 Whydah Gold, photograph by Theodore Scott. Contemporary. The Moneyed Universe (or, Origin of Specie) The idealistic amongst us used to believe that Nature is the final reserve of purity and innocence; that mankind would do very well to return back to the ways of the natural world. Of course, this was before our first observation of a butterfly, with gold coins for wings, fluttering about. Initially, we refused to believe what we were seeing, but the evidence grew before our very eyes until it became futile to deny it. Flowers started to replace their petals with rubies, diamonds and sapphires; instead of scales, fish now had doubloons covering their bodies. Rather than having worthless leaves made out of unprocessed material, trees replaced them with bill notes of world's leading currencies. And instead of changing the colours and shapes of their leaves according to the seasons, the trees now altered them according to the financial year and the fluctuations of the stock market. Thus, at a particular time of the year, when the U.S. dollar was the strongest, the leaves assumed the appearance of a greenback. At other times, when euro or yen were stronger, the leaves became identical to those banknotes. The final blow, the coup de grace, was the Sun arising one morning and revealing its new face to be a 22 carat (92% gold, 8% copper) sovereign that was worth around 200 pounds in 19th century Britain. Thinking back, it now seems inevitable that things turned out this way; that rather than man taking on nature’s ways, it would be nature taking on man’s ways; that the materialism and avarice so prevalent in the human world would permeate and contaminate the natural world as well as the heavens. It was only natural and to be expected then that all the living creatures on Earth and all the stars in the sky would also want to get a piece of the booming economy. Consequently, animals and plants evolved bodies composed of precious metals and gems and stars transformed themselves from being valueless, unprofitable spheres of superheated plasma into valuable hard currency. This was a type of pollution no environmentalist could ever fight against. Not only was it adopted voluntarily by both animate and non-animate matter; more than that, it was a spiritual pollution that infected the very soul of the natural world. All natural sciences now became branches of economics. Instead of studying the physical characteristics of the universe, astronomers treated it as one giant stock market and determined its total monetary value to be 12599435797842039745203740238430483023843084 American dollars and 17 cents. Chemists used the post-Keynesian econometric approach to explain how molecules and elements interacted. Biologists found that the best way to analyze and predict animal behaviour was to use neoclassical macroeconomic methods and model all creatures as independent agents that seek to maximize utility and profit. And so, as we look back at those momentous changes that have rocked and radically transformed our world, we realize that the ultimate truth of the Universe has finally been revealed to us all: not only is Time Money, but Nature, Cosmos and Spacetime are Money, too. Boris Glikman Editor's note: Unfortunately, we were unable to contact the artist for permission to show the very unique paintings that prompted this story. While beautiful in its own right, the image shown is more of a placeholder than a parallel example of the works that inspired Boris's fiction. The Ekphrastic Review asks that you please visit these links to see the original surreal imagery by Vladimir Kush, so that you can better enjoy the story. Many thanks. What the Fish Was Silent About, by Vladimir Kush Treasure Island, by Vladimir Kush Boris Glikman is a writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. The biggest influences on his writing are dreams, Kafka and Borges. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, as well as being featured on national radio and other radio programs.
1 Comment
 Orange and Red on Red, by Mark Rothko (USA, b. Latvia), 1957. Orange and Red on Red
it’s just [red] and [orange] [orange] and [red] just as these [marks] are here [black] and [white] the way the [red] stands square with the [orange] the way they stand for [red] and for [orange] the way these [marks] stand here for [black] and for [white] as the [red] stands for [red] being [red] being [orange] as [marks] being [black] and being [white] just as the [red] and [orange] here and there Henry Crawford Henry Crawford is a poet living and writing in the Washington, DC area. His work has appeared in several journals and online publications including Boulevard, Copper Nickel, Folio, Borderline Press and The Offbeat. He is a 2016 nominee for a Pushcart Prize for his poem “The City of Washington” appearing in District Lit. His first collection of poetry, American Software, is scheduled for publication in the Spring of 2017 by WordTech Communications through its imprint, CW Books.  Finding the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, by Lorette C. Luzajic., 2016. Click image to visit artist site. finding the patron saint of lost causes
