Growing The Ekphrastic Review has turned into one of my favourite projects of all time. I couldn't have imagined the enthusiastic response from readers and writers when I started it up just two years ago.
The writers, artists, and readers here have together inspired each other to great heights, new ways of seeing, and wonderful relationships. I understood that Ekphrastic would be something to which I gave my time, and that in turn, it would give me inspiration, poetry, and connect me to amazing writers. None of us are here for money. That said- and here's that big "but" - there are times when money would be nice. Other than my time, for which I am rewarded in the ways mentioned above, Ekphrastic doesn't cost me much. But there are some web and maintenance fees and I would like to do a bit of promoting with postcards I can distribute at the various art and literary events I'm part of. If you enjoy reading The Ekphrastic Review, consider sending a gift through Paypal to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com. Since I would rather give you something than ask for presents, consider buying one of my small artworks off of Etsy. All sales through Ekphrastic will go towards maintaining and growing Ekphrastic. Writers and readers here ALWAYS receive a 25% discount on my small works at Etsy. The coupon is: EKPHRASTIC25 ETSY LINK: https://www.etsy.com/shop/LorettesArt Don't hesitate to contact me to ask any questions you have about the artworks. Many thanks, Lorette
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The Knife-Thrower ![]() Gene Fendt
Gene Fendt: "I saw the Matisse exhibit in New York well over a decade ago; it was an entirely wonderful day, one which I hope to be able to relive in eternity, if that is what eternity gives us. Before and since I have been teaching Philosophy at the University of Nebraska, Kearney, in which direction most of my writing energy has gone, though I have recently have won the Princemere Prize and the open poetry competition at Gemini magazine." Mass
Isn't it funny the way light plays, how hiding it inhabits other faces and sheds like skin, clings save for my skeleton shell. I am left with scraps only, the dripped leavings of ancient candle. Maybe I could fight for morning light. Maybe I could filter the blue hour haze, rearrange my gaze beyond empty glass, even momentary glimpse another ending. Would I own the outcome? Recognize this quality of light? I fear blindness so downward glance to spite the dawn. Still sun will rise above hurt feelings and leave me shadow slouching, let me to my work, my private war waged over tabletop, elbows stabbing. Silence another casualty– I am not immune to sleep walking, to nightmare games. I could hang myself on this hand, surrender to solemn requiem, fingers finding prayer in the starved darkness. Emily Reid Green Emily Reid Green's poetry, creative non-fiction and flash fiction have appeared in publications including: Skipping Stones, Common Threads, The Font, The Linnet’s Wings, Khroma, Gravel, and Skive Magazine. An unabashed bookworm and avid knitter, she lives with her family in Toledo, Ohio. Study Guide: “The Fall of Icarus” for Ms. Hansen’s English 9 Power Slide 7, by DeWitt Clinton5/22/2017 Study Guide: “The Fall of Icarus” for Ms. Hansen’s English 9 Power Slide 7
I like the ploughman’s head pointed down to earth just like his horse looks down to see where to step. Everybody says look up, lift your gaze, look ahead, see what’s going on when ploughing the earth up for spring planting. If he doesn’t look down he won’t see a big old rock that might bust his blade, and then what’s the horse good for? I like the plowman’s shirt.
They’re all going about their business, Though I don’t know much about the Businesses. Haven’t you noticed, nobody notices what everybody else is doing isn’t that what we notice?
The guy with the red head who points. He’s not about to jump into and save The poor nincompoop, he just wants to point, Like the guy who says I’m just a monitor, He’s the monitor who sees a boy falling, With wings of hot wax and charcoal feathers. But maybe he just sees two legs in the ocean. The other day I read about a body pulled Out of the lake and nobody helped him out.
As soon as that leg sinks below Everybody’s going to turn around And just keep on doing what They were doing before the Big tragedy, though no one Really thinks it’s a big tragedy. Maybe even the painter didn’t Think it was such a big tragedy, Maybe he just had some extra Red paint he wanted to get off Of his brush, who really knows.
Well, a lot more things are noticed By the artist, for example he likes White cliffs, and white clouds, and White sunlight, and white sails and White sheep and white shirts and White towns but he did a pretty Good job with a couple of dabs Of red, where did he get that red? DeWitt Clinton DeWitt Clinton is Emeritus Professor at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater, and lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin. He continues to write and publish short creative non-fiction and poetry in in Wise Guys: An Online Magazine, Negative Capability, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Verse-Virtual, New Verse News, Peacock Journal, Ekphrastic Review and Stark: The Poetry Journal No. 1 which featured a “shortlisted” poem for the Wisehouse International Poetry Award. "In my bold, vibrant palette, my work invites you to look for meaning beyond colour. The themes are a recurring focus on identity and cultural heritage, tangible and not tangible. In my art, I intend to convey the core value of the spirit of nature, my inspiration through the beauty found in each context, and the appreciation of the noble values of life."
