a stack of files on my desk. A postcard gives me what I want, a language for my looking that I don't need to translate. Would I have accepted if I'd been invited to take the harp player home? Maybe, if I could imagine a place in my house where it could stand as if in a gallery, the air around it blank as its grey background on the card, nothing else in my field of vision. 3. No translation needed to recognize a feeling in the upward gaze of a pock-marked marble face with no features except the straight nose sloping smoothly from the forehead Wistful--longingly pensive, closely attentive—the word I find for the tilt of small head on long strong neck looking off with eyeless gaze to somewhere where the music of its stringless harp still echoes. Or maybe it's nostalgia, from the ancient Greek for a song of the ache to be home Even without ears—unless they're hidden by the harp's arch —the figure listens, a poet waiting for the song to come home to the poem Rebekah Wolman Rebekah Wolman is an erstwhile middle school principal based in San Francisco, California, on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Ramaytush Ohlone people. A 2021 winner of Cultural Daily's Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and the 2022 winner of the Small Orange Emerging Woman Poet Honor, she is even happier on a mountain trail than she is at her desk.
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 Pygmalion and Galatea, by Étienne Maurice Falconet (France) 1763 Pale Fire Stare I would dance, in the night’s silver toned light, break my mighty stance to bend in the breeze with the long, thronged tails, but by chance I serve a greater purpose. A monument to the bent neck glares, the mutterings at my body laid bare-- It’s cold in here. Wait, you, the one enraptured. I’m curious to know what you mean by lingering on my pale fire stare? I would tell you, in an impulse if my stony mouth could chew the words, my voice would scream-- who, who, who are you? Like the thundering beat of battle my heart would rage to crack the hardened, forged body, my fingers would hope beneath your hands I might soften, tremble and blush at the inhales-- Astonishing, aren’t I? I’ve waited to be brought to life, through Ancient dreams and ecstatic tales, the milky white moons of Neptune, retellings of my illustrious creation. Death can’t touch me here, I’ve been cast in marble to their liking, a fevered dream of near sighted devotion-- Am I built to suffer your parting? I’ll stay here, burdened by the stare of the incubus glare of my disciple and a spider’s lying web casting across my marbled cheek, unaged by the sun touched room, the wearing of passing shoes and the silence of shadows at closing. I’d have more for the child at my hip, toss them to the nymphs before I’d let the world take them as they’ve taken me, what’s mine, their fickle, desperate, empty hunger and what follows, a devouring. Allyson Abernathy Allyson Abernathy holds a BA in Creative Writing from Anderson University. She’s had fiction, non-fiction, and poetry previously published in the Ivy Leagues Literary Journal, Necrology Shorts, LitBreak Magazine, and featured in the collection Love: An Anthology of Love Poems. She is currently at work on a novel and resides in South Carolina with her husband, daughter, and two wild dogs.  Mérode Altarpiece (a triptych by the workshop of Robert Campin (Belgium, b. France) c. 1427-32 Annunciation The Workshop of Campin painted it best – my absorption in a shrouded book implicit requirement that the angel’s message be worthy of my time. A little spoiler alert hovering just above the left wing. In a different era I would have been the girl with a microscope in her room ready to scrutinize a frost of cells in order to comprehend the enormity of what was being asked. I would have filled notebooks with my wrangling, tried to capture the rushing sound, not quite wind, not quite wings, voice recorder in hand, a ghosthunter, so I could later play it back and play it back to hear the words beneath the static. Divinity gives us no waivers to sign. It’s all or nothing, no meeting halfway. So I would have insisted, and did, on full disclosure. How, exactly. When. What I should have asked was why. Isabel Cristina Legarda Isabel Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to the U.S. She is currently a practicing physician in Boston. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cleaver, America, Ruminate, The New York Quarterly, and others. She can be found on Instagram: @poetintheOR.  The Virgin of the Rocks, by Leonardo Da Vinci (Italy) 1483-1486 At the Louvre with Angel Like you, she’s the first to make eye contact. The one pointing the coy, an- gelic finger--so sly--at the virgin’s lap. Like you, her position in the composition is one she’d never put up with for long. Like you, she’d roll her head to get rid of the crick in her neck, cut her eyes away from the painter’s gaze, so set on capturing the stillness in the symmetry of upper to lower lip; the ellipse of nose; the triangular lightness of brow; the multiple angles in the drape of her dress--pooling precisely over the curve of her shoulders into her lap. She’d have ruined the whole tableau, if it weren’t for the master’s skill. You might even say that, after today, I know the shape of her better--her geometry--better than I know yours. Lisa Righter Sloan Lisa Righter Sloan has been writing poetry for about three or four years, so her list of accomplishments is humble and brief enough to submit in its entirety: she has received three honourable mentions from the South Carolina Poetry Society for their 2022-2023 fall/spring contests, and her chapbook, Bodies, was recently published by Bottlecap Press. She writes and lives a pretty idyllic life in Charleston, South Carolina.  