final pew rack of candles winter solstice busted boots rosary a humble camp off the streets jesus passing the plate rice and beans, a coin stained souls stained clothes stained glass someone washes their face in the baptismal font gathering prayers the altar is set kneeling as cars pass outside in the street William Schmidtkunz William Schmidtkunz is the author of Home, and Other Poems, about life as a carpenter in Alaska. This poem was inspired by the chapbook of art and poetry The Luzajic Variations, a collection of poems by Ekphrastic contributor Bill Waters, after the paintings of Lorette C. Luzajic. There are still a few copies of this limited edition gem- click here to view on Etsy.  Dawn in Pennsylvania, by Edward Hopper (USA), 1948. Dawn in Pennsylvania, 1948 The earth’s first viscera dismembers into sky, as clouds shred into blue-purple shrouds, and buildings yawn from the night, borne by revulsion of light from their orifices. Grey bridges, grey walls, grey factories: the streets are senseless, grey gloves. Vernaculars of stone, the store windows gape, the mute chant of churches spire the horizon. What weather comes, mortar will answer with brick. As light spills shadows from hydrants, poles, smokestacks, elevated rails, pigeons clock squares and parks, sparrows break from balled fists of sycamores. Wings of night air evaporate. Listen: a few shouts, warble of distant horns. Even here, time opens like a flower. Robert Bharda
Originally from New York City, Robert Bharda has resided in the Northwest U.S. where for the last 35 years he has specialized in vintage photographica as a profession, everything from salt prints to polaroids. His illustrations/artwork have appeared in numerous publications, both in the U.S. and abroad. Also a writer, his poetry, fiction and critical reviews have been published in The North American Review, Northwest Review, Shenandoah, Quarterly West, Willow Springs, ACM, Cutbank, Fine Madness, Kansas Quarterly, Yellow Silk, Poets On, Conclave and many others, including anthologies.  Return of the Prodigal Son, by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (Netherlands), 1668. Return of the Prodigal After the reggae hard-beat, the Haitian guitars and the delicate mazouk, the unattainable sloe-eyed dancers, sips from forbidden chalices, and the inevitable descent to the wood-and-zinc shack—you came to count your losses, exhume, with some embarrassment, his unread letters, raise, to your startled heart, his shameless wishes-- then, giving up your feet and hands to love’s caressing fetters, you arrived again in the familiar yard, to the evening’s last trumpet. John. R. Lee
Saint Lucian writer, broadcaster, teacher, Bible preacher John R. Lee has a Collected Poems: 1975-2015 forthcoming from Peepal Tree. Click here to learn more.  Involuntary Painting, photography by Eliza McNally (USA). Contemporary. Each Awaits Its Rising
Peeling paint lifts into landscape, reeds like a legion of spearheads splitting still water. Shore fronds lean to catch a glimpse of themselves as they expire. Clouds bring together jagged edges, a clapping before thunderclaps, a closing of hasps. Bark labia round into dark lips, trunk opening a birth canal to light. Close by, a lone figure considers, perhaps stepping, perhaps readying for a leap, each form awaiting its continued rising, offering itself to wind and to weather. Devon Balwit Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. She has a chapbook, Forms Most Marvelous, forthcoming from dancing girl press (summer 2017). Her recent poems have appeared in numerous print/on-line journals, among them: Oyez, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Serving House Journal, The Journal of Applied Poetics, Emerge Literary Journal, Timberline Review, Trailhead Magazine VCFA, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.  Wall of Remembrance at the U.S. National Holocaust Museum, Washington, by Carol M. Highsmith for Library of Congress. Exact date unknown, late 1900s. Walls
(dedicated to my grandmother's family and and all the others who were slaughtered in the Nazi concentration camps) I’ve walked these halls before, seen the dimmed faces of those born to die because they were “Juden.” Jews. Time-tattered images of people frozen in time, matted on walls like cheap paper. Flammable. Disposable. Eyes of the innocent open. Eyes of the world shut. Now I’m left wondering, in a world once again infested by parasites of hate, if this could ever happen again. We cannot forget those who now live only on walls. Shelly Blankman Shelly and her husband are empty-nesters who live in Columbia, Maryland with their 4 cat rescues. They have two sons: Richard, 32, of New York, and Joshua, 30, of San Antonio. Her first love has always been poetry, although her career has generally followed the path of public relations/journalism. Shelly's poetry has been published by Silver Birch Press, Whispers, Praxis, Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing and Visual Verse.  Fountain, by Marcel Duchamp (France), 1917. Potty Prodigy
I used to hold her poised as a tadpole at the edge of the porcelain Fountain holding bottom suspended holding (fingers tracing rib spaces) holding breath Tiny cold splash and she touches toes for the safe necessity of doctors and mothers Squeaky vanilla peach & bouncing blond curls. Lindsey Thäden Lindsey Thäden is the most recent winner of New York's 2016 #PoetweetNYC contest. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in New York Metro, Passages North, eleven40seven and Apeiron Review. https://lindseythaden.tumblr.com  Juliet's Balcony, photograph/assemblage by Robert Bharda. Contemporary. Originally from New York City, Robert Bharda has resided in the Northwest U.S. where for the last 35 years he has specialized in vintage photographica as a profession, everything from salt prints to polaroids. His illustrations/artwork have appeared in numerous publications, both in the U.S. and abroad, and are current or recent on covers of Naugatuck River Review, Blue Five NoteBook, Cirque and Rio Grande Review. His portfolios of images have been featured in many others, including anthologies.
|
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
Join us: Facebook and Bluesky
June 2025
|
