Pollock’s Dance Up ahead, pulsing on the wall, lonely, larger than life, an intricate multi-layered web poised to ensnare in a fractal labyrinth vibrating to primeval rhythms; black, silver and ochre edge splotches rim a zone where at last a voice was transiently found away from addiction’s deadly cacophony; black striations cast from the unconscious dash down and diagonal interlaced with white filigree weaving a harmonic balance, ochre stick figures behind the veil flash in primal surge and flow with hidden portraits, all knit together by teal and gray webbing, the quiet foundation for a dance of drip, pour and fling: gaze down, genuflect and circle your once and future monumental canvas, swirl in sub rosa silhouettes, sling the foundation splashes, decant knots of pain and joy, sweep sidestep, sweep sidestep, sweep sidestep, gently drizzle and dribble, slash and lash, lovingly trickle and trill, skip round and round, circle and wheel, coil and meander, flick step, flick step, flick step, drip, fling and pour forth this eternal moment, a priceless interlude reaped from a drunken whirlwind, consuming death defied by passionate life. Jennifer Wenn Jennifer Wenn is a trans-identified writer and speaker from London, Ontario, Canada. Her first poetry chapbook, A Song of Milestones, was published by Harmonia Press (an imprint of Beliveau Books). Her first full-size collection, Hear Through the Silence (from Cyberwit), was recently released. She has also written From Adversity to Accomplishment, a family and social history; and published poetry in numerous journals and anthologies including WordCity Literary Journal, The Ekphrastic Review and Poems in Response to Peril. She is also the proud parent of two adult children. Visit her website at https://jenniferwennpoet.wixsite.com/home
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Dan Fliegel, poetry editor for TriQuarterly, asks Dane Hamann ten questions about his second book, Parsing the Echoes, a collection of ekphrastic poems (two of which, “Grain” and “Field,” were first published in The Ekphrastic Review). Parsing the Echoes Dane Hamann Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2023 https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/parsing-the-echoes-dane-hamann/ Dan Fliegel: Did your process or mindset change when you approached writing about some iconic artists (later in the book) and their works (including sculpture) versus writing about the somewhat lesser-known artists from the 2007 special exhibit (earlier in the book)? You state in the notes that these were done from memory; that already suggests a difference to me. Dane Hamann: Although I viewed images of the art while drafting the poems, each section of the book--Reflections and Reverberations—was written according to the memory of seeing those works of art in person earlier in my life. Memory and portrait are two of the main themes of the book—reflections and reverberations both being echoes of a sort—and this collection was meant to be an examination (or parsing) of them. I think the section titles provide some insight into my mindset when approaching the different artists and their works. The first section, based on a rare exhibit of Nordic landscape art that visited the Minneapolis Institute of Art when I was an intern there in the summer of 2007, was meant to reflect who I was at the time (a turbulent time, personally). The second section was meant to examine my initial impressions of more iconic artists and their artwork and how they continue to influence me. DF: Here is a related question: Do you think of the process as different between writing in response to a landscape painting versus something abstract? DH: I think my mental process, at least, was different when I was writing poems based on landscapes versus those based on abstract artwork. The questions I was asking the landscape poems concerned identity and how it was reflected in the art. On the opposite side, the abstract poems were more concerned with imagination and emotional responses. I think these differences are evident in the tone and style of the different poems. DF: Ol’ Horace writes that we need to consider the reader when we create a poem. With that in mind, how might you want a reader to approach this book: Should one view the painting first, then the poem? Reverse it? Of course, a reader is free to do what they want, but one can only have the experience once of FIRST reading any poem. How do you imagine a reader approaching this book? DH: This is an interesting question—one that’s probably relevant mostly because I’ve included QR code links to the art for each poem. Most books that include ekphrastic poems don’t also include the art because of the costs associated with printing reproductions of the art, especially if colour is essential. There are some famous artworks in my book, but many of the poems are based on little-known paintings. When I was building the manuscript for this book, I wanted a way to share the artwork easily and quickly with the readers without providing a messy URL. I don’t think it really matters how a reader approaches the book—poem first or art first. However, I do think that the QR codes will immediately stoke a reader’s curiosity when they turn to a page in the book, so they may end up pulling the image up on their phone first. Hopefully, with the accessibility of the art, the reader can experience both the poem and the art side by side. DF: The above question also raises a corollary: How much should any ekphrastic poem depend upon the art object? Do readers need to even see the original for the poem to “work”? DH: This is something I thought about a lot as I was writing and assembling the poems that make up this book. I’m not sure I’ve come to a conclusion. On one hand, I want to challenge poetic forms because I see the artistic value in it; on the other hand, I adore ekphrasis for commingling visual art and written word. As I previously mentioned, art does not often accompany a printed ekphrastic poem. Obviously, it’s easier for online publications to include the artwork, but it’s usually up to the reader to search for an image of the art that’s the subject of the printed poem. DF: I wonder about the multi-sensory imagery in, for