He Painted Horses misty blue backsides, necks nuzzled manes like silk on fire. Under a sky leaking light, a mare grazes on shadows as if chewing on something beyond our ken Or the ones so translucent, they look painted with rosewater, reflecting back the idea of each other against a night thick with brushstroke, opaque as the shrouded heart of the painter who was my father, who left me the gift of silence in a darkened room the unpainted and the unwritten waving from the bridge between us and now it is to this silence I return when the world is breaking and I need his voice like prayer. Babo Kamel Originally from Montreal, Babo Kamel’s work is published in reviews such as Whale Road Review, Greensboro Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, CV2, Poet Lore, and Best Canadian Poetry 2020. She is a Best of Net nominee, and a six-time Pushcart nominee, Her chapbook, After, is published with Finishing Line Press. Find her at: babokamel.com
0 Comments
To the House of Light “In my beginning is my end.” T S Eliot, Four Quartets “The sun rose. Bars of yellow and green fell on the shore.” Virginia Woolf, The Waves You looked for light’s play on water, freshness & flowers, joy in the wing of gull or butterfly, for open spaces under luminosity. Your eyes grew wide. You listened for laughter, lovers wrapped in rest, footfall of dancing on grass, or the chirr of crickets on swathes of chalk-white downs late in a summer’s dusk. Your ears were rapt. Yet you tasted loss, the starkest sorrow-- ashes in your mouth: felt all lightness curl away like smoke; the tightness even of a room of your own; You knew cloud-stacks pressing on the sea. Your tongue spoke plays on salted words. Your pen wrote glory, grief & greyness, although you sought, still, that elusive lighthouse-- fixed point in crashing waves, beacon under crushing darkness. So, at the end, your ears were tuned to the muted rush of waves on sharper shingle, in a place where you began. Yearning for serenity, you chose a bright & restless sea. Lizzie Ballagher A published novelist between 1984 and 1996 in North America, the UK, Netherlands and Sweden (pen-name Elizabeth Gibson), Lizzie Ballagher now writes poetry rather than fiction. Her work has been featured in a variety of publications, including South-East Walker Magazine, Far East, Nitrogen House, The Ekphrastic Review, Nine Muses, and Poetry Space. The Gleaning Field There is something more than nature, here. Encircled by trees that at once protect and threaten; trunks writhe toward the human forms with a lithe, sinister energy. Women. I notice they are all women. Stooped to labour in fields of crimson and burnished gold, under a heavy grey sky, darkening with dusk. They are wearing white, and red. The colours of sacrifice, of victimhood. Of revolution. In half the field, the corn is still high; a barrier from the lighted window of a cottage glimpsed in the gloaming dark. It is home to someone, comfort, warmth; but they are separate, discrete. There is a quiet urgency about their work. As if they know their lives, these rights will soon be restricted, enclosed. Louise Longson For information on gleaning rights and legal/social changes to the rural poor: http://www.criminalhistorian.com/gleaning-poor-women-and-the-law/ Louise Longson is an Oxfordshire-based writer, who has been published by One Hand Clapping, Fly on the Wall and Dreich. A qualified psychotherapist, working for a charity serving those distressed by loneliness, she has finally cleared enough of her own head-space and house-space to pursue her writing in earnest. Twitter @LouisePoetical The Ekphrastic Writer’s Column Dear Ekphrasists, Welcome to the second installment of the Ekphrastic Writer’s column. As the author of the first comprehensive guidebook on multi-genre ekphrasis, The Ekphrastic Writer, I’ll be posting monthly musings, fielding your questions on ekphrasis (and beyond), and fostering a conversation on contemporary practices in visual-art-influenced creative writing. Here are excerpts from some letters that I received in January: Dear E.W., Having been encouraged to “show not tell” by friends on various poetry forums, I find that ekphrastic writing has steered me away from exposition. We live in a society dominated by imagery. Few people these days have enough patience to sit and read acres of description and explaining. Imagery isn’t the heart, but it is a way to the heart of things, or so I think. For me, ekphrastic writing, at its best, leads to insights, discoveries that I might not have made otherwise. I keep coming back to The Ekphrastic Review for this reason.—Signed, David B. Dear David B., One of the obvious byproducts of using the visual arts as fodder for your own writing is the enlivening of your visual sense. Creative writing that’s devoid of imagery is DOA. I encourage my students to experiment with all modes of imagery during the drafting stage. What types of imagery do you often employ and which imagery do you avoid? Take a gander at your previous ekphrastic work and evaluate your imagery. Years ago I studied a hundred issues of The New Yorker poems and discovered that 80% of the poems therein utilized auditory imagery. Whether or not Paul Muldoon was conscious of this particular proclivity, there was something in the portrayal of auditory senses that he as an editor found compelling. Dear E.W., I’ve had a couple of ideas that might open a door to experimentation: (1) responding in the same piece to two or more works of art and connecting or relating them or relating to them. The second idea (2) is responding to the art with images and then writing about those images. So that, the work becomes a nested ekphrastic experience. In general, when literary magazines say they are open to “hybrid” work, they mean “hybrid genre.” They don't mean “hybrid disciplines.” I’m in this for the latter. I’m a Pina Bausch admirer, Katie Mitchell, Anne Carson, Peter Greenaway, people who join disciplines. The most difficult and most tantalizing is dance. How to join text and dance. —Signed, Christy S. Dear Christy S., First, when a writer selects two or more objects d’art for a single piece of writing, the poetic possibilities are endless. A writer can create a dialogue or a chorus of voices, a battle ground of competing perspectives, a shifting between spatial settings, a treatment of temporal dimensions, etc. Though, this approach might be difficult to thoroughly develop in a short poem, it could be quite useful in a piece of writing that spans many pages. As for your second point, it’s worth mentioning that terms are often confused. For example, what we call “collaborations” are often just “art exchanges,” and what we call “interdisciplinary” is often just “multi-disciplinary” or “cross-disciplinary.” As you’ve described yourself and your artistry, you’re most definitely an interdisciplinary artist (i.e. one person who integrates knowledge and methods from different disciplines, as in your expertise as a visual artist and your expertise as a creative writer). While literary journals might not be a great place to feature your work, venues such as universities