The Ekphrastic Review is excited to present Risk Being/Complicated, a collection of poetry from contributor Devon Balwit, inspired by the art of editor, Lorette C. Luzajic.
The book features dozens of poems and full colour reproductions of the artwork. Click here to view on Amazon, or purchase securely. $17.
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Anna's Joy
So it is now for me without trumpets or angels or shining stars to guide me I must trust even into my old age that God's Glory will present itself and I, will have the strength to exalt in that Presence. Joan Leotta poet's note: Today is the Feast of the Presentation, the day that Jesus was presented in the temple and the prophets Anna and Simeon were there and recognized Him as the Saviour. Joan Leotta has been playing with words on page and stage since childhood in Pittsburgh. She is a writer and story performer. Her Legacy of Honor series feature strong Italian-American women. Her poetry and essays appear or are forthcoming in Gnarled Oak, the A-3 Review, Hobart Literary Review, Silver Birch, Peacock, and Postcard Poems and Prose among others. Her first poetry chapbook, Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, was just released by Finishing Line Press. Joan's picture books from Theaqllc, Whoosh!, Summer in a Bowl, Rosa and the Red Apron, and Rosa's Shell celebrate food and family. Her award-winning short stories are collected in Simply a Smile. You can find more about her work on her blog at www.joanleotta.wordpress.com Chair Car
Not important is where they are going is where they are coming from here is where they are now is this train moving is this a train is not as important as the light how it infuses everything with the clarity of cataracts illuminates nothing outside the windows is the sky the vaulted interior of this car of seats half empty is the interior the sky half full of light on a gray day refracted into the interiors into wherever whoever they are now these four passengers retracting destinations departures any sense of journey or could this be it manicured rows of hedged chairs blunt tongued fescue door mats stuck out licking light like meat cleavers down the center aisle licking light like square-booted one-legged giant tracks some limb-lopped ticket puncher coming or going left some monk of the crippled always here to always there always neither here nor there passing shroud wrapped in light through this cloister of passing unnoticed unimportance punching no tickets punch left in the next or before car anyway if there is one anyway they don’t have tickets anyway don’t need a pass for this any way you can tell from their faces what you can see of them anyway whatever these scattershot passengers are or are not passing to or from and this is important the door the door at the far end what the door at the far end of this car doesn’t have a handle is what we can’t quite get on this picture out of this scenario is what we can’t quite get how the light bathes so completely the blonde woman so shall we say it radiantly yet unenlighteningly her right ankle hosiery the same opaque sheen as the scenery behind her not passing by her face down-drawn drawing us to it the light like a prayer in her hands unopened a book given or received in passing an offering to or from the light-footed usher who has just passed has yet to pass is always passing just out of frame behind the door maybe hiding invisible impossible to open but ajar slightly and this is important not open is her face like light through a window seen from a street but not the lamp purse slipping forgotten pocket of days this day that day always the same dark verdurous day slipping from between her slightly blushed knee and the proximate arm of the chair is this what the black-haired bound-haired woman one seat up and across seat odd-angled watches the light not illuminating past her tight-lipped mouth her sharp nose angling her closed book gaze at the closed book or verdant time slipping away or is she that one darkened key-hole eye she allows us to see anyway the illuminato the hidden clue the sharp point of a midnight pump emerging like a jab at the causeway of day after day after day pointing zig zag to the next woman up a bit of face flash of neck seep of brown hair blue-hatted or green-hatted maybe a shadow of doubt maybe over her ultramarine shoulder maybe just barely light-touched a bit of hand tiny bit we can’t tell maybe knitting maybe folded with some unseen other and this is important oh surely this is important where she’s looking the blue woman across the aisle again zig zag stare at a head just the back of a head above an antimacassar gray day blue like the light like the wall the cloister door at the center of it the end of it all the focus of this slightly off-center perspective this study in expansive claustrophobia at which he stares like one does on a blue gray day in the front hedge chair the only man in this car of hedged bet chairs somewhat abstractedly pondering zig zag zig zag zig the spot where there has never been never will be anything to grab onto wondering perhaps like us if this is important if this is still life Robert L. Dean, Jr. This poem was first published in River City Poetry. Robert L. Dean, Jr.’s work has appeared in Flint Hills Review, I-70 Review, Illya’s Honey, Red River Review, River City Poetry, Heartland!, and the Wichita Broadsides Project. In April 2017 he organized a program of poetry and improvised music at Fisch Haus in Wichita. His haibun placed first at Poetry Rendezvous 2017. He was a finalist in the 2014 Dallas Poets Community chapbook contest. His haiku placed second in the 2016 Kansas Authors Club competition. He has been a professional musician, and worked at The Dallas Morning News. He lives in Augusta, Kansas. Self-Portrait, Jasper Johns
“No pictures!” the guard at the gallery said, “Not these three…” All Jasper Johns. Curious, I asked “Why?” he shrugged, “Copyright issues I guess”, or “you know, artists.” The red neon “R” got me-- and the mirror image, letters down the middle. Rectangular canvas split in two. Colour splotches on the left, gray-blue on the right. Savarin tin, Ballantine beer can, both affixed, typical Pop-- Flick the switch, the letters stand up, then lie down, like puppet people I hear Jasper speaking, “Turn me on, turn me off.” The cityscape blinks on and off, while he stays dark, referential No face, no arms no torso, no legs-- no disguise needed, The artist is revealed. Lee Woodman Lee Woodman is a longtime artist and media producer, whose radio and film awards include five CINEs, two NY International Film Blue Ribbons, and three Gracies from American Women in Radio and Television. She worked for 20 years in leadership roles at the Smithsonian, was Vice-President of Media and Editorial at K12, Inc., and Executive Producer at Lee Woodman Media, Inc. Her essays and poems have been published in Tiferet Journal, Zócalo Public Square, and (forthcoming), The New Guard. www.poetleewoodman.com |
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