Blue and Green Music, by Georgia O’Keeffe (USA) 1921 So, I Saw This Concert… I’ve seen many concerts, but this last one was a first. We walked into a once-swanky, old-timey theatre with red, plush, crushed velvet seats that were now more crushed than plush. People were dressed up and down, in pajamas, jeans and gowns. As showtime approached, the theatre lights flickered. Then a vintage applause sign sputtered with a flashy little twinkle. We looked to the stage, to a weathered red curtain, fringed with faded, tousled, tangled, tassels that had opened to reveal, through the years, a galaxy of stars. When the curtains opened, the first thing I noted was the lack of instruments on the stage. In fact, the lack of anything denoting a musical concert. Two people backed slowly onto the stage, pulling a giant image, on wheels, to the center. Then one stepped forward, toward us, introduced herself as the conductor, and announced: Blue and Green Music, by Georgia O’Keeffe. They all bowed gently toward the painting, with quick but sincere applause, and left the stage. Some of us whispered, When does the music start? Others, more in the know, whispered, It already has. I’d seen this painting before but had never made the time to slow down and feel the music. But here, now, in this concert venue, there was nothing to do but feel for the vibrance, tones, and harmony of the colours, the lyrical qualities of the lines, and every insightful sound choice of the artist. I listened so deeply I could almost hear the unseen, inspiring touches, sights, sounds, and cycles, and the dreams dreamed in between, as she composed this musically visionary scene. Just when I started to fidget and feel that I’d heard all that I could from this painting, the people returned to the stage and turned the image on its side. That was, I realized, the first movement. This next movement was filled with echoes and variations from the first, while revealing added dimensions and imaginative possibilities. Other musically inspired, rhythmically infused paintings followed, interspersed with brief videos of musical painters warming up their instruments, drawing deep breaths, doodling colour scales, and checking the tones and timbres of their brushes. The program included famous works by Kandinsky and pieces by local painters at play with musical styles from pops to hip-hop. Various pieces were loud, soft, light dark, brassy, bold, cool, warm, and hot. Some were layered, free-style, electric, geometric, smooth, or coarse, and some were filled with squiggly lines or playful, staccato dots. Some works were splashed with symbols that rang so true they chimed like cymbals. As the concert drew to a close, the conductor stepped out to announce that the final piece had to be removed from the program because Chagall’s horse had eaten the violin. She said Chagall’s mother and the poet, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, had seen this coming. So, for the finale, we were treated to a playful composition, created by Louis Wain, of cool cats playing music in the snow. Some of us began this evening thinking it was a joke, one that would play out quickly and turn to boredom. Then we became lost in seeing, feeling, and tuning in to the music and the interpretive dances of meaning in this colourful, musical evening. On the way out, we all compared notes, quite literally, about what we felt and what music each of us heard, and we hungered to see more music, to hear more in the rhythms of quietude, to have our every-day senses and expectations flipped, opened, challenged, expanded. We walked away humming and began to realize we were remembering music no one had ever actually heard, music sparked by seeing the sounds, as we imagined them—and we hoped to find the time—and the colours, words, notes, silences and sounds—to write it down. Linda Eve Diamond Linda Eve Diamond’s poetry has been performed at The Dancing Poetry Festival, screened at the REELpoetry Festival, displayed at the Dublin Art Walk, and published in numerous journals and anthologies. She has been honored to receive multiple poetry awards, including Artists Embassy International’s Grand Prize “for exceptional poetry that inspires dance and for furthering intercultural understanding and peace through the universal language of the arts.” Find her poetry, flash fiction, photographs, and latest publications at http://LindaEveDiamond.com.  Join us tomorrow for an intimate brunch gathering on Zoom, with Joan Leotta, a beloved food storyteller. We'll take a trip down memory lane and learn a bit about food in art history through the years. Joan will guide us in ways to use food themes and food related artworks to make delicious poems and stories. Bring coffee, tea, and croissants or scrambled eggs and enjoy a time of creativity and friendship.