and arts collectives love championing work of teams of creatives whose work falls in the “new media” and “interdisciplinary” categories. Dear E.W., These days virtually any words put to paper are considered by many to be some form of poetry. I think The Ekphrastic Review “small prose” recruiting effort could be helped a great deal by good information on design and technique. Anything you could do to furnish (or point people to) resources that would strengthen understanding of the small prose format lexicon, expectations, how-to’s, don’t do’s, award standards, etc. I think would be a huge help. There’s another void that I also think is worthy of your consideration [is] perhaps submitter dialogue. —Signed, Portly B. Dear Portly B., As a longtime poetry editor, people are often surprised when I share with them my approach to evaluating the submissions. If the title prompts me to read the first line and if that first line prompts me to read the entire piece, I first ask “is this a poem?” Poems with literary quality (i.e., attention to craft elements) are what I’m seeking. Sometimes, the submissions I see read like pieces of flash fiction or nonfiction but with forced line breaks. Until you’ve read “On the Function of the Line” by Denise Levertov and until you understand lyrical rhythm and until you understand sonic associations, perhaps you’re mis-designating your writing. The magic of visual-art-influenced writing is that it’s open to all possibilities. Don’t have preconceived notions that your finished product will be a poem. Perhaps the artwork spurs in you an interesting character…write a story. Perhaps the artwork reminds you of something from your past…write an essay. Don’t try to make a poem. Write freely before an artwork and see where the words take you. Chiefly, though, the ekphrastic mode is a journey of your imagination. If your creative mind isn’t titillated by the object d’art, find something that does. As for your second point, perhaps you’re lamenting inaccessibility to other creatives willing to provide feedback on your work? Workshopping a piece of writing prior to sending it for possible publication is imperative. Nowadays, finding virtual writing groups is relatively easy. Check out your local literary houses, independent bookstores, and Meet-up groups. If you wish to create your own group, I suggest adding a free event on Event Brite. If you wish to join the conversation, send your letters to E.W. at ekphrasticwriter(at)gmail.com. Ekphrastically Yours, E.W. Post Script—Biographical Note: E.W. (Janée J. Baugher) is the author of The Ekphrastic Writer: Creating Art-Influence Poetry, Fiction and Nonfiction, as well as the ekphrastic poetry collections, The Body’s Physics and Coördinates of Yes. Recent work has appeared in Saturday Evening Post, Tin House, The Southern Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and Nimrod. Her writing has been adapted for the stage and set to music at venues such as University of Cincinnati, Interlochen Center for the Arts, Dance Now! Ensemble in Florida, University of North Carolina-Pembroke, and Otterbein University, and she’s performed at the Library of Congress. Currently, she’s an assistant editor at Boulevard magazine and the 2021 poet-in-residence at Maryhill Museum of Art. www.JaneeBaugher.com Editor's Note: This stunning painting stirred all kinds of emotions about beauty, women, family bonds, and secrets. Thank you to everyone who wrote something for this challenge, and everyone who submitted stories or poetry. It is always tough to make a selection, but such a joy to know that art inspires so many words. Just a reminder that as of this year, you want to look right here, one week after the deadline, to see if your work was accepted. We aren't sending yes or sorry notes for the biweekly challenges any more, because the consistent schedule of the posts allows you to easily check in. This is in no way meant to be impersonal- we simply want to reinvest the time taken to write hundreds of notes in keeping the challenges running, opening up new contests and projects, and spending more time posting on social media to promote your works. Whether your work was chosen this time or not, we are most grateful that you are part of The Ekphrastic Review. If you enjoy art, poetry, and fiction, please share The Ekphrastic Review. Posting a favourite poem or painting or these challenge responses on your Facebook page or mentioning us in your blog or newsletter helps bring new eyes to our wonderful writers. And that is our raison d'être after all. Until next time, Lorette ** Condemned...Flash Frozen She held on to her sister for what seemed to be an eternity. Frozen in time and expression, devoid of love, she longed, no… cried, to be removed from this tableau. Even though she loved her sister, she yearned to free herself from this still canvas and launch herself into the world. But no, her brother held the brushes and condemned her with his own greed and arrogance. Alas, she succumbed to his pride and became forever silent and still, admired and critiqued by the curious masses. Ellie Klaus Ellie Klaus was born and raised in Montreal. She has lived different selves over several decades: daughter, wildlife biology graduate, vision quest traveler, family life educator, president (of her son's school committee), friend, confidante, lover, wife, mother, caregiver and now caregivee, if there is such a word. Each has contributed to a different perspective of living, of life. The pieces of the puzzle are evident and coming together, although the final image is yet to be revealed. So, writing has reemerged as a creative endeavor to release some of the angst that arises from living a confined life, or any life for that matter. She has a poem entitled 'Bones' that appears on NationalPoetryMonth.ca April 9, 2020 and poems appearing in The Ekphrastic Review. ** Twin Delight She is looking at the mirror When I stand next to her No one knows who is who It is a guessing game all through. In the hospital one would be tied A thread to identify among us Who was the first to see the world Five minutes ahead of the sister. As we grew we learnt the pranks Of exchanging clothes and fooling the friends None got it ever right Each time to our immense delight. We wouldn't take sweets and gifts Until the sis share too was visible At schools professors erred Who was in the class and who wandered. The embassies interchanged When the visas they stamped The ultimate yet to come with one married and The certificate in other's hand. We would pretend To be the wife of other's husband, raise disbelief Among friends and anger the waitress at the restaurant Until the other pair also came. The fun to continue we wish and pray The heartstrings tied through the umbilical care Fed by one placenta for months nine We now live a single life of one soul and mind. Abha Das Sarma Abha Das Sarma: "Being a mother of twins, it was fun to write for the art titled 'The Two Sisters' by Théodore Chassériau. An engineer and management consultant by profession, writing is what keeps me happy. I have a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com). My poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Sparks of Calliope, here and elsewhere. Having spent my growing up years in small towns of northern India, I currently live in Bengaluru, India." ** The Chassériau Sisters were taken, swept down lean streams of consciousness. As if swallowed by the vacant swirl of routine, sisterhood was exchanged for washtubs and wringers. Would Papa be disheartened by the submersion? After all, he was a progressivist, believed in women’s suffrage and advocacy. He’d mentioned the fragility of pearls, how the strands can twist and tangle within the keeping of Sus scrofa. As a discerning man, he’d wrapped his daughters in the insight of red flag awareness. Still, after he died, the sisters rushed into romance, to the altar, moved to the United States, and immersed themselves in the seeming fog of chores and domestic life. On occasion, they’d imagine an easier path, one that included necklaces, claret-colored shawls, and pleated bodice dresses. Yet, given the vision, resilience, and intelligence of these women, they found delight in the daily praxis, beauty in the floral pastels of aprons, peace in the clothesline-breeze, comfort in the call of song sparrows, and in the rolling echoes of the local river. In 1871, the sisters discovered Hog Heaven.* In celebration, on their Papa’s birthday, they’d decided to gussy up in their timeworn necklaces, claret-colored shawls, and pleated bodice dresses. The sisters were fortunate to have experienced a broad range of living, to have adapted to and thrived in variant spectrums. Grateful to have been raised by an impartial father, the sisters knew the significance of women, the value of the sisterhood as a visionary entity. Their Papa would have been proud of his daughters, their strength, character, and democratic patch of Idaho bliss. Jeannie E. Roberts *Hog Heaven: “There's no official explanation for the origin of the term. The Merriam Webster folks say it's American and the first print reference dates to 1945. But in 1871 the founders of the town that would become Moscow, Idaho, named their patch of land Hog Heaven, Idaho.” ~ “Hog Heaven – in Poway?” by Matthew Alice, July 17, 2003, The San Diego Reader Jeannie E. Roberts lives in an inspiring setting near Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, where she writes, draws and paints, and often photographs her natural surroundings. She enjoys spending time outdoors, listening to the birds, and taking long walks. She’s authored four poetry collections and two children's books. As If Labyrinth - Pandemic Inspired Poems is forthcoming in May 2021 from Kelsay Books. She’s listed in Poets & Writers and is poetry reader and editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. To learn more, please visit www.jrcreative.biz. ** The Two Sisters My sisters have wandered the terrace talking in whispers, under shawls and parasols; smelling the blooms and brushing off flies, thick as thieves in their secrets. I may just be an eye, but see what I should– Adele’s disappointment in love, her wariness and Aline’s dependence and stubborn resistance to the same fate of lonely maidenhood. My master taught me to render skin like porcelain, and fabric as a bright flow of colour, which helps, but cannot reveal the vulnerable or focus my restless need to look again. I cannot paint the soul or working mind and must wait for the skills to match ambition but while I still have youth and vigour I will use these years to seek and then to find. Martin Rieser Martin Rieser is both a poet and visual artist. His interactive installations based on his poetry have been shown around the world. He has developed mobile artworks using interactive text and image for Leicester, London and Athens and exhibited the Third Woman Interactive film in Vienna, Xian and New York. He has published in Poetry Review and the Write to be Counted anthology, Magma Magazine 74, Morphrog 22; poet of the month for Poetry kit; was longlisted for Primers Volume 3; shortlisted for the Frosted Fire pamphlet competition for the Cheltenham Festival in 2019; shortlisted for Charles Causeley Poetry Prize 2020; and Artlyst Art to Poetry Anthology 2020; was runner up in The Norman Nicholson Lockdown Poetry Competition 2020, and is published in The Unpredicted Spring 2020. He runs the Stanza poetry group in Bristol. ** The Two Sisters in the Louvre It vexed me no end that we were often mistaken for twins. That the years of experience and maturity that separated us went unrecognized by so many casual observers gave me heartache, for though I loved my sister dearly, we had taken very different paths in life, and I was unseemly in the pride I took in my own. What did the eye apprehend in our presence? Two women of age. My sister levels her gaze serenely at our audience, secure in her position, but less sure of my own; she grasps my arm firmly, an attempt to hold me back from a die already cast. She refuses to acknowledge the pale rose at my hand, pinned there this very morning by Sophia, my love. My sister’s willful blindness is tempered by fear, I know. But it is still an effort and a heartache to withstand her resistance. From the throngs who crowd us daily I understand that things have changed. I might have been afforded the comforts of transparency had we been of this wild age. Instead, I dream, and accept the tender mercies that are my due. Carolyn R. Russell Carolyn R. Russell is the author of The Films of Joel and Ethan Coen, published by McFarland & Company in 2001. Her humorous YA mystery, Same As It Never Was, was released in 2018 by Big Table. Carolyn’s new YA dystopian thriller, In the Fullness of Time, was published by Vine Leaves Press in March of 2020. Her essays and short stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Boston Globe, Flash Fiction Magazine, Club Plum Literary Journal, and Dime Show Review. She holds an M.A. in Film Studies from Chapman University, and has taught on the college, high school, and middle school levels. Carolyn lives on and writes from Boston’s North Shore. ** Better Together We will always be together, said my little sister if she felt lonely or if we were sad. I would give her a hug to comfort us both we will, we will. We will always have each other always walk together even if broken into little pieces even if distorted by pain we will pick up the pieces somehow and put them back together even if they’re re-arranged even if not in the same places we will still be us together. But later we forgot and walked away from each other. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes Journal. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com///www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ ** Les Deux Soeurs Adele on the left and Aline on the right at first appear to Be twins, despite their decade apart. Theodore, an artist of deft hand, invites Closer inspection of his siblings, the scarlet frippery aside, one notices Differences in the two beauties, Even though great effort was taken in matching the duo to Fabricate the illusion of a Genial duo, the artist was playing a game, Harmonious relatives, closely spaced, with the self-same Intelligent eye gaze, Just a few differences emerge on the page, the Keen expression of Adele, on the Left, contrasts with the Magisterial regard Aline projects Neutral, yet with Oceans of turbulence behind her eyes Pernicious and with agency, Queenly elegance shines through her countenance while Repose and tranquility are etched on the face of her Sister, the similarities manifest as a noted quality of Transcendence, deep wells of joy and sorrow Underneath the formal pose, and also an air of Verisimilitude, offering the viewer a glimpse into Womanhood, the portrait steeped in the seriousness of Youth in the age of Romanticism, somber yet sprightly, Xena's standing upright, Chasseriau paired Zeal for his subjects with unconventional flair. Debbie Walker-Lass Debbie Walker-Lass is a writer and poet living in Decatur, Georgia. ** The Two Sisters can you feel my heart beat dear sister your dad called us the twins not sure when or why our penchant for pashmina voracious appetite for books dangling earrings or necklaces do you ever read a poem and think of me the times I want to tell you of this new music still all these years later my missing half DeAnna Beachley DeAnna Beachley teaches U.S. History and Women’s Studies at the College of Southern Nevada. Her poetry has appeared in Thimble Literary Magazine, Red Rock Review, Parks and Points, and the Kenyon Review Blog, and in Sagebrush and Silver: an anthology of Nevada Poets. Her work has won awards and included in an art/poetry exhibit, A Room of Her Own at the Left of Center Gallery. ** Capturing Women Each leans on a sister, on furniture and tradition...pose on demand. One already taken, the other perhaps promised to a different culture, world. The married woman sees the future, her sister wishing on a blooming rose. Habit, expected as an impromptu visitor. Emergency plans swish into action. Dressed in earthy reds, seriously portrayed, these women are honest, undecorated, warm, richly upright. I feel fear, for them and all before/after. Sold off to propagate human contracts. Irene Cunningham Irene Cunningham has had many poems in many magazines and anthologies over the decades. Hedgehog Press published a poetry conversation between her and Diana Devlin – SANDMEN: A Space Odyssey. She has three poetry collections available on Amazon, lives by Loch Lomond in Scotland, and is editing a novel or two. ** Against Flocked Green Wallpaper We dress not in draped burgundy and puckered earth but the yellow and pink and blue of cotton cloth trimmed in lace. We walk down New Jersey Avenue after Labor Day no one else on the three blocks to Bayshore Road until the bus picks us up for school. We sing songs to each other as if it is night and the piano is being played at Smitty’s Bar across the street from our house. We of dark hair and blue eyes and shoes new every fall worn out by spring when we swim at the end of Fishing Club pier. One of us is blind, her arms wrapped in mine. One of us harbors a key. One sports a rose. One of us will leave and never return. Kyle Laws Kyle Laws is based out of Steel City Art Works in Pueblo, CO where she directs Line/Circle: Women Poets in Performance. Her collections include Uncorseted (Kung Fu Treachery Press, 2020) Ride the Pink Horse (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019), Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing, 2018), This Town: Poems of Correspondence coauthored with Jared Smith (Liquid Light Press, 2017), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press, 2015), and Wildwood (Lummox Press, 2014). With eight nominations for a Pushcart Prize and one for Best of the Net, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Germany. She is editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. ** We Could Be Twins I am older, taller, my hair is darker, my skin lighter. Even so our parents sometimes dress us in matching outfits as if we're flip sides of a coin. Perhaps we are. We speak a secret language choreographed to rapid back-and-forth movements no one else can follow. At night we sleep surrounded by Cinderella scenes captioned in French--la bonne fée, la citrouille, la voiture, la pantoufle de verre—plastered on our bedroom walls. When we can’t sleep, I shapeshift my fingers into shadow snakes and frogs and rabbits as my sister’s pile of stuffed animals and wide-eyed dolls looks on. Afterwards, we tumble out from under bedclothes and tiptoe down to an empty kitchen where I scramble eggs to fill the voids in our stomachs. We work in tandem, my sister holding tight to the hem of my nightgown as I melt a dollop of butter, listening for the telltale sizzle before cracking eggshells open on the side of the pan. The warming scent of oil engulfs us. Delicious, my sister says, heavenly. Or maybe I just imagine this as Carolyn tugs my gown to let me know she really means hurry, hurry, we don’t want to get caught, do we? Looking back, she tells me how lost she always felt without me. You were my eyes, she says. No, no, no, I think, you were my heart, my soul. You were my voice, I tell her. Margaret Dornaus Margaret Dornaus holds an MFA in the translation of poetry from the University of Arkansas. She recently had the privilege of editing and publishing a pandemic-themed anthology--behind the mask: haiku in the time of Covid-19--through her small literary press, Singing Moon. Her first book of poetry, Prayer for the Dead: Collected Haibun & Tanka Prose, received a 2017 Merit Book Award from the Haiku Society of America, and she received a 2020 Best of the Net nomination for her haibun “Late-Night Inventory.” Her poems appear frequently in national and international anthologies and journals, including Contemporary Haibun Online; Journeys 2015: An Anthology of International Haibun; MacQueen’s Quinterly; Red Earth Review; The Lindenwood Review; and The Red River Book of Haibun. ** The Two Sisters That’s me, the younger sister, holding on-- Looking at it now, from this angle, my sister's eyes come into focus and maybe imitation was the sincerest form of annoyance, and who asked me to join her in this portrait anyway. She never asked for me to be here or anywhere and it was hard, I’m told, having me in the picture how it somehow forever knocked her off centre. Alone, she might have been smiling the way she used to smile in those early years when she loomed so large over me. I can see her now the clenched fists the joy in her eyes at making me cry the games she’d play to make me disappear. Linda Eve Diamond Linda Eve Diamond’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Grey Sparrow Journal, The Ekphrastic Review and The Ekphrastic World, and Fresh Fish: Textile Artists and Poets Respond to Underwater Life. Her website is http://LindaEveDiamond.com. ** Untitled Of course, all these years on I can see the contempt, the reluctance and the forced acceptance of our friendship. Back then I lived for you, through you, in spite of you. Up on a pedestal far above what I could ever hope to be. The scholars agreed; they would list your attributes, praise your