 Jericho Valley, Winter, by John Folinsbee (USA) 1935 The Old Towns A tiered expanse to reflect on birth We had family from all over Perhaps you do not or prefer not to acknowledge distance How dark the sky appears after snowfall especially at dusk The old towns must remain weathered or lose their identity We cannot abandon our gray roots Mark Danowsky Mark Danowsky is author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press, 2018). His poems have appeared in Eunoia Review, Gargoyle, The Healing Muse, North Dakota Quarterly, Peacock Journal, and elsewhere. He’s Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal.
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 Mystery and Melancholy of a Street, by Giorgio de Chirico (Italy) 1914 Re-discovery In some half-imagined scene of mine, perhaps in a sunlit piazza in Trieste, I am thinking deeply of you again. It seemed the kind of life we wanted. Sipping wine on a terrace, you in a bright ochre corridor of light with a foreign phrasebook on your lap. I squint in memory of some lines — “Mai piu ritonerai, mai piu”, which sound like the begging of all good years left in me, to return no more, no more to you. Why these lines have loitered half-heeded in my throat, no one can say. Not in this wind-haunted seaport, where the afternoon stretches on, marked only by long shadows. The old starry-eyed Italians like Galileo were feted for mapping point to point. Then why did I want to be re-discovered by you in this cobbled square, when I caught in a lowered gaze, that piazza really meant insurrection, not connection. Eugene Ong Eugene Ong is interested in city planning, architectural heritage and photography. His photographs on housing estates have appeared in <<联合早报>>. He has co-authored a book on Singapore's vanished public housing estates and his writing has appeared in Asian Cha and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. Visit his website for more information.  Bread Sculpture, by Grace Hartigan (USA) 1977 Bread Sculpture Grace Hartigan Back then, bread knew how to fill a pan, rise past tin walls where the only fear was too eager a vermilion bite as though all those layered eyes might stop their smiling, as though the smooth touch of each phallic finger stroking bloated love might mix its cuticle or gaze too easily into another’s pot. The ‘70s sent tropical vegetation as decoration, cozied in the floating females caught up in bold prints and chucked gently through red outlines, wearing Marimekko smocks that pocketed wooden spoons and the neighbor’s secret keys. For those peeking over picket fences, bread begs back to yeast when the baker can’t disentangle the mythic beast who nibbles from the leaf that feeds. In dreams, we travel a hibiscus ridge down the back of a snake-like road we took only for fun that time the sprig of a gift allowed one more gilded drive to finish off the loaf. Sarah Wyman Sarah Wyman writes and teaches on verbal / visual intersections and lives in the Hudson Valley where climbing feet kick dust down to a river-sea. Her work has appeared in Aaduna, Mudfish, Quarry, Petrichor Review, A Slant of Light: Contemporary Women Poets of the Hudson Valley (Codhill), and other venues. Finishing Line Press published her chapbook Sighted Stones last year.  Lovers in Small Boat (sometimes called The Demon Love), by Maximilian Pirner (Czech Republic) 1884 Reined Belted in red this Sash Of mine Your gift sir from A fine day Spans my waist Like a Bridge At the point Where Mind loses Land to Lust This waist a pontifex Like a priest but Not Bears what once Belonged Only to soldiers and Royals Pirates too A sign of a Prize Forcefully won From blood and Death Now secured and seen On this Body La femme Gagged where Talk Might cross From one hemisphere To another Subtlety of Knowing Flickering like A roll of Silk Near a thinly cracked Window Where whispers of a House Become the language Of trees and Wild Birds A cracked window Being The best you can Hope for In a weighted World Chatelained and Thimbled As you are Now That is the history of A sash This one The language of Belonging/longing And Rank Fear Wound round And round Prettily Long tails Hang Like reins. Kate Bowers Kate Bowers is a Pittsburgh based writer who works for a large public school system by day. She has been published previously in The Ekphrastic Review and is a compulsive reader of anything with print on it. So if you find her staring at you oddly, you're probably holding something she can't quite read. Or, she just likes you. Kate is a trained improviser, loves to swim, and is a big fan of gardening and life. ** Lovers in a Small Boat “Meet me tonight, at our secret hideaway. Let us hide, once again. Hide; like old times.” “I’ll come, dressed as a bride. And you, my groom. Around my waist, will be tied; The red ribbon.* In my hands, I will be Holding Daturas.