Join us next Wednesday as well for a workshop introducing ekphrasis.  Sir Francis and the Birds, by Stanley Spencer (England) 1935 Being Next in Divinity to the Saint Stanley placed them on the roof, cluttered against the red tiles though they were almost too many to fit the view of life he longed for: two women, a father, saint, the boy he once was, hens and geese, all crowded in to be fed, to be painted, all that he recalled, the waft from the open dressing gown, Patricia positioned high on the parapet, Hilda overpainted with a saint, each picture hot in the midday sun and never the question either/or as he fleshed them out, but how best to say all that life is. Gill Horitz Gill Horitz lives in Dorset, UK and has worked in the Arts for many years with different groups and communities, and with a particular interest in developing new tellings of stories, using archives, theatre and sense of place. She co-founded Wimborne Community Theatre in 1991, which collaborates with professional artists and theatre-makers to develop local stories in the landscape and non-theatre spaces.  Cyclist and Crow, by Alex Colville (Canada) 1981 Cyclist and Crow She seems relaxed. She pedals her Peugeot with sneakered ease—but stares across the field to watch the bird outpacing her. Although she seems relaxed, she pedals her Peugeot not quite as effortlessly as the crow appears to glide; she’s earthbound, though two-wheeled. She seems relaxed—she pedals her Peugeot with sneakered ease—but stares across the field.  Swimming Race, by Alex Colville (Canada) 1958 Swimming Race I know I’ll win. I hit the water first and made a splash—but did I jump the gun, undoing the triumph for which I thirst? Can I still win? I hit the water first, my arms and legs extended in a burst of power—but false starts can’t be undone. I may not win. I hit the water first and made a splash, but did I jump the gun?  Woman Carrying Canoe, by Alex Colville (Canada) 1972 Woman Carrying Canoe The image isn’t lewd; it doesn’t bare her breasts or bottom. But it bothers me that we don’t see her head—eyes, mouth, and hair. The image isn’t lewd, it doesn’t bare what should be private, but we don’t see where her thoughts unfold—just limbs flexed forcefully. The image isn’t lewd—it doesn’t bare her breasts or bottom—but it bothers me.  May Day, by Alex Colville (Canada) 1970 May Day Uncounted miles from any place she knows, she slumps against her Beetle—stupid car she never should have bought. In dirty clothes, uncounted miles from any place she knows, no phone, no food, she wonders why she chose to make this trip alone. She’s gone too far: uncounted miles from any place she knows. She slumps against her Beetle. Stupid car. Jean L. Kreiling Jean L. Kreiling is the author of three collections of poetry: Shared History (2022), Arts & Letters & Love (2018), and The Truth in Dissonance (2014). Her work has been awarded the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, the Frost Farm Prize, the Able Muse Write Prize, three New England Poetry Club prizes, and the Plymouth Poetry Contest prize, among other honours. An Associate Poetry Editor for Able Muse: A Review of Poetry, Prose & Art, she lives on the coast of Massachusetts.  Blue Venus (Floating), by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2023      Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He is a poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated selected ekphrases by Lorette C. Luzajic into Urdu – compiled into a chapbook, Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. His ekphrases has been showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, and Tagore. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com, or www.facebook.com/owlofpines.