example, “Paper Birch” (the “sweet rot//of old leaves and peatbog,” “leaves ticking/like inconsequential clocks”) inspired by the painting “Summer Night.” It’s documented with neural imaging that human minds respond instantly (in milli-seconds) to language that includes imagery (as from “bacon frying in the pan”). I’m not sure how this works with visual media. Do you think that your own viewing of “Summer Night” automatically triggers a kind of full-sensory experience (the smell of the bog and sound of the leaves)? Or is this something that requires a kind of conscious immersion—TRYING to imagine yourself in the scene? DH: For my viewing with the goal of writing, I don’t think I had to try to imagine myself in the scene. However, I believe that it was necessary to open myself to the experience of viewing the painting in order to realize and understand all of the sensory elements that it was eliciting. In other words, the full-sensory experience was automatically triggered, but I suppose I simply needed to concentrate to bring it forth to the page. “Summer Night” is an incredibly detailed painting, so the imagery is easily accessible in my opinion. DF: Related to the previous question, how might we describe the relationship between viewing any kind of art with language? Is the voice silent in your head until you decide to react to art with language? DH: I think there’s always some kind of mental processing that occurs when viewing art. Whether this emerges from the fog of your mind as words or language, I think depends on how willing you are to concentrate on the art. I tend to be a fast-moving museum-goer. So, my normal in-person viewing experience is to concentrate on the visual aspects of the art. Observing rather than searching for meaning. Only later do I engage with the memory of what I’ve seen and formulate a response to it. DF: I really like “Grain.” What do you think might be the relationship between visual art and metaphor? You start with the “Tsunami of grain” and include “the bowl/of possibility,” the teeth/of the tallest/grasses,” and “the window/of my body.” In terms of process, did you have to reach for these metaphors by gazing at the painting, or were they there for the taking in your impression while viewing? DH: Thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed that one. Although I think metaphor is inherent to visual art, in terms of ekphrastic poetry, sometimes the artist’s intent differs from the poet’s intent. The metaphors that I work into my poems, such as “Grain,” came from my response to the art rather observation of what the art was depicting. My goal was to write poems that were personal and intimate but also accessible to the reader by still utilizing the visual characteristics of the art. DF: With regards to diction and phonetic features, I wonder was there a conscious effort to link lines and stanzas through the sounds of language, such as the assonance in “Blue”: “taste” with “escape”; “blue” with “food” and “ballooning”; “starlight,” “pines” and “ice.” Or was this just music that emerged in the lines “naturally”? DH: I really appreciate your close reading of this poem. Those are wonderful details you’ve noticed—though, I admit to no conscious effort to link the lines and stanzas in such an auditory way. This is, perhaps, simply the result of years of writing and studying poetry (as you know), honing it into a craft. DF: I looked at the painting, “Paths on the Ice” prior to reading the poem—and even the title—“antennas.” First, I’m struck by the similarity of snow, ice, cold between this painting and the previous one [“Cinders”], though also that the feeling is different—mid-day as opposed to the deathly descent of night? And now, the poem: I’m struck first by the difference in emotional tone, and the inclusion of another for the speaker, “our song” “our first thaw,” “We danced.” These pronouns could be read as including the reader, but they seem more to reference something personal. The question that arises for me here is as follows: Were you open to a kind of first-feeling, first-thought approach when writing this or any other of the poems? Or did you, here or elsewhere, linger with the painting, searching for a kind of subject matter to present itself? DH: I find myself at a bit of a crossroads here—my process was a “first-feeling, first-thought approach,” but my aim for the book was to ruminate on what these pieces of art meant to me at the time of my first viewing them. Naturally, I had to reacquaint myself with them at times while writing the poems, but I really wanted to channel the impressions they left on me as a younger person. I suppose one of the questions I wanted to answer for myself when writing this collection was whether I recognized the self that was forming in the poems. DF: Is there a relationship between form (line and stanza lengths) and the individual artworks? How did your forms emerge or develop? DH: There wasn’t a conscious effort to match form with the art. I let the poems develop naturally, but with an eye toward variation in the collection. I’ve always appreciated books that include poems of many different visual shapes. Perhaps there’s a subconscious relationship between the form of each poem and my memory of how it felt to see the artwork for the first time. Watch Dane speak about Parsing the Echoes and read some sample poems from the book here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9jBmBwbseA Dane Hamann edits textbooks for a publisher in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. He is the poet-in-residence for derailleur.net, a newsletter/website devoted to professional cycling, as well as author of A Thistle Stuck in the Throat of the Sun (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Parsing the Echoes (Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2023). Dan Fliegel is a longtime public schoolteacher in Chicagoland. Some of his poems can be found in Adirondack Review, African American Review, Cider Press Review, The South Carolina Review, and elsewhere. He is currently the poetry editor for TriQuarterly. The Ekphrastic Review is pleased to talk with ekphrastic contributor Nancy Ludmerer about her collection, Collateral Damage: 48 Stories, from Snake Nation Press.