* Although, Our oars are tied, And boat; restrained. Together we will board. Together we shall float.” “We’ll say our vows, We’ll say ‘I do’. Then in our deep kiss, Like always; we’ll drown. Only this time, never to be found.” *** “Our little gifts, Our first kiss, Our fights and laughs, Our hurried goodbyes, The never-ending stream, Of sparkling dreams. -Our memories and longings Are all rooted in this place. Let’s hide right here, forever; From this town. Let’s draw upon ourselves; -The Ultimate Veil.” “Hush now, my darling, Do not waste your breath. Take a bite of this blossom. And give me a kiss… Share with me, this concluding misery. Let’s close our eyes, And never open again. Come, wipe your tears. Let me hold you tight, Till we make it to the other side. Life did us apart, Let this poison marry us -For eternity.” As the two ascended, Floating together, Hand in hand; To this grisly melody, The Mighty Moon danced. Maraam Pasha *In some cultures, a red ribbon around a bride’s waist, is to symbolize a Virgin or a One-man woman. *Daturas are white poisonous flowers. Maraam is a Business Student from Pakistan. She is an ordinary girl, who finds literature a way to both tap into her real self, and to express her view of the world and beyond. She aspires to become who she once wanted to be, and encourage others along the way. ** Love, A Discourse In this backlit Bayou evening descends on lamplit water, on lovers enshrined in moody green hues. Swoon and swoop and surrender; silence a co-conspirator. He kisses her like an art - and she a muse, enthralled. This stolen moment, a dalliance better thought of. Vampire devouring her soul? It is night, and his face is sharp; and her fallen frame frail in the murky light. Romantic heroine distress? Another Ophelia, you suppose. Or Psyche succumbing to Cupid’s charming kiss. Romance rendered real in classic passionate pose. Melancholy transmuted to momentary beauty. How, in a drowning world love is a boat (small or not) keeping us afloat. Or in a floating, frivolous world - love is the drowning deep we so desperately seek. Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán is an English and History graduate from Ireland with a passion for reading and writing poetry. She has a MA in Creativity in Practice and facilitates a creative writing group in her local area. As well as writing poetry, she enjoys blogging about it and other writing matters on www.a-poem-a-day-project.blogspot.com. Her other interests include art, music and cats. Her poems have appeared online on Poetry24, The Ekphrastic Review and forthcoming on The Honest Ulsterman. Twitter @siobhan347 ** Vow kiss me wildfire and robin’s blue egg. kiss me in your mismatched socks. kiss me in pain, in hunger, or in mystery, whichever comes first. kiss me under the dragonfly’s hum, over raspberry cream pie, against debussy’s sonata. kiss me stupid. kiss me, fool. roughen my mouth like this august fervor. the sunflowers will turn away to blush. Grace Song Grace Q. Song is a high school junior from New York. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, DIALOGIST, Crab Creek Review, L'Éphémère Review, Into The Void, Frontier, and [PANK],among others. A 2019 Best of Net nominee, she enjoys listening to ABBA and Yoke Lore. ** Carried Away The river of your departure was relentless and its surging currents rushed past much too fast. No gleam lightens the hollow gloom that consumes me. Dreams ebb – murmurs in reeds, fingers brushing my cheek as if you’d never let go. No-one bolsters me. No lips anchor mine now in this vortex without you. Where is the moor of your limbs, the hold of our symmetry, our sweet duet? Helen Freeman Helen has been published on several online sites such as Ink, Sweat and Tears, Red River Review, Barren Magazine, The Drabble, Sukoon and the Ekphrastic Review. She lives in England after many years in East Africa and the Middle East. ** Assignation She would sooner drop her guard than the antique lace hankie she clutches along the lip of a snug boat moored in mystery. His professed love, deep as these shallows. Her pink satin ribbon, trawling the depths. His firm hand upon her neck, a willowy stem supporting petal-soft lips. Their first kiss sown by her open gaze. Her left arm, taut, the right, succumbing to the whiplash curve of his shoulder. She leans in. A demur surrender or false modesty? Sinuous lines blur. Swaying reeds give with the crush of their docking boat. What geometry in this equation. Art or artifice? Do I hear his quickened breath, her sigh? Mythic ardor suspended. Margo Davis Margo Davis is a retiree with wanderlust. In fall 2018, she toured major Madrid and Barcelona museums, Malaga and the Alhambra. In 2019, she was awarded a writing residency in Italy. This year's residencies will be in Budapest and Assisi. Her home base is Houston.Twice nominated for a Pushcart, Margo is partial to ekphrastic poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, What Rough Beast, The Fourth River, and The Houston Chronicle. ** Past Life Regression of an Artist's Model All that was missing was the moon and swans in Praha, the river Vitava flowing flowing, art in the heart of Bohemia when I was