handwriting and your talents while I grew plump and dumb. The rose you were given by a beau. Just one of many who came calling: my plain countenance overlooked in favour of your allure. I hung on for as long as I could. But like rope frays and sets the boat adrift, I too let go and watched you float away. You didn’t look back. Gaynor Hodgson Gaynor Hodgson has a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Lancaster and worked in publishing in Manchester and London for many years before putting a bookmark in that part of her life while she raised a family. Her stories have been published in some strange and diverse publications and she once found herself masquerading as a journalist for a sports magazine. Thankfully that’s all in the past and now she’s finishing her memoir, starting a novel, and filling any gaps with poetry and flash fiction. She’s mainly to be found in North Wales wearing wellies, covered in hay and holding a cup of (cold) tea. ** Dizygotic So like their mother. A clot of envy is to be expected, a caveat of crimson, a crimp of dressing gown pinched tight at the wastrel, a gem of desire long buried. Dig. Find an empirical knowledge emerald in its duality. One was as diabolical as a brood mare, thick with wishes. There was never a shortage of sneering or carnage of roses underneath a smothering of beetles. We’ve an untidy amount of loss to wash through. Knees to wood. Gloss over the scraping and hacking backfired in a state of wander. One was amiable as a child, then fruitless. Question the mirror that responds only with repose, as if the finger at your lips is not your own. A rareness of actual angels flapping, all wings and tangle. A coven of two, twisted branches dripping the same treacle. Poor girls, I thought someone might say, but there was nothing left to burn. Crystal Condakes Karlberg Crystal Condakes Karlberg is an assistant to the Librarian at her local library. Previously she has taught middle school, high school and college (mostly English classes). Her work has been published by Oddball Magazine; Rust & Moth; The Museum Of Americana; as well as The Ekphrastic Review. ** To Chasseriau Regarding The Two Sisters Against such green in crimson rose your sisters struck the perfect pose apart with arms that intertwine as witness to their fate's design, the years that would remain between the bond of souls so clearly seen as limbs and fruit of common tree that destined beauty each would see as mirror in the other's face so growing into mother's grace -- for one the way she used to be the other future soon to see and both forever made aware of brother's love at which they stare. Portly Bard Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. ** Scarred But No Longer Scared Arm in arm joined at the hip and cranium admitting their guilt joint and several but offering no excuses proffering no evidence in mitigation en route to the gallows resigned to their fate yet under claret cloaks deep scars remain oozing with the poison they wish he swallowed when they were pre-teens. Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse. He has achieved success in poetry competitions across the British Isles and North America. His work has been published by many literary magazines, anthologies and webzines in the UK, Ireland, Italy, South Africa, Kenya, USA and Canada. Since 2018, he has been part of The Ekphrastic Review community particularly enjoying the fortnightly challenges. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland for whom he was a Featured Writer in 2019. ** For My Sister Margaret Let me grab you by the wrist and show you... Footprints of untamed words carelessly lost and lovingly refound, Fossilized phrase fragments sorted & tagged for analysis, Unclaimed messages shaken from poplars on the garden pathways at Delphi, Ancestral faces loitering on subway platforms, flickering by on trains, Gestures in the park reminiscent of Euripides & Wilde, Lovers in flight, dishonoured by love itself, Rhymes on scrapyard walls etched by Beowulf & Blake, Maps of familiar streets trod long before coordinates and compasses, Gods denied last rites by priests who never believed them, Vaguely inaccessible hopes and wierdly plagiarized dreams whispered and drawn and sung in the dark. Together. Or do you feel the same? Do you still remember our vows? To never discard the keys to unknown doors, To never ignore the slender neck and pock-marked face of a sunflower... To always bear witness to the sadness of the hands of clocks, To never disparage the broken thread of a child's homespun knot... To never tear the transparent skin of dreams at the break of day. To never betray... what matters. Or do you feel the same? as if a thin film of tracing paper lies between my living and yours, so fragile it will rustle when you manage to slip through, to let me know that after all these years, you too have found the secrets encoded in the marrow of all things living or dead, to let me know that after all these years, you too feel the tender kiss of the inalienable sorrow of seers who would be blind as one year swallows the next... I know you do. Helen Albright ** Tale Four: Tyrrhenian Sea You take the train from the village of Cefalù to find your husband, who suddenly left. You and your daughter travel to Baarìa, your husband’s hometown, where there are ceramic shops just like in Cefalù. He has brought back secrets of the art, but no one will tell you where he is. You learn he already has a fidanzata. Miceli Zallust, a short man. Glasses. “Bāb el-gherid,” the “gateway of the wind”. Baarìa. Land that descends toward the sea. La straniera! You know you will not be accepted by his Sicilian family, but your daughter will be. Walking the narrow cobbled streets away from Baarìa, you get lost in a lemon grove by the water. Your body is found, shrouded with a black lace veil and clay. Which your daughter uses to create pottery, a wheel-thrown water jug with scarlet roses. Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is a poet, editor, curator, advocate and activist. Author of four poetry books, the most recent collection is Salt Bride (Inanna, 2019). Forthcoming, The Tempest (Inanna, 2022). Writes in journals, anthologies, and seven chapbooks. Her poem “Dachau on a Rainy Day” was nominated for the 2018 Pushcart Prize. Founder and Curator of Visual Arts Centre Reading Series and Argo Bookshop Reading Series. QWF 2010 Community Award. ** A Choice, Not Denial The day you found it you could not look me in the eye knowing I would know, a sister’s sixth sense. Found, as if you’d stumbled across a semi-precious stone not a 5cm malleable lump palpable beneath finger and thumb. Did you think it would vanish with the flick of magical dusk? That you’d wake to find it gone, smooth tissue restored in womb? I saw the darkness, the linger. Could you not feel the creep of it spread, eating holes in your core? It would not be ignored. Nine months to create a life, nine months to lose one. No treatment, a choice not denial still, I could not look you in the eye. Kate Young Kate Young lives in England and has been passionate about poetry since childhood. She