Lorette C. Luzajic, The Ekphrastic Review: Your new book, Collateral Damage: 48 Stories, is an eclectic collection of stories of different lengths, themes, and sources of inspiration. Tell us how the title drives the selected works. What does collateral damage mean to you? How does this theme inform the stories, the characters, and you, as the author? Nancy Ludmerer: The title is from a microfiction I wrote and published years before I decided to make it the title of the book. In that 100-word piece, a housefly witnesses domestic violence and then becomes “collateral damage” when the man pounces. As I began to put together a collection, I realized that collateral damage, which I think of as unintended consequences visited on a bystander or other third party, was at the core of many stories. Children are often the collateral damage of their elders’ conflicts, misconduct and mistakes, as in “Hide-and-Seek,” “Adventureland,” and “Heirloom.” Relationships suffer collateral damage via a careless action, word or gesture. In one story, “A Bohemian Memoir,” a wineglass (the narrator) suffers collateral damage while recounting the life of her now elderly and ailing mistress. The book is in two roughly equal sections, Part I: “Collateral Damage” and Part II: “In the Repair Shop.” The stories in the second part also deal with loss but end on a note of hope or redemption. Much of your extensive body of writing work and numerous nominations and awards is for flash fiction. Yet you’ve also written longer stories and nonfiction essays. Tell us what these different forms mean to you. What is it about the short form that inspires you to create? Are there significant differences among them, or are the lines blurred for you? Nancy Ludmerer: I first wrote flash fiction in a workshop taught by the amazing Pamela Painter. The compression, the intensity, and simply studying with Pamela turned me into a fan of the form. I am also someone who revises endlessly before sending stories out (and sometimes even after sending them out). As a single mom working long hours as a lawyer, I found it easier to revise and “perfect” a 300- or 500- or 1000- word story than a 5000-word one. Since retiring from the law in 2018, I’ve had more time to write. My longer stories, including “A Simple Case” (Carve); “Matchbox” (Masters Review) and “The Loneliness Cure” (Orison Books), range from 3500 to 7800 words. Each was a prizewinner, with “The Loneliness Cure” selected for Best Spiritual Literature, Vol. 7, published in December 2022 by Orison Books. “The Loneliness Cure” was my first venture into historical fiction; it’s set in Ukraine in the early 19th century. A new work in that genre, a novella-in-flash set in 17th century Venice, will be published later this year by WTAW Press. “The Loneliness Cure” and the novella are each based on the life of a Jewish woman, extraordinary in and for her time. With the novella-in-flash I’ve been able to use a form I’m very comfortable in to craft a longer work. My essays address specific subjects that didn’t lend themselves to fiction or short forms. “Kritios Boy” (a Literal Latte prizewinner, which was cited in Best American Essays 2014) is a memoir of teenage love and its aftermath; “Mr. Right” (Brain, Child) is about my 94-year-old widowed mother’s stated intention to remarry; and “My Jonah” (Green Mountains Review) is about the name I gave my son, including my exploration of the name’s significance in Jewish, Islamic, and Christian traditions. Using these essays as an anchor, I’ve put together a chapbook (still seeking a publisher) called Some Things Happen Twice made up of these three essays and half-a-dozen flash fictions, along with one somewhat longer piece of metafiction. The people in the essays (mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, and lovers) reappear with different names and in somewhat different – i.e., fictionalized -- situations in the flash fictions; hence, the title for the collection (and one of the flash stories). The final story, “The Year of Four” (Chicago Literati) is a metafiction that plays with form and, in its own way, sheds light on everything that has preceded it – memory, motherhood, naming, and the craft of writing fiction based on life. Your stories are inspired by very specific situations or motifs, but from such a range- horror movies, Jewish culture, musical performances, an autographed baseball, famous paintings, a self-help technique. Tell us a little bit about your process. How do you grow a story out of these details? Nancy Ludmerer: A story may begin with a name, a prompt, a moment or an incident – sometimes from my own life, sometimes something I’ve read or heard about. For example, as a child, I heard the song “Scarlet Ribbons” and it stayed with me for years until a prompt from Amanda Saint in a flash workshop turned it into a story. That prompt was to write a story in the first-person plural with the opening clause “We wanted to be ____”. The story that resulted, published in Mid-American Review and reprinted in Collateral Damage: 48 Stories, is “Fathers.” A number of the details you mention – the film “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” (which makes an appearance in “Fathers”) the autographed baseball (the key object in “Heirloom”), and the Mozart aria “La Ci Darem La Mano,” which is translated as “There I Will Take Your Hand” (the final story in Collateral Damage: 48 Stories) -- connected with stories I was working on. The details were transforming; stories that felt flat took on new life. You had another life as a lawyer in New York City. What part of this work do you bring to your work as a writer? Nancy Ludmerer: In litigation, your first job is to learn everything you can about the facts and the law. After that, you distill a case to its essence, so you can present it to a judge or jury. Flash fiction, of course, requires compression: telling a multi-layered story in a page or two, knowing what to leave out, and crafting the ending that’s right for the story. It differs from litigation in that the ending you seek in any short fiction should, at its best, be both inevitable and surprising – not the effect you necessarily want in your advocacy! Research, revision, deadlines, page