too young to understand why you told me to put on a white dress with a pink sash and whisper ravissement, my body pressed against the length of you -- eyes closed, lips open -- your hand cradling my throat...measuring what I was to be in the future. The dance was over, and there was no movement in the water rushes, the river lapping gently at the boat sides, the spirit of Proteus rising in the silence of the soul. Onstage, swan feathers had trembled, the false lake shimmering like shook foil; There was no boat to hold me thus, my hair with strands of age and light sheer as luna moth wings -- a ghostly platinum in the moonless night -- my body clinging to the ledge outside the tower window (Sleepwalker, you would call me) surviving in what was left of the wetlands south of Camelot in another country as the Lady of Shalott passed by; as the dark knight rode from the black forest and I was Psyche in your arms, the muscled horse beneath us, you with dark hair fallen on your brow, the face of a boy who could have been my first love, or the young Yeats, trying to grow beyond the mystery of the afterlife, a canvas filled with what we could never escape: the gypsy fortune teller at the Cafe Slavia, her eyes the color of wild hazelnuts, the way she looked up from my palm as the waiter tried to stop us although it was inevitable, my lace handkerchief returned from the place where I'd dropped it at his feet; then the boat, The Lovers who never left the dock, the hard knot of you, almost in pain, crying out against me for the waking shudder of pure release -- winter bursting into spring, the relief of romantic heat on the cool cement floor in the downstairs hallway of my grandparents' house built into the limestone cliffs above the creek in Austin, a paperback book of poetry open in my hands -- Bronte, the Pre-Raphaelites, Tennyson -- the snakey assonance of Swinburne; outside, foliage growing to the water, island grasses where The Lotus-Eaters could not swim into consciousness as you painted me in plein air, dipping your finger in a small, white bottle filled with poison, touching it to my lips, to my breast where the white dress had been spread open like angel wings as your tongue traced lifetimes of daemonic love; as you picked me up like a wilted cabbage rose and carried me into a studio where you'd left the lights on in that haunted, beautiful house with a Victorian Valentine on the mantle, fields beyond the garden wall climbing the hills behind us as you dressed my body in the sinuous lines of bittersweet passion floating in shadows, vulnerable and wistful, seductive and provocative (tempus fugit -- momento mori ) time flying by like long hours of love, the boat swaying gently in the cattails, our lives illustrated by canvasses everywhere around us creating me over and over as I created you -- I wanted you -- words inside me as naked and alive as you must have felt as you painted the woman I was, and could never be. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp's new book of poetry, When Dreams Were Poems, has two of the poems selected by The Ekphrastic Challenge. Her ekphrastic poem was chosen for The Ekphrastic Poetry Prize, Houston Poetry Fest, 2018. "What surprises me, on Valentine's, is how little I've changed, writing a poem with the spirit of Pre-Raphaelite art, which I've always loved, imagining the women of that age as myself, different this year only in deviating from my usual Valentine pattern, writing a humorous short story." ** Lovers in a Small Boat As we swoon on these board seats, your hands at my throat and waist, one of mine gripping your shoulder, the other braced on the cold gunwale to press my face to your face your kiss your lips your lips your lips, your suit rumpled, my dress a wreck, both of us given over to this, we can hardly hear the calls from the shore – the derisive hoots of my child and your child, catcalls of our exes, ambivalent sigh of your dear late wife – and are scarcely aware of the muffled ding of texts from my lonely dad, your baffled brother, our lovelorn friends, that accompanies our blind journey, so determined are we to let the fire consume us, bootlessly. Laura Cherry Laura Cherry is the author of the collection Haunts (Cooper Dillon Books) and the chapbooks Two White Beds (Minerva Rising) and What We Planted (Providence Athenaeum). She co-edited the anthology Poem, Revised (Marion Street Press) with Robert Hartwell Fiske, and her work has been published in journals including Antiphon, Ekphrastic Review, Los Angeles Review, Cider Press Review, and Hartskill Review. She earned an MFA from the Warren Wilson Program for Writers. ** Shallow Water, Deep Breaths She truly doesn't know which she wants: For his kiss to be eternal, if not unending, or for him to be her first demon lover, to populate her dreams with little deaths carried through by his sinister hand caressing her throat before continuing down, along the body aching to be new, revealed and permanently changed. She knows the Tennyson by heart: Another