Adorable Monique Adorable Monique is an award-winning U.S. based artist brought up abroad. She holds a Baccalaureate from La Escuela Nacional de Bellas Artes and a BFA obtained at La Universidad Pedagógica Nacional Francisco Morazán. She has had the good fortune to be mentored by a renown Central American artist, which has helped enriched her artistic vision. She has received merit awards, and the opportunity to exhibit in various venues. Growing up surrounded by different cultures has broadened her overall view of life. She is continuously pursuing success in personal, professional, and artistic endeavours as well in the artistic experience itself. Handmaid
Tending, fingers raw, for I’ve scrubbed, scoured and mopped all but my brow, as she soaked. Eyes closed, head back, hair a glowing stream of sunset running over the side of the porcelain gleaming from my morning’s work. She is done now, with her Sunday bath, and these raw-rubbed hands must survive the indignity of a fiery forest of knots. Taming, tending, touching – these are my skills, my art. For touch is the work of the handmaid. Lisa Conquet Lisa Conquet was lucky to grow up in NYC -- a place that mirrors her spirit, energy and mix of cultures. The city fed her soul and her love of words. As a copywriter for a Madison Avenue ad agency, she utilized her psychology degree to entice consumers, then went back to school and turned the tables. Now she is a psychotherapist who uses poetry to help her clients. After “The Broken Column”
Poetry [poh-i-tree] verb 1. to unbind insecurities, torment, pain and annihilation. 2. to purge; 3. to clarify; 4. to make new. related forms Poet: I knew I was a poet when I found the only person that ever understood me is a dead painter. Lindsey Thäden Lindsey Thäden is a recent winner of New York's 2016 #PoetweetNYC contest. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the Philadelphia-based Apeiron Review, eleven40seven, New York Metro, Passages North and Vending Machine Press, which is e-published from Sydney, Australia. The Whiteness of Bone
White on white. Was a time I wouldn’t have seen it, a little snort bursting from my nose, up-tilted, at the greyish- white square, askew on the cream ground. Suprematist Composition, 1918, indeed, war’s end, and that is all Malevich could come up with? So much nothing, a long Sunday, hours mounded like dune sand, the upward slog, the endless back-sliding. Then, I was all noise, rushing to get somewhere, not realizing the deception of motion, Self always shrouding like the linen skin of a dressmaker’s dummy. Now I know: this as far as far as I’m going, this the end of my leap, all the time in the world to explore the gradations between pearl and cream, paper and bone, milky and opalescent. The dead in the trenches, bone white against the bleached scroll of years. The pitted surface, the brushstrokes, the canvas poking through, plenty for the eyes of one grown old enough to glean. Devon Balwit Devon Balwit is a writer and teacher from Portland, OR. She has two chapbooks forthcoming--'how the blessed travel' from Maverick Duck Press and 'Forms Most Marvelous' from dancing girl press. Her recent work has found many homes, among them: Oyez, The Cincinnati Review, Red Paint Hill, Timberline Review, Sow's Ear Poetry Review, Trailhead Review, and Oracle. Resurrection of the Bird
It will fly into the oblivion it knows rather than the one it doesn’t willingly, composed, at ease, as if returning home the prodigal child of the sky forgiven at last conceived in a whim of light absolved by the sun reconciled with its destiny as certain as the stars so far from land it doesn’t know its way it waits for resurrection as its primal right. Neil Ellman Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published more than 1,000 ekphrastic poems in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. His collections include chapbooks devoted exclusively to the works of Paul Klee, Matta and others. The Replicants in Question
"Every angel is terrifying." —Rilke, The Duino Elegies What’s this? Deckard asks: not who. Clever bit of exposition, to reveal the quarry to us and Deck together, let him query Bryant for us, our proxy, blue membrane of smoke haze rising between them. Nexxus 6. Each description straight from dimestore pulp, a reduction to function, the body’s brute uses. The heads, factory fresh, spin as in a shop window. Skull-capped, mute and gazeless, a sameness. No snake tattoo, no shock of white hair, no hate love fear anger envy yet. Transformation, the interpreted world: time cut off as failsafe. And if the machine doesn’t work? Flight, light: Deckard narrows his eyes. Spinners flare out their flame-red haloes. The score recalls its daring first notes -- a kestrel keening— then falls. Jan Bottiglieri This poem is from the author's in-process manuscript addressing the 1982 Ridley Scott film Blade Runner. Envisioned as a sort of "poetry commentary track" for the film's Final Cut version, the poems address the movie's themes of memory, the body, and what it means to be human by weaving screen action and imagery with personal memory, interpretation, and a splash of Rilke. Jan Bottiglieri lives and writes in Schaumburg, IL. She is a managing editor for the poetry annual RHINO and received her MFA in Poetry from Pacific University. Jan’s poems have appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies including Harpur Palate, Court Green, Bellevue Literary Review, and Rattle. She is the author of the chapbook Where Gravity Pools the Sugar and the full-length poetry collection Alloy. Visitjanbottiglieri.com. |
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November 2023
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