and word limits – all these demands on a litigator apply to writing short fiction as well. I’ve occasionally drawn on my legal experience for subject matter, particularly my pro bono work representing or counseling prisoners, victims of sex trafficking or domestic violence, illegal immigrants and disabled individuals. Two stories in Collateral Damage:48 Stories, “Family Day” and “No Offense” concern the heartbreaking situation of an incarcerated woman whose child is placed in foster care. Another flash (this one not in the book,) “Learning the Trade in Tenancingo” is based on research I did in connection with counseling women who were potential victims of sex trafficking. Of my longer stories, several have legal underpinnings. “Matchbox,” is based in part on my visits with prisoners at a maximum-security women’s prison. “A Simple Case” is loosely based on a personal injury case. I have under submission a collection entitled “In the Shadow of the Law” which includes these and other stories. Some of your stories, including a few in Collateral Damage, and some others that we have published are ekphrastic. One of them was a finalist in our Ekphrastic Cats contest, and another was nominated by TER for a Best Microfiction award. Tell us about your relationship with visual art. When your stories bloom from a visual art prompt, what is your process like? How do you engage with the artwork? How do you choose the art, or does it choose you? Nancy Ludmerer: “The Decision,” the microfiction that was a finalist in the Ekphrastic Cats contest, had its origins in the pain of having to put down a beloved cat. When I first conceived of the story, my heart was too broken to send the story out into the world. The Ekphrastic Cats competition, with its wonderful array of artistic felines, some alone in their grandeur, others with their “significant others,” enabled me to complete and submit that story. The micro “At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle-School” began life as an eight-page story many years ago based on an overheard snippet of conversation. The story languished in a drawer for nearly two decades. It wasn’t until I viewed David Hockney’s brilliant painting Pool with Two Figures and cut the story to its essence that it worked. I was so grateful to TER for publishing and nominating it. Two of my longer stories were prompted by paintings. “Head of a Dog” (The Hong Kong Review) was based directly on the Edvard Munch painting of that name. As the canine narrator tells us, “The Munch painting, with its muddy greens and oranges for the dog’s fur, the dog’s black eyes like olive pits, made me afraid to look in the mirror. . . [E]veryone reveres Munch’s painting, The Scream. But no one knows Head of a Dog, which is equally striking, where the dog – unlike the Screamer – remains stoic but courageous in the face of disaster.” Another story, “Fall on Your Knees,” published originally in Fiction Southeast and reprinted in TER, was prompted by a Gauguin painting. It’s a story about art and sexual exploitation. Both stories involve the law in some way, too – a police investigation in “Head of a Dog” and a prosecution in “Fall on Your Knees.” Neither story would exist if not for the artists’ gripping work. Just a couple more weeks to get your Sound of Music contest entries in! This is your reminder. There is still time to get inspired and enter if you haven't already. We're pasting in the original notice below, with all the info you need. ** New Contest! The Sound of Music, with Guest Judge, Jonathan Taylor The Ekphrastic Review is pleased to announce a new contest for poetry and flash fiction, on the theme of music. We are delighted that Jonathan Taylor, a TER contributor well-known for his musical writing, will act as our judge. Selected flash fiction and poetry will appear in a showcase in The Ekphrastic Review. A winner in either flash fiction or poetry will be awarded first place and $100 CAD. ** Jonathan Taylor is an author, editor, lecturer and critic. His books include the poetry collection Cassandra Complex (Shoestring, 2018), the novel Melissa (Salt, 2015) and the memoir Take Me Home (Granta, 2007). His book Kontakte and Other Stories (Roman Books, 2013), was shortlisted and long listed for multiple awards. It is a collection of music-themed stories, a consistent theme in his poetry and fiction. Taylor directs the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. His website is www.jonathanptaylor.co.uk. ** Rules 1. Write short fiction or poetry inspired by any of the works of art in The Sound of Music ebook. You can interpret or use the art in any way you are inspired to. It can be about the painting, artist, or subject, or take you in any other direction. 2. 1000 words maximum per piece, whether fiction or poetry. 3. Submit up to five works per author, fiction, poetry, or assorted. 4. Attach works as Word documents. Do not put your name on documents. Any legible font and presentation is fine. 5. Include a publication ready bio of 100 words or less in the body of your email, in the event your work is chosen for our showcase. 6. Editor and judge decisions are final. Showcase will be published sometime in April, and winner announced at the same time. 7. Winning writer will be paid by PayPal. 8. Send entries to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com with MUSIC in subject line. 9. Deadline is midnight, EST, March 25, 2023. 