woman, different boat and river, forsaking her life to abandon the tower bordering hopes for a lover's kiss before surrendering all to sleep forever alone. That isn't the plan tonight, any of it, except this boat, this river, this real man. Her fantasies are finer than old legends. Lennart Lundh Lennart Lundh is a poet, short-fictionist, historian, and photographer. His work has appeared internationally since 1965. ** Kiss on the Water She’d seen him around. That dark lock of hair so daringly falling over the left eye, pushed back impatiently, sometimes blown up, lower lip forward. She’d observed him. She’d lusted, even though she hadn’t been sure what lust was. A small town, she from the manor house. Well protected, always accompanied. She had to find a way. He’d seen her too. So white, so blond, so unattainable, so prettily dressed. Always accompanied. He lusted after her. Knew exactly what lust was. He had to find a way. He’d brushed past her. Hardly touching. But a note went furtively from his hand to hers. She escaped through the back garden, pretending to go for a quiet evening stroll. Seven pm under the footbridge, the note had said. Her heart pounding she stepped into the skiff. When he kissed her, hidden from curious eyes by the reeds and the bad light, she learned what lust was. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and three poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. Her latest full-length poetry manuscript, The Rain Girl, has been accepted for publication in June 2020 by Blue Nib. ** The Trouble with Rowing a Boat Across a Pond and Stopping To Embrace Your Lover Love is no duck soup—that boat tips over when he shifts his balance. Her powdered blue and tan dress, the commissioned one that took eons to sew, will deflate into the reeds. Then her hand will grasp the dock post more desperately than his shoulder. Is he a soldier that could not wed anyway, for sex weakens, the Romans said long ago? So much easier now to just drive down the freeway to a sturdy lounge, and deliver the black latex corset, size XS, which she wanted from Etsy. I might have won her over more when she took a selfie with Snoopy smiling on the gift bag. And how much better to know the only water is at the bottom of an ice bucket that supports a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé champagne? No pestering yellow glow from a window in the background or worrying about spies behind any trees. The waitress reserved the V.I.P. booth docked in plush red velvet with shutters half-closed, the dimmer light bathing us in marine blue and violet. No need to ring St. Valentine, for this demon love becomes a lemon dove with shiny horns that bangs against my heart’s thin hull. John Milkereit John Milkereit is a mechanical engineer working in the oil and gas industry who lives in Houston, TX. His poems have appeared in various literary journals including The Ekphrastic Review, San Pedro River Review, and The Ocotillo Review. He completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop in Tacoma, WA in 2016. His most recent collection of poems, Drive the World in a Taxicab, was published by Lamar University Press. ** Troubled Waters? Before the launch, encomium, assumed fare suit for season’s mood, and illustrate for secret cards - why my unease, discomfiture? Reading romance or demon power, ask who or what is at the heights, emotion, power of love displayed or dominant ascendency? This separate the lads from lass, in what they see, or choose to view, and on which side might dare to be, some gilt enhanced or guilt betrayed? I wonder, one neck-gripping hand, another, tense, seeks gunwale cloth; is one in charge, or charge in both, a supplicant or slave entwined? The mastery, line sinuous, said compliment, or complement to devil lover - even pair? In dusky shade, her flesh must cool, unbalanced strain, skeletal thrall, I fear abuse is, hear, laid bare, pink ribbon, pinned to prize displayed - is small boat universe, or cell? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by over a dozen on-line poetry sites, including Ekphrastic Review; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines & Vita Brevis Anthology. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ ** Blind Date In a small boat on the midnight lake held close in arms strong as the clamp of a steel trap you seem to faint in the swoon of love gone pale and still as a white ghost a drift of fog and moonlight too insubstantial to push away your small hand braced against the rail nothing against his urgency his hand set firm beneath your head keeping your mouth sealed tight to his as he stoops to your lips with a raptor’s kiss that takes your breath away Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a writer and artist who spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. Her work has appeared in many on line and print journals, and she has an electronic chapbook, Things I Was Told Not to Think About, available as a free download from Praxis magazine. Ekphrastic writing is a particular and new favourite for her. ** Education Of Pre-Pubescent Teens We hid behind bulrushes (as all young teens do) voyeurs pre-puberty inquisitive in extremis as a punt veered to the bank him and her ceased rowing ceased heavy breathing (surprisingly they didn’t). They blurted out nonsense (as ancient adults do) tears flowing like rain in their life full of sorrow saving each other from death him and her arms clasped around torsos mouth to mouth resuscitation (surprisingly they did). If that’s grown-up life then I’d rather remain a child without dæmons in my domain or cavorting in a small boat screeching “Yes!” for salvation him and her no mouth onto mouth no toppling into rivers (surprisingly they would then again, perhaps not). Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical verse. Of late, he has achieved success in poetry competitions and featured in international literary magazines, anthologies and on the web. He particularly enjoys ekphrastic challenges. In 2019, he was a Featured Writer of the Federation of Writers Scotland. ** Did Psyche and Eros Know? i. An erotic link, the neck, head to torso sympathetic nerve begging touch. She braces, leaning across his leg clutching her innocence in white lace against the boat’s wooden side. Water that alchemists, even Jesus, could turn into wine. Kisses that lure lust release her to him seduced beyond questioning his intentions. ii The Simple Act Our third date, cars illegally parked side by side. We stood in the dripping heat, caressed by humidity. Middle-aged, divorced, children grown. And he did what I wanted. I hadn’t told him. I didn’t know what was missing from the lost marriage until I saw the made-for-tv-movie. The film’s slow motion, like foreplay. The actor cherishing the woman before him, an unexpected move that made me hunger. As we moved toward each other, my lover-to-be dropped his keys to the ground and embraced my face. Inched his fingers down my neck circling it then moving deep into the dark brown thickness of my hair and drew me to his lips. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg has had poetry nominated for a Pushcart Prize, been featured on NPR, and juried in the Houston Poetry Fest eleven times. Her poetry has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, The Red River Review, Illya’s Honey, Colere: An Exploration of Cultural Exploration, among other small journals as well as several anthologies. She especially loves these ekphrastic challenges that combine her love of poetry and art down through the ages. ** Two Dozen Mallards Quack Dusk in covert cattails bulrushes obscure flat-bottom rowboat docked at wharf in damp decay. Clouds of black flies bite exposed necks. Mosquitoes penetrate, buzz with greedy syringes. Mouths gulp like bluegill, search for beneficial bacteria among tangled roots below. Two dozen mallards quack, mocking a desperate pageant in frog slime tadpoles squirm, yearn for release, and the hunt, under parlour-light refraction organs, other than clutching hearts, stir. A handkerchief ready to shoo fly, or offending passion. Jordan Trethewey Jordan Trethewey is a writer and editor living in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada. His frightening book of verse, Spirits for Sale, is available on Amazon from Pskis Porch Publishing. Some of his work found a home here, and in other publications such as Burning House Press, Visual Verse, CarpeArte Journal, Fishbowl Press, The Blue Nib, Red Fez, Spillwords, Nine Muses Poetry, and Jerry Jazz Musician. Jordan is an editor at Red Fez, and a regular guest editor at The Ekphrastic Review. His poetry has also been translated in Vietnamese and Farsi. To see more of his work go to: https://jordantretheweywriter.wordpress.com. ** the futility of time misty twilight falls around them, the soft glow of first love, as the mountains look on wistfully, remembering all that they have seen, every soul illumined by a spark of hope, feeling like the moon smiles beneficently just for them, them only. the reeds, dusted with gold from the porchlights whisper knowing musings amongst themselves, laughing melodically, as they sway to the music of twinkling starlight around them. reflected in the pond, pastel hues like that of her dress, filmy gossamer, a ribbon of rose, the kerchief clutched in her hand forgotten. the crickets coo, the heart sighs in a breathless flutter. the boat treads a fine line, drifting on a glass pane, but now, it matters not. the heart is a fragile instrument, rarely content in its loneliness, restless in rhythmless days, but now, it is too alive to remember the ache of glass shattering, being broken. right now love is the light that shines forever, always remembered it is better to be embraced by its warmth than to never see the sun, to never know love, the buoyant wings of a butterfly, beauty for a moment is suspended forever, in the heart emblazoned like stars in the sky. dividing so many eternities into seconds and minutes, minutes and hours, dates on