Farm Life

I'll feed them biscuits as soon as they sit down, after they've washed in cold water poured from a cracked pitcher into a mismatched bowl and dried with an old flour sack.  I'll fill their bellies with biscuits and fatback with a thin strip of bacon cut from that sow who bit me, and one egg for each because half of our chickens are too young to lay right now.  I told Samuel to butcher that mean sow but he wouldn't, said she was a good breeder, so I killed her, bled her and hung her in the cooling shed when he was working the fields.  He let her hang for days to punish me, knowing I'd finish her before the meat could spoil.  I skinned and gutted her, saving the entrails for sausage casings, packed most of the meat in quart jars for canning, set aside the ribs, scraps for sausage, side meat and more for curing.  Samuel took over while I rendered the fat in a cast iron kettle knowing it had to be stirred constantly while the lard cooked out. That was the first time I felt the baby kick and I ran upstairs to tell Mother, then back to the kitchen to stir the kettle and worry over what chores needed to be done before he arrived.  Samuel insists we have a boy first to help on the farm, as if he can order up a son, but I want a daughter for the pleasure of her company and a little help of course.  Mother and I are the only women among five men at our table, Samuel and four hungry field hands, and I have more men to feed who sleep in the barn at harvest time.  Mother is sickly, stays in her room most of the day, does little but dusting and mending.  She has delivered eleven babies including one of her own, my sister Bertha who died from diphtheria before her third birthday, and I want her here to deliver mine.  It's nearly dawn now.  The men sit down, drink their first cup of coffee, slather butter on hot biscuits and dig into their breakfast. As soon as they leave I'll wash up and start cooking dinner.  They'll be starving by noon after working hard all morning.

Jill Loomis

This story was written after In the Distance by Andrea Kowich (USA, contemporary.) Click here to view.
 
Jill Loomis is an emerging flash fiction writer and a New Yorker, lucky to live within walking distance of museums, live theatre and Central Park. She began writing for pleasure in 2019 following a career raising funds for nonprofits. Her first piece was published in STORGY Magazine, and one received honorable mention in the 2021 CRAFT Flash Fiction Contest. Jill is an enthusiastic participant of SmokeLong Fitness and more writing workshops. 

​Pilgrimage to San Isidro

I.
I walk onwards, stretching to the horizon. 
Thousands of feet amble in polyrhythm as I,
amorphous, drift over hills and throng through valleys, 
leaving matted grass and litter behind.
An argument breaks out between me — 
shortly silenced. I begin to play guitar. 
I complain, and I sing along. I cry out,
rueful — I laugh in turn. Beyond hills, 
I continue. I play a crooked game of dice 
into a hat. I lose and argue, 
wine-fueled boasts and refutations flying from my lips. 
Smug, I take my winnings.
I’ve developed this nasty habit of walking --
maybe for the sense of progress, 
or maybe just the fresh air. 
I tell me about how I heard from me 
(you know, always wearing that strange hat?)
that I am meant to travel to some holy ground. 
A man apart stands before me. The fear in his eyes 
betrays the scowl on his lips. Why not invite him in? 
I strum with new vigor, augmented and out of tune. 
I sing, tracing the words of a well-worn hymn. 
I sing, mouth agape as I belt pitches that resemble some tavern ballad. 
I sing, armswide as I approach,
always onward.


II.
At another time, I might
have seen the dying leviathan
and called it beauty.
I might have seen a 
pleasant picnic formed
from twisted limbs.
I cannot see them anymore.

— but maybe, maybe if you asked, I could
tell you about the beautiful day
it was, the way the fountain shimmered,
and maybe even a story of rebirth.
I could tell you about a group of
travelers, amicable, set against the hills,
the sun high above the chapel
as pilgrims celebrate their arrival.

I think, at one time, maybe, 
we could be made whole by
water or sun. I’ve forgotten.
Now, there is nothing
that might heal, only
a dying mind, a silence
but for an overpowering song
as it begins to rattle
a guitar. It gets closer.
It plays for me,
I think. I hear nothing,
but I understand.

There is nothing left to do
but sing along.

Lucas Davis
​
Originally from Macon, GA, Lucas Davis is an American poet living in Madrid, Spain. His writing tends towards ekphrastic poetry, and has appeared in Unstamatic, Healthline Zine, and others. He can be found at @Oddi_Teas on Twitter.

The Common Regret

Their colour is blush, and their prominent trait
is their ploddingly slow, bent-over gait,
as if in constant rueful state.

Regrets forget their weather eye,
get caught in squalls. Sometimes they fly
south in summer, where they fry.

Confusing parenthood with play,
on roller coasters Regrets lay
their eggs, which very seldom stay.