10. Purchase of music ebook is $10 CAD and qualifies you to enter up to five works. You can enter as many times as you like. ekphrasisism reversed: it’s a two-way mirror alice walked through the glass and entered an upside-down reality where perspective was changed where the mirror was an image unto itself in an indecision of art hanging there on a facade a masterpiece alone no brush strokes or colours just words on a wall a frame so solus in all of art brilliant painters lifted the brush and stroked beautiful canvases colourful scenes of the mad geniuses’ dreams but the mirror was still one sided then the eckphrastic masters arrived and All was changed! the mirror wobbled and swirled clear light became hazy my hand went through into another i saw brushes paint words and words paint pictures the eckphrastics came alive in brilliant colour bright blue yellow and green All in hues the oranges painted and the acrylics spread cheer finally the writer could see the paint on his page a canvas as he stood on the stage alice walked through the glass! one more time And the eckphrastics became gods Self-Portait incandescent blue 3-dimensional distortions Gold crusted a black silvery green figurine with eerie colours in a bright yellow frame deep a depth in space inside my mind ribbons warp as fields enfold upon themselves in an abyss not yet revealed in an elongated space in which time and light subsist a quasi-solitude is found that delivers a peaceful chaos in an unsettled expanse look into mine eyes that cannot be seen see the electricity of the creative spark that only lives in an illusion of mind caught in the need of the ever present ego oh! That he could be dead that i be alive! warped space in cool lights the shadowy figurine paints azure lanes in which 2 bi-cycles ride in this space this place slightly out of sight in dark shadows which show lite orange orchid cabinets eerily in an avocado verdant haze he thinks and paints in colours auric words on the palette the brush which gives his being his meaning to be the infinite eternity he seeks to be free as the lightening dove flies in from the right this shadowy figure has to be! he plays in the frame painting All of the day James N. Hoffman James N Hoffman is retired and living with his wife in Ocean City, Maryland. He has an MA in Applied Psychology and a BA in Philosophy. James started writing many decades ago but found he liked to write what he called colour poetry since he cannot paint. Later he learned that it is called ekphrastic and has been as old as some of the Greek philosophy he studied. James has been published in the Ekphrastic Challenge many times. A French Highway if there was a beginning or an end it has been obliterated only one thought exists as monotonous as a hymn as heavy as sodden boots myopic as the miniaturist’s brush it drips from the edges of greatcoats stinks like shite from a horse’s arse you can see the way it repeats itself over and over stubbornly refuses to change the subject the best a man can do is avert his eyes from the clouds’ sunken ribs concentrate not on nouns but conjunctions the task of getting to the next and Salient at Dawn Its isolated colours are surreal as flowers: the forget-me-nots that bloom in cavities of broken teeth; the pale creep of lavender that pools around the still heart. Even the jaundiced skin is pin-pricked with yellow stars, sparkling like shrapnel in the emptied dawn, so that each embittered scar speaks of beauty beaten-down, its trampled jaw graced with a rosy bruise. While, above it all, in the sky’s abandoned skull, a clutch of pale gold irises sifts this slough of memories, turns its sunken face from hell. The Waiting I prone on a broken door on white snow the man in the blue balaclava lets tomorrow pass II a Gewehr 98 or perhaps a Mauser slung on his back, polished brass helmet swinging from his pack, killer of a killer III grey-shawled and sombre-eyed he and a red-cloaked soldier step quietly through the underworld IV faceless, almost, under his cap V this one, lips pressed tight, bites down the unbidden sounds. he has the darkest eyes VI the flat priestly face of a chaplain, clenching his cape clinging to his vestments VII this short one has a dirty look about him scarf dulled with blood. his eyes drill the snow try to bring up what is gone VIII a poet (maybe) uses his rifle like a crozier composes an ashen refrain the word prayer assumes too much VIIII here then is the hero the world wants the indispensable sniper’s eye he will also lend you his spare fork X standing by this one’s slim waist and flushed face could be taken for a woman’s knows all too well the pity Field of Passchendaele If we could peer from our sanctified gallery Into his charcoal features And if he bestowed on us a last Garbled utterance Asked us to get rid of all this gore and grey Paint in some greenery Turn him into a simple farm boy Dozing in the straw If he should warn us gently, but sternly That this is no place for loafers That the world did not hold its fire for lovers Who slipped off into the woods We might pity his ramblings, tell him That, soon, the horses will be back with the plough Or else find out his name and rank Trace his kin and home, and make a story of his bones Then he’ll remind us that he is only an outline A perspective, frozen in time And we’ll nod, comment on the use of tone And light, and move quietly on Cemetery Etaples There are no guns now, only an echoing thud, the memory of it growing distant, the way thunder retreats with the rain. A thin train bisects the landscape, leaving its hang of smoke in the air like a soldier’s last cigarette, the half-smoked end still glowing somewhere, like the end of everything. On cue, the women come, the small thud of their feet like an epilogue through sulphur-ridden air, scarves bandaged round their heads, their distant eyes and figures as hushed as the brown-grey landscape, still shedding its futility of mud and rain. Women tending the graves, whose only memory is rain, crude graves without a flattery of white marble to mark their end, honest graves, that do not rise monumental from the landscape but are merged in it, each plain brown cross like the thud of hail on a forest floor, on mud barely dried, the distant shapeless rows disappearing into air that cannot yet bear the weight of life, a splintered air made of debris, unprepared for their forgiving rain, unable to bear the presence of these women and the distant greenness, how it crawls across the horizon’s end, inches through No Man’s Land, muffling each dismembered thud. The women pour their care on graves not yet tarnished by a landscape that makes manicure of slaughter. No, this landscape is all brown death, no green neatness to disguise the sorry air of innocence. Here and there, a wreath breaks the monotony like a thud, and a woman kneels. Others are talking of the break in the rain, of the stew prepared on Sunday and where to get a fresh end of meat, and how the épicerie has run out of stockings, and of the distant days yet to come, and how she will cope – eyes grown distant – how