 Willy Lott's House, by John Constable (England) c. 1810-1815 I Willy told them how in eighty-eight years life required him to leave it only once, yet as we stand here Looking over where old rings of water turn into tree stumps, time has supplied a small craft it will punt His side if we want out of this sharp light unshaded by elms, somewhere we too can enter that white house.  Boatbuilding Near Flatford Mill, by John Constable (England) 1815 II Barge for a king, the miller or what passer-by: one is waiting for somebody in its dry dock, a solitary craftsman bent there, splash of a thoughtful bow wave. The woodwork of the frames is fresh, beautifully shaped and butted, plugged with caulking, unfinished, yes, but the sight of it makes you think – if she were to slide back just a little from him leaving those tools in the silt and that child with no dear mother to tell her no, if it were at once in the river, in the current, and swept away not even Raedwald would raise a hand, the great crowns go on arbitrating between cloud and flatness.  Cloud Study, by John Constable (England) 1822 III for R.C Cumulus gathers like brain matter, grey over everything, usurping the bright day, its sun-disc, and Skying has become the only way to understand how we dare look up while this young star falls to earth.  The Haywain, by John Constable (England) 1821 IV Through the water he goes, ignoring us, his load elsewhere, his mind running away east from where the breakers will one day roll. He’ll leave no trace of passing here, his plot already lost before the defences yield, but has this moment now to forge a way through asking no man’s help, not even aware of her. The horses drink. A dog is mildly interested. If he brought hay, none here today – perhaps there never was.  Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop's Grounds, by John Constable (England) 1823 V Still it tries to break through: but the elms are united in their chorale, they link arms and think of bark. No organ is going to move them, and cattle stay in the water belching methane benedictions. But what’s that rising up behind the spire, the glower of rebellion against this wooden guard, youthful urgency in its free form? Change of scene at the proscenium arch for the final act. All complaints to the director. Blackout, curtain, here it comes, and just as the English elms have vanished, so that aspiring dream goes too, and those who dreamt they could recreate it in oil are washed by a watery blur, colourless sheets limply floating in the gallery.  Littlehampton, by John Constable (England) 1835 VI Lone windmill on the beach, peaceful, perfectly unlike industrial watchtowers that have been planted where the elms still sucker and die – they whisper they’ll save us though they have not heard of coffins and they cannot hear laughter from the tall ships at all their lack of progress, ever and only accruing power. X marks the happy, long-departed landmark on this southern beach, and how a handsome gentleman once stood and looked out, musing on life’s frailty. He pricks a pig’s bladder of paint and the windmill stirs. She will die. He tries again turning into the easterly, but only the same old empty rattling of lanyard on mast. He can do nothing more. The sails will move. No grain left to be ground.  The Leaping Horse, by John Constable (England) 1825 VII Trotting back home under empty skies Laughing at it all, you were expecting nothing special: a thorn tree and these timbers passing a slimy secret in low murmurs at the bridge, not this sudden urge to go galloping into the new – Hoof prints wiped into oily skid marks, grey roaring in the ears, sound of the rainbow’s end game being played.  Dedham Vale, by John Constable (England) 1828 VIII Down there is what he said, except that it’s clear he doesn’t if you look at him as he stamps out the ashes and packs up to move on the way we all – Visionary and plain John both – like to: up-sticks, exit the frame.  Stonehenge, by John Constable (England) 1835 IX Summer brings this alignment – a great stone temple on the plain, the Academy of Druids, their pictures hanging still, and no one understanding. The skies try to explain but are too confused to make clear how megalith and sun converge so that earth can tell you the time, can show us how now’s hand and the hand of then spell out the genius of this setting, source of pure energy, and the heart of Englishness. The particular paintings are identified acrostically in each of the nine poems. J.G. John Greening John Greening is a UK poet, a Bridport, Arvon and Cholmondeley winner with over twenty collections, including two from Carcanet. He has edited Grigson, Blunden, Crichton Smith and Fanthorpe, plus several anthologies and published a number of books on poets and poetry. His essays, Vapour Trails, appeared in 2020 and his Goethe translations in 2022 from Arc. His Rilke is forthcoming. The Interpretation of Owls: Selected Poems 1977-2022 (Baylor University, USA, ed. Gardner) came out in March. |
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