calendars, observations made by the clock are fruitless in these eyes, time matters not. so we think not, just hearing two hearts beating as one, the twilight falling softly, just a whispered word, unobtrusive and sweet music drifting slowly the reeds laughing stars waiting breathlessly in the purple blankets of sky, the summer evening is gentle as lace around the shoulders, scrawled around them like ribbons of silk. Kathryn Sadakierski Kathryn Sadakierski’s writing has appeared in The Bangor Literary Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Nine Muses Poetry, Teachers of Vision, Dime Show Review, The Decadent Review, and elsewhere. She graduated summa cum laude from Bay Path University in Longmeadow, Massachusetts with her Bachelor of Arts degree, and is currently pursuing her Master of Science degree. ** Me Too Scarcely screened by reeds she has fallen in the body of the boat her suitor’s hand on her neck she leans on the rim seeks to kiss away his lips - blurred waters only allow for shameful rowing off Passers-by please at the perilous heaving – would they have looked on if the woman had pulled one oar to re-establish balance? Petra Vergunst Petra Vergunst is a poet living and working in Northeast Scotland. Her writing deals with the multiple ways in which we understand, interact with, and relate to the world around us. In her long, narrative poem Embrace (Lulu Publishing, 2017) she investigates her relation with local woodlands.  View From the Artist's Studio, by Pierre Bonnard (France) 1945 Bonnard Remembers Marthe In Evening Light As I lean toward sunset, the tall trees hold the sun in such embrace they throb within me. The stone paths we designed flow like rivers of molten gold in this heat. I sit at the open window of my studio and paint the outrageous color of our garden. The pulse of hidden seeds beats soft against the canvas like your small body against mine. How present you are in your absence. The flowering orange drifts to the pink oils in which I dress you, falls beside me as you carry the pruned stems by armfuls into the house, the air delicious with sweetness. My eyes blur as you bend over your hoe, something passing in that intense light, a ripening, a flush, the way you open the baked soil, coax and cajole it like a child. Evening is upon us and a lavender breeze lifts the hair on my arms. The blues and greens quiver in the changed air, and you drape my shoulders in a cloak of violet and yellow. Soon a sea of black starlight will close over us. Je me souviens, Marthe; life lives not in the brush stroke, but in between. Mary Jo Balistreri This poem previously appeared in Mary Jo Balistreri's book, gathering the harvest, (Bellowing Ark Press, 2012). Mary Jo has three full length books of poetry and one chapbook. She was a musician most of her life but due to the death of a grandchild and a consequent loss of her hearing, she turned to poetry. Mary Jo has always been interested in art and received her BA in art from the U. of Pennsylvania. Please visit her at maryjobalistreripoet.com. She lives in Wisconsin.  Mirth, by Hilda Goldwag (Scotland, b. Austria) 20th century, exact date unknown. Hilda Goldwag’s Mirth Hitler wanted you to die, or failing that, to fall into a hell of suffering. And you did, wandering the canal with boards and oils, painting industrial decay, faces lined with trapped world-weariness. Then out she burst from deep in you, this girl, rollicking on her haunches, smiling at the future, even as behind her naked back, flames rage and crack in a holocaust of hate. Featherless phoenix, birthed from grief, she is a life-force eager to escape the borders that confine, to leap, laughing from the frame. Her innocence, her mirth, her hopefulness your sweet revenge, your antidote to pain. Magi Gibson A Scottish poet, Magi Gibson has held several Scottish Arts Council Fellowships and a Royal Literary Fund Fellowship. Her sixth full length collection will be published this year. Hilda Goldwag was born in Vienna in 1912. She was on holiday in Scotland when war broke out in 1939. Her entire family was wiped out by the Nazis. She never returned. Trained as an artist, she worked in various practical jobs, then as an old woman, she took up her paints again. She never had a studio, but was often seen in Glasgow walking or getting on and off buses with her shopping trolley loaded with oil paints and boards. On her death many of her paintings were almost destroyed by the Cleansing Department. Her work has since been exhibited and recognized.  