will she cope amidst the unthinkable, in a landscape filled with row upon soft row of bones, now that the war is at an end and there is nothing left to fight for? Or perhaps she doesn’t trouble the air at all with thoughts of what to tell the children, of rain- splattered ink on muddy pages, or questions that drop with a soft thud thud in the dead of night. In time all will grow distant, and she will not know if she is freer or happier. The landscape will keep its silence, as though peace was a dream, not the promised end. Tracy Patrick Tracy Patrick is from Paisley, Scotland. She has been vegan for twenty plus years. Her interests include wildlife gardening, growing her own veg, and finding creative solutions to sustainable living. She is the support animal to one cat, Eliot. She was a VAD nurse, peace campaigner and munition worker in the Britannia Panopticon Music Hall's World War One Centenary shows in Glasgow. It is the oldest surviving music hall in the world. These poems have previously been published in Painting San Romano (earth love press 2022). The copyright of these images belongs to Imperial War Museum, London. Noncommercial educational use is permitted. This week, The Ekphrastic Review archives give us a mixture of rest and fun. At this time of year, we could use a helping of both. I hope these poems, translations, and flash fiction pleasantly blow your mind! Marjorie … Modigliani, by João Luís Barreto Guimarães, translated by Calvin Olsen I love this translation from the Portuguese of a poem inspired by a video of Amadeo Modigliani paintings: “behind a/crumpled paper inside of which one more/faulty poem had died.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/modigliani-by-joao-luis-barreto-guimaraes-translated-by-calvin-olsen ** Harlequin's Carnival, by Maximilian Heinegg The poet contemplates a painting at the Joan Miro exhibit in New York City: “Into the mute music I went, my eyes became my ears.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/harlequins-carnival-by-maximilian-heinegg ** “How Lovely Yellow Is!” by Kate Young An epistolary poem written to Van Gogh’s brother, Theo, and inspired by the painting Two Cut Sunflowers: “immersed my life in yellow!” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/how-lovely-yellow-is-by-kate-young ** Jackson Pollock et al, by Michael Estabrook From Pollock’s Painting Number 17: “Remember that painting in Robert’s office? You said you didn’t like it.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/jackson-pollock-et-al-by-michael-estabrook ** Oak Divinity 1, Scarred, by Lynn Pattison This poem is for anyone who ever loved a tree: “She’s draped her limbs in claret” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/oak-divinity-1-scarred-by-lynn-pattison ** Rumi, and Raquel-IA Ekphrastic Art A translation of Rumi's Ghazal 163 and a fascinating collaborative project: “fetch home the beautiful-faced good moon.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/rumi-and-raquel-ia-ekphrastic-art ** Sheep by the Sea, by James LaMontagne The beautiful Sheep by the Sea by Rosa Bonheur inspires this poem: “tell us what is unfinished in you” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/sheep-by-the-sea-by-james-lamontagne ** A Time to Rest, by Tina M. MWP A poem inspired by the painting Daybreak: a Time to Rest, by Jacob Lawrence, one of my mother’s favourite artists: “A family at last finds respite after trekking across perilous/terrain” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/a-time-to-rest-by-tina-m-mwp There are almost eight 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 occasional Throwback Thursday feature highlights writing from our past, chosen on purpose or chosen randomly. We are grateful that Marjorie Robertson shares some favourites with us on a monthly basis. With her help, you'll get the chance to discover past contributors, work you missed, or responses to older ekphrastic challenges. Would you like to be a guest editor for a Throwback Thursday? Pick 10 or so favourite or random posts from the archives of The Ekphrastic Review. Use the format you see above: title, name of author, a sentence or two about your choice, or a pull quote line from the poem and story, and the link. Include a bio and if you wish, a note to readers about the Review, your relationship to the journal, ekphrastic writing in general, or any other relevant subject. Put THROWBACK THURSDAYS in the subject line and send to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com. Let's have some fun with this- along with your picks, send a vintage photo of yourself too! Long’s Luxury Resale Jessie stepped into the thrift shop and the door creaked to a close behind her. Her heart pounded with the thrill of it, with the thrill of this game she played. Pop a Percocet, pop into a shop and pop some tags. Except she didn’t pop tags—she never spent a dime. She went into each store in search the most exotic thing she could find. And then she stole it. She had never been to this shop, a hole in the wall in a faded Chinatown strip mall. Long’s Luxury Resale, the sign said. Pinpricks of light danced before Jessie’s eyes. Her shoulders relaxed. The pill was kicking in. “Looking for something special?” asked the elderly woman at the cash register. The woman took a drag on a cigarette and exhaled the smoke through her nose. Mrs. Long, Jesse guessed. “Just browsing.” Jessie ducked down a row of shelves and surveyed the options. A wooden tiki. Alabaster chess pieces. A cracked vase. And then, Jessie saw it, a pale green bracelet sitting atop of pile of tarnished costume jewelry. She picked it up. It was jade—heavy and cold—and it featured a dragon’s head carved so that it looked like the beast’s mouth was consuming its tail. “Many treasures!” Jessie jumped at Mrs. Long’s voice. She turned around, hiding the bracelet between her sweaty palms. Mrs. Long craned over the shelf, her head looking disembodied next a globe and an old lamp. “Just for you. My special customer.” She smiled and walked away. That was close, Jessie thought. She stared at the bracelet—it was coloor of new leaves. And the carving—exquisite. The dragon’s canine teeth protruded from a shaggy beard that seemed to ripple like real hair. Its