They can’t fly straight; they simply swirl. 
They doze, mid-air, with feathers furled.
Regrets are rueful round the world.

Barn Swallower

Swallower flocks divide in teams
and feast on rotting boards and beams;
old country barns will soon be dreams.
  
All those chips of barn red paint
on which they munch without restraint
give undersides a ruddy taint.

These birds can’t help ingesting nails
which over time elongate tails,
especially those of Swallower males.

They migrate with their next of kin,
Bank Swallowers, who bite in-
to fiscal structures wearing thin.

​Scarlet Manager

Bossy, breeding Manager males
jerk their jet black wings and tails
and their red bodies, pointing trails

from vantage points on limbs and wires.
They’re self-appointed specifiers
of migratory lines for flyers.

A Scarlet Manager’s buzzed Chick-burr
will roughly mean, “You must concur.” 
A Chip-churee: “Of course I’m sure!”

From lofty perches, they eat fruit,
insects (any kind will suit)
and sometimes, lagging wrens en route.

Knotty Tern

The only tern with knotted neck,
the Knotty makes one double-check.
Ornithologists have spec-

ulated that in Knottys’ goal
of migrating from pole to pole,
the howling west wind took its toll:

surviving fledglings grew up learning
to follow flocks in circular turning.
All that constant, looping, churning

has twisted necks since time forgot.
In little bites, they eat a lot.
They mate for life—a one-shot knot.

Parrocan

Found along the southern coast,
this hybrid parrot is a close
kin to pelican. Verbose,

it mimics jeers at campaign speeches,
car alarms, sirens, screeches,
blaring radios on beaches.

It feeds on trash. Its favorite bit
is fish-on-crackers, to befit
the Parrocan’s genetic split.

In courting phase, the eager males
will offer females fishy tails
displayed in bills of sliding scales.

Barbara Lydecker Crane

Barbara Lydecker Crane was a Rattle Poetry Prize finalist in 2017 and  2019.  Her fourth collection, You Will Remember Me, sonnets in the imagined voices of artists through history, with many colour reproductions, will be published in October 2023 by Able Muse Press.

It's been awhile since we had a Throwback Thursday. These features are important reminders of the wealth of ekphrastic literature in our archives! By highlighting give or take ten pieces from our past, we invite readers to wade into the past. The benefits of the blog formula for our journal include daily publication and easy to share posts, but without specific issues, the treasure ends up hiding in the background. Here is a reminder to use the search button with an artist's name or the name of a favourite poet. Or click on our ekphrastic challenge archives and dip into a feast. You can click randomly on a month and year in our past under Archives in the sidebar and read forever!

We are so thankful for Kate Copeland, who has been a regular contributor and longtime friend of the Review, and who is now one of our editors. She takes the helm regularly in the challenge department 
and we adore the contemporary and thought provoking works she brings to the table. We are thrilled that she has a Throwback Thursday list for you!

You can send us a TT list, too, along with a Throwback photo of you. Use the format you see here- title of piece and author, link, and a phrase or two about the piece (or a pull quote from it.) You can choose works on a particular theme, gathered from the archives, such as "the sea," "love poems," "Da Vinci," or "Works after Black Painters." You can choose at total random. You can highlight your favourite poet(s). You can pick your favourite works from over the years. Anything goes!

Send your TT lists and TT photo to [email protected] anytime with THROWBACK in the subject. 

THANK YOU KATE!!!!

**
 
Georgia O’Keeffe Looks Over Her Shoulder, by Anne Higgins 

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/georgia-okeeffe-looks-over-her-shoulder-by-anne-higgins

What a gorgeous idea, to use an unknown artist and image as the prompt to O’Keeffe fears and goals and wishes…Higgins' poem just makes one fall in love with the painter and way of being. Amazing!

**

My Dali, by Paul Brookes

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/my-dali-by-paul-brookes

Dali…now there is a prompt! I just love how one is being thrown back (no pun intended…) to teenage thoughts. Brookes has written a very vivid piece. 

**

On A Love Supreme, by Portly Bard 

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/on-a-love-supreme-by-portly-bard

Poet Bard just keeps on writing and writing the most beautiful ekphrastic pieces, he is good! I just chose this one because of the sun, and the moon, and the Love!

**

At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle School, by Nancy Ludmerer

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/at-the-pool-party-for-my-nieces-graduation-from-middle-school-by-nancy-ludmerer

Ludmerer has written a flash piece that reads POOL indeed, the description of swim wear sets the tone, as does a drowning in desire.