has had success with poems published in webzines in Britain and internationally. She generally writes free verse and loves responding to art through ekphrastic poems. Her poems have appeared in Ninemuses, Ekphrastic Review, Nitrogen House, Words for the Wild, Poetry on the Lake, Hedgehog Press and a Scottish Writers Centre chapbook. Her work has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet. ** [Sea Sobbing] Dear mum and dad, we know you will always have at heart all bests for us and we appreciate, are grateful, so fortunate. Yet, the sea scares her us, fast-moving waves, sand everywhere, foam facing up to leave our hands freezing dead white fingers holding down the shawl that never seems to ply, that stays soaked forever. We do like us all together, the smell of sea maybe, the surge running over the rocks. Still - this spell's not ours, too much silence between the crash of two waves, too much salt however sweet the sandwiches and cakes. Enough beauty holds an afternoon park. Warmly, Adele & Aline Kate Copeland Kate Copeland started absorbing stories ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching and translating some dear languages; her love for art and writing led her to poetry...with some publications sealed already! She was born in Rotterdam some 51 years ago and adores housesitting in Spain at the moment. ** There are almost six years worth of writing at The Ekphrastic Review. With daily or more posts of poetry, fiction, and prose for most of that history, we have a wealth of talent to show off. We encourage readers to explore our archives by month and year in the sidebar. Click on a random selection and read through our history. Our new Throwback Thursday feature will highlight writing from our past, chosen on purpose or chosen randomly. You’ll get the chance to discover past contributors, work you missed, or responses to older ekphrastic challenges. ** Nude in the Bath, by Laurel Peterson Laurel Person contemplates the meaning of work by Pierre Bonnard. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/nude-in-the-bath-by-laurel-peterson ** Ekphrastic Challenge Responses: Mark Rothko Rothko’s colour field paintings have proved an endless source of inspiration to writers. Just what is it about these simple colour swathes that we respond to so viscerally? Ken Gierke, Carole Mertz, Janice Bethany and others explore that in this fine collection of Rothko poems. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/ekphrastic-challenge-responses-mark-rothko ** Four Poems After Bob Ross, by Martin Breul It’s a happy little accident, the chance to see Bob’s paintings and read Martin’s poems again. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/four-poems-after-bob-ross-by-martin-breul ** Salome’s Belt, by Taunja Thomson Taunja Thomson is a longtime contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. Here she captures the way Alphonse Mucha captured Salome. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/salomes-belt-by-taunja-thomson ** The Hunger and the Hunt, by Matthew Murrey Matthew Murrey is another regular contributor we are lucky to showcase. Here he takes on a lesser known Jean Francois Millet painting. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/the-hunger-and-the-hunt-by-matthew-murrey ** The Noble Working Men: the Navvies, by Wendy Holborow Wendy Holborow’s suite of poems on Ford Madox Brown won the Pre-Raphaelite Poetry Competition in 2016 and was first published in the Pre-Raphaelite Review. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/the-noble-working-men-the-navvies-by-wendy-holborow ** Wheat Field With a Lark, Vincent Willem van Gogh, by Dan Cardoza Van Gogh is one of the most “ekphrasticized” painters in history. Here’s a beautiful story about one is his works. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/wheat-field-with-a-lark-vincent-willem-van-gogh-by-dan-cardoza ** the rain inside, by Brian A. Salmons Brian A. Salmons is a poet and translator, and the vision and voice behind our new TERcets Podcast! (https://www.ekphrastic.net/tercets-podcast.html) Here is writes about an unusual installation by Guillermo Galindo. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/the-rain-inside-by-brian-a-salmons ** A Ready-Made Poem, by B. Elizabeth Beck Poet B. Elizabeth Beck questions Marcel Duchamp’s ready-made sculptures. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/a-ready-made-poem-by-b-elizabeth-beck Island Love We keep things spacious in our large room because my wife can’t bear clutter, it makes her feel penned in. For this same reason (and although the draughts irritate my touchy glands) we leave the floor-to-ceiling windows open. Window means eye of the wind in Old Norse and my wife is the Old Norse type – long red hair, a warrior. Dead leaves bright as her hair scatter across the floorboards. A red bird wings from my empty chest. My wife’s green dress is medieval in style, low cut but with high sleeves. A round flowerbed set in our island rug is beginning to sprout fronds. (Another of her endeavours to mix/reverse outside and inside. I fear rotting floorboards. But I guess she knows what she’s doing.) Apart from wife, bird and dead/alive vegetation the room is empty of colour, uncoloured, arguably discoloured, certainly colourless, me included. Our island rug is being eaten away at the sides by moth or beetle or overlapping ocean. My wife has placed her chair on the island’s very edge, one leg offshore. She holds a ball of string, she’s winding me in. I’m light as shadow, my feet don’t touch the rug. Her thread vanishes into my hollow chest, tugs at something buried deep and far away. Cobwebs drape and waft like filigree bunting. It’s a tricky room to get out of, unless you know where the door is. I suppose that’s true of most large rooms. On our wedding night she asked me, what lurks in the labyrinth? Should I be afraid of it? – challenging, enticing me. But I didn’t know how to respond. It was my first time, hers too. Worm, she cried upon sighting the male appendage. Myself I think worms deserve our tenderness and a bit of help when pavement stranded after setting out innocently on doomed ventures. But I owe her. She aimed to marry royalty and live in a palace, instead she got me and my cobwebs. At her request I commission a landscape gardener, sandy-haired Ross, to add interest and variety to our rectangular lawn. He suggests island beds stocked with colourful perennials. I’d have preferred something less garish, but she jumps at it. Oh Ross, yes! They chat while he works and she lounges in a steamer chair. For her entertainment he imitates birds, such as a wood cuckoo. She laughs, thereby shaming us both. Cuckoo! Loitering in the nearby temple of Persephone, screened by a yew hedge, I snoop as they grow intimate. For his entertainment she describes our honeymoon in the Drakensburg mountains, that ancient empty place. My brother, who lives in a gated community, had warned me beforehand not to take a certain road. If our car broke down, that would be it – robbed, raped and killed. So, upon reaching a fork I veered off along the