The Nightmare, by John Henry Fuseli (Britain, b. Switzerland) 1790 Riding the Night Mare It's a crime to whip her this hard, but you're up ahead hollering and I can't keep pace. She'll bear me if it kills her. Those heaving sides tell me that. We fly along ancient forest tracks, our way breached by cones and fallen timber - dark secrets laid up in rings. When we stop, she guzzles gladly, refuses nothing from my hand except the dry half lemon, not yet knowing how sour can be put to long use. Her eyes are fiery water-marks. Stubborn teeth. I take her tongue, with a mind of its own. Vice it. Force the rind down. When I wake, I'm tilting at your chest, remembering how white it was, like a freshly prised abalone, while we were young enough to count ourselves in summers, and you my turkey cock with feathers and attitude. But here's neither time nor place. Your complex mechanism is wound too tight. We'll wait. Again. Until the mood is right. I fumble for something to cover my flanks. Nothing said about her of course. Claire Booker This poem was first published in the pamphlet Later There Will Be Postcards, by Green Bottle Press. Claire Booker is a poet and playwright who lives in Brighton (UK). Her debut pamphlet Later There Will Be Postcards is out with Green Bottle Press. A second pamphlet is forthcoming with Indigo Dreams Publishing. Her poetry has been set to music, filmed, appeared on the side of Guernsey buses and in numerous literary mags. She blogs at www.bookerplays.co.uk  promotion photo, photographer unknown, 1920s Pickle Sisters Remember, Dad? You said, If you love pickles so much, why don't you marry one? Well... here are four. One-hit vaudeville wonders: The Pickle Sisters. They're not really siblings. It's all an abstract act, multi-layered showbiz sammich. These girls the latest garish garnish. How can I choose? My conundrum bitter-sweet. Left to right: Dill Delilah Sweet Susan Gherkin formerly Ginny or Kosher Katherine Fancy all that deliciousness preserved in a jar. Smart shopper, I have sampled cucumber cuties. Don't blush, Father, for I fancy myself a Gherkin-- obviously. She smiles, unafraid, takes full advantage of the full fifteen minutes. She understands irony-- a toothless smile, whistling harmonies, are acquired tastes, but do not preclude interest in a lush life. Jordan Trethewey Jordan Trethewey is a writer and editor living in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada. His new, frightening book of verse, Spirits for Sale, is now available on Amazon from Pskis Porch Publishing. Some of his work found a home here, and in other publications such as Burning House Press, Visual Verse, CarpeArte Journal, Fishbowl Press, The Blue Nib, Red Fez, and Spillwords. Jordan is an editor at https://www.redfez.net/, and a regular guest editor at The Ekphrastic Review. His poetry has also been translated in Vietnamese and Farsi. To see more of his work go to: https://jordantretheweywriter.wordpress.com.  Arles, Views from the Wheat Fields, by Vincent van Gogh (Netherlands) 1888 Reaping It is a good year, a good harvest― the wheat, gold as a king’s coins, as a lover’s hair freed from her combs. At sunset, when the sky turns gold we are gilded too―our skin becomes the sheaves―the ache of bending, of swinging the scythe, of gathering, forgotten. Sarah Russell Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Kentucky Review, Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, Rusty Truck, Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday, and other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry collection, I lost summer somewhere, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Books. She blogs at SarahRussellPoetry.net.  Central Panel from Marian Hanging Tapestry, Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury, 1570 – 85 My Lady of the Tapestries This tapestry is exquisitely executed, I would be proud to claim it as my own, a silken greensward studded with gems of violet heartsease and yellow columbines. And in the centre, a pure white hart, snow skein skin rippling, taut, caught in a web of stitches, a cruel enclosure. That fine woven Arcadia conceals yet another cold stone wall, another castle. I cannot tell where, they are all one to me, except what matters is the quality of light. I must be housed in the Solar, for the delicacy of my needlework demands it as I stitch a rich purple thistle with golden thorns, a twisting emerald vine heavy with fruit, and I cut the thread of a silken rose with a blood red heart. Sue Mackrell Inspired by the embroideries by Mary Queen of Scots during her imprisonment in a series of castles and "safe houses" between 1569 and around 1585. Click here to learn more. This poem was written as part of a "Poems in Place" project at Ashby de la Zouch Castle, Leicestershire, U.K. where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned for a short time. Sue Mackrell lives in Leicestershire, U.K., and is of London-Welsh ancestry, Her poems and short stories have been published in literary magazines, anthologies and on the web - she is delighted that her poems have appeared in the last five editions of Agenda Poetry - http://www.agendapoetry.co.uk/ She has an MA in Creative Writing from Loughborough University, UK, and taught creative writing there, as well as in schools, colleges, galleries and museums. Retirement means more time to visit galleries and write! |
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April 2025
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