**

Nuclear Alchemy, by Sandi Stromberg 

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/nuclear-alchemy-by-sandi-stromberg?fbclid=IwAR3z-Eckry-zD9ah-XjpwbGHI6Ed6wvoq5qAiCm_b_E4PxxcMTivw78_GWY

Such an original prompt, such an original poem! Imagine writing a poem to Trinitite indeed. I love the imagery in Stromberg’s piece, from the quiet cleanliness of the desert, to Los Alamos as site of conception.

**

Star Swallowed, by Olivia Wolford 

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/star-swallowed-by-olivia-wolford

Quote: “…she’d been a hazy child, more curtain of water than girl.” Say no more, just read Wolford!

**

Threshold, by Mary Gilonne

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/threshold-by-mary-gilonne

Edward Hopper is one of my favourite painters, and I always think it is quite a task to write a proper poem that matches his way of storytelling. Gilonne’s poem is a match, I’d say! You can just feel the doubt, whether to leave or stay. Beautiful…

**

is that all there is, by Kerfe Roig


https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/ekphrastic-responses-joseph-cornell


I like the sound of these two stanzas: 

“ but meantime everything is moving beyond is watching blurring falling behind but where is when and why is it always between the getting on the getting off the port of call unanswered just keep moving 

crossing riding piling up gone but mostly not stopping it must be the wind or maybe a wave both sides around repeating maybe and maybe not the focus shifting now the other side is turning all “

**

Cut with the Cake Knife, by Kenneth Pobo 

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/cut-with-the-cake-knife-by-kenneth-pobo

Pobo’s poem comes from an extraordinary mind and pen, I would say…how on earth is it possible to come up with such a creative and superb and funny poem, prompted by a painting that does not give that much away (imho). I was looking for a quote, but I cannot choose just one. Read it, please, do! 

**
​
Kate Copeland’s love for language led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry…please find her pieces @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ & The Ekphrastic Review, Wildfire Words, Gleam, AltPoetry a.o. She is curator-editor for TER and runs linguistic-poetry workshops for IWWG. Kate was born@harbour city and adores housesitting@the world.

Two great workshops ahead on Zoom! You won't want to miss the Ekphrastic Brunch with Joan Leotta. She's an amazing storyteller and gifted guide. Our introduction to ekphrasis is perfect for new readers or tempted writers, or seasoned pros who want a refresher look at how it all began. Scroll below to sign up!

Chair Car, 1965 by Edward Hopper
 
Even the sun is trapped inside. Just a front wall 
with lines to define door. But no handle.  
 
Gradations of yellow, blue, green tempered. Stroked by white.
Like shined glass on the verge of shatter. 
 
And in 1965, painted two years before he dies, trains named Chair Car 
might have been this. Real. 

Still. Composed motion. Sun sifted through blinds 
lifted, splat 
 
as four yellow flags on the aisle between four pairs of alternate 
occupied and unoccupied green velvet chairs. White doilies for necks.
 
No two of the four people are near each other. Beside and behind each 
is an empty seat. One man. Three women. 
 
Locomotive pull somewhere behind us or 
in front of us.

No child waving outside.
The blind right windows translate light dead on the floor.
 
The two women could look at each other across the aisle. 
The man stares. We see the back of his hair. 
 
The woman behind the seat behind him is swiveled 
to almost make eye contact with the woman across 
 
from her looking down at her book unopened. 
They are mannequins? No. 
 
They are Josephine. Jo, his wife, his model, silent in 
his swirls. She was an artist too. And sometimes got a small show. 
 
I am trying to feel, know, 
see what great art is. In the Whitney museum 
 
with my students, in 1996. I showed reproductions in the classrooms.
I told them his lighthouses are his self-portraits, as Jo said.
 
But Berneal wrote, “this lighthouse…with no one to know within.”
I didn’t tell them Jo said all the dead birds attracted to the lighthouse were her (Jo’s diary)
 
but Patrick wrote, “She doesn’t know what to do./The wall looks like sky 
reflected in water./The green’s the land.”  Erwin wrote “ she keeps her secret…in solitude…”
 
A crowd is gathering. Listening to their comments.
The ceiling is closing in. There are no knobs to open gray luggage storage, 
 
a thin right angled corridor above the eight seats. 
There is nowhere to go.

​Barbara Flug Colin

​Barbara Flug Colin has published poems, essays and interviews in art, literary and teaching magazines and anthologies. Essays received: Teachers and Writers' 2012 Bechtel Prize; Notable Essay in The Best American Essays 2013; finalist in 2014 Diagram/New Michigan Essay contest, She created a writing program she taught for 26 years  at the Henry Viscardi School in Albertson, New York. Finishing Line Press published her chapbook SWIMMING  and will publish her forthcoming chapbook, What is the Real Story?