unsanctioned route. Another car coming towards us flashed its lights. But nothing happened. We got through OK. She seemed calm enough. What a weird thing to do, Ross says (as though it’s any of his business). How did you feel about it? Angry with him, she says, for taking such a crazy risk. For putting me in danger. That’s understandable. He unpots hollyhocks, digs around a boulder. Consults his plan. Gazes soulfully at her. Now she promiscuously reminisces. Our chalet was on the higher slopes, away from the tourism trails. I bathed in a stream, the water was so clear but freezing cold brr I only stayed in a minute… Doesn’t she recall what happened in the small hut and vast darkness? How we two, while lovemaking became prey: seized upon, unjoined, fragmented into atoms? A sacred experience, I would call that. The next day, she set up her easel at a vantage point. A lammergeier – a type of vulture with the wingspan of a pterodactyl – circled above her. Attracted by her stillness, it sank lower and lower. But I protect my own. I ran uphill towards them, shouting and clapping my hands. Oh why did you scare it away? It was so beautiful. Ross, squatting on his haunches, persists: Is he ever violent? Are you afraid of him? Oh Ross, he’s the dullest man alive. I may die of boredom. She yawns and taps her mouth. Does she know I’m here? Is she goading me like a bull? I feel strangely roused, energised. Women think men are machines, perhaps they’re right. Later: she’s in the bath. I try the door, but it’s locked. Squinting through a crack between door and frame, I breathe heavily. The lock strains. She gets out of the bath (wise woman). Arms herself with the soap dish, a pink china swan, and one of the cabinet’s angled glass shelves. Plus her phone is on the wicker laundry basket, should she need to speed-dial Daddy’s bodyguards. So instead I go into the bedroom and start destroying furniture. However, I’m a careful sort of vandal – while pulling out drawers and bringing them down hard to make the joints fall apart I don’t split the wood, so at some future date they can be reassembled and glued back together. In her underwear drawer I find a horn or bone. She’s grown up a lot. No more prissy princess. ‘No more Ross,’ I tell her and she – perched towel-wrapped on the side of our bed, clipping her toenails and ignoring the strewn wreckage – shrugs. The island beds viewed from above look like eyes. Some watch and some weep, others are blind i.e. not yet planted. I feel sad for my ruined lawn. She and I continue to defy ‘healthy relationship’ blueprints. You’re my hero, you’re my hero she repeats until it blurs to IMRO, the Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation whose motto was freedom or death. What is love, I ask the speaking head on our granite-topped kitchen island. An illusion, she replies. And? A means of bondage. I lack the nerve to ask her a third time. She gets snippy, like someone else we know. Frances Gapper Frances Gapper lives in the Black Country region of the UK with her life partner, Bear. She has published three collections of short and very short fiction. The Girl in the Tub In the Musee D’Orsay, there’s a Degas sculpture, one of three tucked away from their more celebrated sisters. A young woman sprawled in a large bath tub. She’s shame free, which is not the same as shameless. There’s no flirtation in her nakedness. A progenitor of Liebovitz’s milky Whoopi; she’s whimsy. She exists in the round, there are no cheap seats. Every angle, every perspective, offers a piece of the whole. Thighs, muscles, face, hair pouring over the side. Her left leg, effortlessly crossed over the other, is cradled by her right hand. She doesn’t care that I look; she exists only unto herself. I want to lay in a round bath like this. To care less. I wonder how my camera can capture her, but give up. Later, I will see no trace of her in the museum shop. Instead, her more celebrated and ethereal sister, the dancer, commands the spotlight. It is true that the girl dancer, more demure, is still to be looked at. I watch her as well, wonder what she’s thinking. The rivers of her skirt, tulle layers, surprisingly dirty-looking, disappear into her leanness. She is already a portrait, cerebral. The girl in the tub is flesh, alive, and I think again of trying to film her. But then I imagine myself through her eyes. Most don’t linger, but there’s always that one that stays too long, drinking her in, interrupting the pleasure of her toilette. I think briefly of begging her forgiveness, but am reassured that she has no time for the likes of me. Annette Van Annette Van teaches literature, composition, and gender studies and is currently a lecturer at San Francisco State University. Threadbare There wasn’t much else to say, except that she needed some time to herself. A minute, an hour, a day, indefinitely. Fog emanating from the weathered singlewide hovered in the air like a ghost, like a whisper. Don’t leave me, it would say, in a breath, just before twilight turned to darkness, to that warm summer stillness that wraps you up like your grandfather’s old overcoat, two sizes too big and holey. My grandfather wore faded blue coveralls, patched everywhere but the knees, and work boots covered in grease even after he stopped remembering where he was or what he was doing or where he was supposed to be going. He would stand alone in the yard, hands perched high on his waist, and stare out into a cow pasture long without cows, wondering, I imagine, why everyone had left him. She left the light on, waiting for you to come back home—physically, of course, but more so emotionally—hoping that home amounted to more than a four letter word or a four sided building, that it outweighed all the reasons you gave yourself for wanting to be alone, just beyond her reach, sitting stagnant in another untitled moment, between the hush of trees and a broken heart, between the slow sounds of threadbare tires backing down a caliche driveway and desire. Diane Durant Diane Durant works with image, text, and found objects to tell true stories, from paddling rivers and road trips to all the everyday stops in between. She is a graduate of Baylor University, Dallas Theological Seminary, and the University of Texas at Dallas where she currently serves as Associate Professor of Instruction and Director of the Comer Collection of Photography. She serves on the university's Committee for the Support of Diversity and Equity as well as the Social Justice Advisory Board for the WNBA's Dallas Wings organization. Diane is the former president of 500X Gallery in Dallas and past editor of The Grassburr, The Rope, Sojourn, and Reunion: The Dallas Review. Her poems have appeared in di-verse-city, riverSedge, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Stymie, the Texas Poetry Calendar, and The Spectacle. Her photographs have been exhibited widely and belong to the permanent collection of the National Park Service. Diane is a member of the Board of Directors for the Cedars Union, a non-profit arts incubator in North Texas, the LGBTQ Caucus Leadership Team of the Society for Photographic