eyes looked blankly at her. Jessie snorted. He looked like he had popped a pill. As she held it, the stone grew warm and the dragon’s eyes glowed orange. It’s the pill, she told herself. “Find something?” Mrs. Long called from across the shop. Jessie slid the bracelet onto her wrist, stuffed her hand in her coat pocket, and headed to the door. “No luck today.” She reached for the knob. In a flash, Mrs. Long was next to her, clutching her shoulder. A stack of jade bracelets jangled on the old woman’s wrist. “You sure?” Inside Jessie’s pocket, something sharp pierced her delicate skin. “Ouch!” Forgetting the stolen bracelet, Jessie pulled out her hand. She gasped. Warm blood trickled across her palm, and where the bracelet had been, something green and scaly clung to her wrist. “Oh my stars!” said Mrs. Long. She clapped her hands, her bracelets clinking. “You’re very lucky.” The creature coiled up Jessie’s forearm and around her bicep. She screamed and tore at her jacket. “Help me!” A ripping sound came from her elbow and the jacket fell in shreds to the floor. Wrapped around Jessie’s arm was a small green dragon, its fangs sunk into her. Jessie couldn’t breathe. The dragon’s eyes flickered gold and red and small blue flames leapt from its nostrils. “Get—it—off!” she gasped. “He chose you.” Mrs. Long caressed the dragon’s chin. “Very special.” It growled and raked its claws along Jessie’s arm. Her smooth skin erupted into a sheet of iridescent green scales. “It’s the pill. It must have been bad—it’s Fentanyl. Call 911!” “They can’t help you, dear.” Jessie’s arms, neck, and back pulsed as scales spread beneath her clothes. “This isn’t real. It’s the pill. Help me!” Smoke puffed out her nose. Jesse watched, paralyzed, as the scales melted together into a crust of smooth, pale jade. The dragon sighed and its scales also faded. She could no longer tell where she ended and the dragon began. She felt herself shrinking, becoming one with the cold stone. “You got what you wanted,” Mrs. Long said, reaching for her, for the dragon. “So special.” And then all went dark. “And now,” Mrs. Long slid the bracelet next to the others on her wrist. “I have you.” Amy Francis Dechary. Amy Francis Dechary writes short stories and historical fiction in Orange County, CA. Her work has appeared in Juste Milieu and numerous Southern California publications. President of the Laguna Beach-based writing group Third Street Writers, she was the editor of the group’s Beach Reads anthology series and is fiction editor of their forthcoming online lit journal, Third Street Review. A graduate of the University of Virginia, she once taught middle and high school English and worked in the publishing industry in Washington, DC. Birthday Party by the Tskhenistsqali River 1. Ghosts walk upon the heads of party guests lined up like Matryoshka dolls by the cliff’s edge. 2. A fisherman casts his net into the pond where cows drink. 3. Men and women are wooden pegs that attach the hill to the sky. 4. The bear is the size of the church, the hunter is bigger than both. 5. Black birds rise like smoke from the Tskhenistsqali’s long, white cigarette. Anton Pooles Anton Pooles was born in Novosibirsk, Siberia and now lives and writes in Toronto, Ontario. His work has appeared in an array of journals and magazines. He is the author of the chapbook Monster 36 (Anstruther Press, 2018) and the full-length collection Ghost Walk (Mansfield Press, 2022). A Review of Owl Of Pines: Sunyata Saad Ali’s new book of poems, Owl Of Pines: Sunyata, is in my hands. Some of my critics have accused me of being a prolific writer of verse, a feature that leads inevitably to avoidable repetition. If speed of writing is under scrutiny, I think Ali is easily the winner. His output is torrential. But more importantly, his output continues to be of high quality; it is variegated and many-sided; and it advances poetic insights with great verve and passion. Ali has, once again, confirmed his ability to combine skill with substance that is of significance in the contemporary world. He covers an extensive range of subjects including philosophy, politics, history, literature, sciences and the arts. Questions concerning epistemology and ontology are at the core of his work. But the greatest focus is on the Human Person as a feeling, living, observing, experiencing and learning entity. A deep human compassion bubbles up from the flow of language and words in his poetry. A reader, or ‘conscious reader’, in the poet’s words in the Preface, will enjoy this book of poems, if it is read as a continuation of his earlier oeuvre. He has already authored four books of poetry: Ephemeral Echoes (2018), Metamorphoses: Poetic Discourses (2020), Ekphrases: Book One (2020), and PROSE POEMS: Βιβλίο Άλφα (2020). In these books, the poet experimented with a variety of forms, like ekphrastic poems, prose poems and free verse. This book has been divided into separate sections called ‘Kind’. These sections are devoted to Vers Libre, Prose Poem and Ekphrasis, respectively. This, then, becomes a comprehensive feast of Ali’s poetic hospitality. Ali’s prefaces are not to be read as insignificant pieces to be skipped over; they capture the spirit that informs his creative work. The following sentences found in the Preface are not merely clues, but keys for understanding as well as enjoying the poems contained in this book: (i) Well, I think ergo I wonder! … (ii) Owl happens to be my favourite animal (bird). … Perhaps, it’s my desire to be reincarnated as an owl. … Perhaps, it is also my desire to be reincarnated as a pine (tree). (iii) So, what kind of a beast (or book, if you like) is this? Put simply then, it is a Chimera … with three heads (or tails, if you like). (iv) On the subject of ‘The Theme’: … there isn’t any single theme here though. … —since I belong to the kind called homo sapiens, I cannot … ‘free’ myself from this primary contextual point-of-reference anyway. (v) ‘Sunyata’ (or emptiness) … is the space where nature and things of nature … interact and integrate … . (vi) … this is poetry and not a discourse on, and/or deconstruction of the genealogy of, human origins … (or deconstruction of the human nature). I read three important messages in the above extrapolated quotes for the reader: (i) First that poetry derives its energy from a deep sense of wonder about the universe, nature and humankind. Wonder is an antidote to materialism. This, to my mind, puts it in the league of post-modern verse. Substituting the miraculous and the divine in the religious imagination is the sense of wonder not only in the universe, nature, and humankind, but especially so in language and its deconstruction in terms of ‘deferral’ of meaning of words, and the continuity between absence and presence. For me, Ali’s poems stem from that innate sense of wonder. (ii) Secondly, the metaphor of ‘chimera’ most aptly and incisively conveys that fundamental force of wonder animating his verse. The owl-tree-poet relationship is enacted in the space, which is the scene of Sunyata, as interpreted by the poet. (iii) And finally, and very importantly, the poems are not to be read as propounding this or that philosophy or doctrine or dogma. In sum, these are philosophical poems, and not poems versifying philosophy. This is a very significant facet of the poems and clearly articulated by the poet. If there is a philosophy that he stands for unequivocally, it is the complexity, beauty and dignity of the human animal or the true ‘chimera’ of this book. Ali has a veritable treasure-house on display in this book. There is a wealth of poetic insight in eye-catching imagery, and mind-teasing thoughts. There is plenty of grist for the mills of the intellect as well as imagination. Readers can choose from vers libres, prose poems and ekphrases. Explanation in any of these sections will be rewarding. Let me refer to some of the poems that filled me with a sense of pleasure and indeed helped to broaden my imagination: (i) The poem, ‘Again! – Sunyata (II)’, has very engaging lines with brilliant images. ‘The stylo is the wild, wild stallion. The flame is dancing on the forehead of the candle-wick. … The book pages are singing. … The mouse is wiggling on the mouse-pad. … The keys are performing flamenco on the tablet.’ (ii) Light-hearted comment brings out a serious point on philosophy in ‘Philo & Sophia’: ‘What does religion and science have to do with ‘philosophy’? ... she inquired. … Isn’t religion, science, history, et cetera concerned with seeking the truth … knowledge … wisdom?’ Then, after an intervening passage on the ‘wisdom’ of paying utility bills, comes the advice: ‘So, be a GOOD PHILO and tend to THIS SOPHIA’. I must confess that the poems I savoured most in this volume fall in the category of ‘Ekphrasis’. I believe no other poet in Pakistan has more creditable poetry than his in the multi-disciplinary field of ekphrasis. Some of the poems I relished are: (i) ‘A Tale of an Ordinary Day’ (after Edward Munch’s painting Spring Day on Karl Johan Street, 1880), which reads: I need to allow the lines and words to stretch and breathe, too. … ‘I saw Europe’s fractured leg, I saw Himalaya’s broken torso, I saw India’s crippled chicken-neck, I saw Gaza’s weeping eye, I saw Amazon’s dry mouth, I saw Sahara’s limping limbs, I saw Australia’s burnt brain. (ii) And poems like ‘The Only Guy Wearing the Fedora Hat’ (after Fernand Leger’s The Man in the Blue Hat, 1937), ‘The Final Exchange’ (after Bertram Brooker’s Figures in a Landscape, 1931), ‘The Hunting Grounds Tonight: Hot Spot Café’ (after Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night, 1888). It is always difficult, even rash, to choose one poem from a collection and call it the best. This poet has a penchant for dedicating each and every poem to his friends or acquaintances. He has very kindly dedicated his poem ‘Kashmir’ to me. Kashmir is the Laila of one’s dreams. It is a beautiful poem recalling Kashmir’s Helen-like loveliness and Circean suffering in the same breath. Most of his poems explore the possibilities of intellect, emotion and language in his poems. But for one, who believes that the language of sentiment and emotion should be the vehicle of intellectual content, and not the reverse, poems that can be declared as ‘the best batsman of the tournament’ are those in the mould of ‘Beer and these Lines’ (after Conversation with God by a Polish painter, Jan Matejko, 1873). I love its lines: We came in too fast & too furious. And we collided head-on! It has taken my neurons three cans of beer to come to their senses; & I came up with these lines. Well, it is time to pop open the 4th one!-- What can/will happen? We will have a few exchanges —some harsh words, some sweet words-- & will be back on the track! The ‘proof of the pudding’ is the fact that this beer poem has fascinated a teetotaller like myself. And luckily for the poet, our policemen don’t care for English language verse, otherwise, this confessional could mean a little more than ‘some harsh words.’ I wish Saad Ali consistent luck and continuing success. Ejaz Rahim Ejaz Rahim was born in Abbottabad, Pakistan. He is a Senior Civil Servant (Retired). He earned his Masters Degree in Development Studies from the Institute of Social Studies, The Hague, Netherlands and MA in English Literature from the Government College, Lahore, Pakistan. He is a poet and an author of over twenty books of poetry including: I, Confucius and Other Poems (2011), That Frolicsome Mosquito Our Universe (2014), Through the Eyes of the Heart (2014), et cetera. He holds the honour ofSitara-e-Imtiaz awarded to him by the Government of Pakistan for his contributions to the English Literature and Literary Scene in the country. Currently, he resides at the foot of the Margalla Hills in the Capital, Islamabad, with his life-long partner. Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been educated and brought up in the United Kingdom (UK) and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an (existential) philosopher, poet, and translator. Ali has authored five books of poetry. His latest collection of poetry is called Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). His work has been nominated for The Best of the Net Anthology. He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com, or his Facebook Author Page at www.facebook.com/owlofpines. Read an interview with TER and Saad about this collection, here. |
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