Education, and Chair of SPE’s South Central chapter. Her first monograph, Stories, 1986–88, was released by Daylight Books in January. Real Talk Inside, he always feels blocked in. Claustrophobic. Like he’s trapped between the edges. Outside, he feels the same, with only his imagination to break all boundaries. Art harnesses that same power, pushing it ever outward and beyond the limits of space. Yet great art can also stifle the unknowable chaos within, imbuing the viewer with shades of the eternal, while the remarkable artist remains, forever entombed, a loud brush stroke in history. "You see how blue and swirly it is? Tortuous, and yet torturous depending on which shade you consider." "Oh come on! How long have you been waiting to slip that into conversation? Since you read your first pocket dictionary? Honestly, I’m struck by the oranges and the red. Like the whole world’s ablaze or something." "Well yes, the red is where the whole idea originated. The red is important. It’s illumination, essential. But it's the blue you should be focusing on...because, well, you know how you get." The man with the hair and the chiseled features feels moved to touch it, to reorient himself, but the bald man knows better. "Though, I wouldn't do that if I were you." Already nervous, Cheekbones agrees. "Security would be on me by the time my arm reached the canvas. Which is funny because this probably isn't even real." Baldy laughs, but it looks almost like a scream. "What's real anyway? If everyone in here thinks it's real, then it's real." Cheekbones swallows his anxiety with an audible gulp. The harsh light above only worries him more, the sweat dripping like mist from an ocean wave. He removes his glasses. "I suppose that's true. Do you think they think it's real?" Baldy knows better than to look behind him. It would be rude. "I'm certain they think it's real. Otherwise, what's the point of being here?" The depth of Baldy’s comments surprises Cheekbones. Thoughts like these already plague his restless mind, so he takes a moment to look at the bald man, to seriously consider him. Anything to forget the mounting dread. Baldy’s face seems vacant, despite all the emotion teeming within. Cheekbones then says, "I never really understood the appeal of expressionism. I was always a fan of the old masters. You know, the authentic depictions. The realism." Baldy laughs again. "There you go, throwing around that word ‘real’ again. Is this not real? Does the painter not evoke a feeling universal? I mean, if you could touch it, would it feel more real?" “Well, that’s a series of questions, but yeah, sure, probably?” Cheekbones could certainly feel it now, that oppressive reverberation tunneling through both ears. That chaotic rumbling, pained as it is, would otherwise leave him rudderless in the creative pursuits that soothe him. It’s a paradox simple enough to explain it all. “I mean, you can trust your hands more than your eyes, that’s for sure. But you’re the expert, always trying to touch your face. How does it feel to you?” Baldy laughs, but the act is tinged with despair. “Oily, if I’m being honest. My face always feels oily. But I don’t touch it. There’s a clear line of demarcation I never cross. I daren’t make it worse.” Now it’s Cheekbones’ turn to laugh. “That mug of yours? It clearly has a line of demarcation from skincare products. But I’m not talking about your face. I mean the art.” The barb leaves Baldy unchanged. “What’s the difference? Just look at the painting. Truly examine it. Notice the garish nature of the brush strokes. The humanity lost in the whims of nature’s enormity, almost drifting out of the foreground. You can feel my anguish, can you not? So, I ask again, what’s the difference?” Suddenly overwhelmed, Cheekbones’ eyes bulge. “Wait, are you the artist?!” By now, the guards twitch in patient frustration. It was time to allow others an audience with the painting, especially in this gallery known for its strictness. With eyes ever averted, Baldy says, “There’s much debate about that, but what’s certain is how the modern man is awash in anxiety. Nature and technology, a conjoined bastardization of progress, constantly squeezing against our chest with the weight of their development. The world changes faster than we can…” The guards are finally on him, like waves inevitably crashing upon a bridge. The larger of the two, a well-built blonde, speaks first. "Is there a problem here sir? You’re talking a lot" Cheekbones looks around, failing to find a ‘No Talking’ sign, nor any further explanation for such forceful intrusion. Confused, he whispers, "It speaks to me." The smaller, less patient, but equally Norwegian guard steps closer to Cheekbones. "What was that sir?" Cheekbones cowers slightly. "The painting. It really speaks to me. But some senses are more reliable than others.” With brooding to match the bald man, he adds, “I think we agree on that." Large Blonde speaks next. "Yes, sir. The painting is very powerful, so we have many guests. Please move along." Cheekbones laughs, but it sounds almost like a scream. "I know, I know. But I’m friends with the artist.” Cheekbones winks at Baldy. He gets no wink in return, but the way Baldy opens his mouth is proof enough of mutual understanding. The two guards look at one another, now confused themselves. Small Blonde says, "Sir, please move on, or we'll be forced to remove you." Cheekbones wonders why the guards ignore his new, bald friend. He must be the artist. With a puzzled look, Cheekbones gestures towards Baldy. “What if I’m with him?”. Large Blonde quickly guesses why Cheekbones was muttering the entire time. This piece can attract a certain type of person. To avoid a scene, the guard speaks in a soft, sympathetic voice. "Oh, we understand sir. He's a fascinating guy. We have another pai..." Small Blonde recognizes the patronizing inflection and its usual purpose, so he nudges his partner. "...nstakingly built, uh, relaxation patio where you can speak with him some more. He's even more interesting out there. Would you mind following us?" Out of nervous instinct, Cheekbones lifts his hands to touch his cheeks. Yet one look at Baldy reminds him of those ever-ubiquitous lines of demarcation. "What do you think, Baldy? Should we just meet outside?" Faces glowing yellow-white, the security guards share an eerie rolling of the eyes. The bald man laughs again in his familiar, terrified way. "I hate to break it to you handsome, but I may never leave this place. I am a painting after all." Then the bald man screams, but no sound comes out. The people behind him show no reaction either. Only the swirls of oranges and blues seem to indicate any movement at all. The strife of an entire species, caught in a breath. And as the two security guards delicately guide him towards the exit, the man with the cheekbones finally realizes the appeal of expressionism. The paintings can speak! Kevin Francey Kevin Francey is a yet-to-be-discovered writer from Somerville, Massachusetts. He likes writing comedy but also things that are funny. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
April 2024
|