 Quietude de Charles. Artist unknown. Print purchased by the poet. Fishing Lakes have no centre, my rowing gets me lost. My oars dowse for what I am owed or that is what I do not tell myself and the boy facing me. He cannot remember why we have come so far; his withheld questions reply to my silence. It began with a painting I have always known. The simple geometric figures tell the story of a woman tending an egg-shaped cradle. A young girl leans over the baby, bestowing important gifts. The gifts are secrets. The woman sews, threading her needle between the infant and her giver, linking them in their invisible act of confirmation. A boy at the open doorway lets in light, but the girls’ futures carry the younger diving into the lake, a key like a jeweled crucifix around her neck. Secrets held by two-ply thread are safe deposit locks opened only by both keys at once. The boy on my boat, who may or may not be the boy of the light, visited the Louvre twice. The first time to find what people seek in her. A year later, he wandered from her cluster of admirers, bored with what he could not understand: Lisa’s face held in a moment between the day-to-day and the something more. She is not even pretty or slender. The kind of girl who might jump in the back of someone’s pickup and head out to the river. Her hands are familiar, the ones at visitations, small brown wrens stilled by rat poison. Eons of rocky landscapes, overzealous canvas cleaners and physicians, too much solvent, the wrong solvent, the woman is damaged, complex. The water is deep here. Deep is where I expect a key to rise up from its resting place, but nothing happens. So I row back, the murkiness giving way to sunlight contaminating night with the gold and gilt glass gesture and fluidity of Chihuly. Minnows tread water, fleeing the oars, my haste. The teenage boy is with me; he is my son and I love him. He has no idea what I am looking for, hates the boat and puddle at our feet, wants a Sea-Doo. I talk to him about my cousin’s life, expecting something from him. Neither of us knows what. When we reach the dock his friend asks what we caught, but my son and I feel the same way about fishing. Luanne Castle This poem first appeared in Luanne Castle's book, Doll God (Aldrich Press, 2015.) Luanne Castle's Kin Types (Finishing Line Press), a chapbook of poetry and flash nonfiction, was a finalist for the 2018 Eric Hoffer Award. Her first poetry collection, Doll God, winner of the 2015 New Mexico-Arizona Book Award, was published by Aldrich Press. A Pushcart nominee, she studied at the University of California, Riverside (PhD); Western Michigan University (MFA); and Stanford University. Her writing has appeared in Copper Nickel, TAB, The American Journal of Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Verse Daily, Broad Street, Lunch Ticket, Grist, River Teeth, and other journals.
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 Madame Paul Escudier (Louise Lefevre), by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1882. Portraits of Other Women: John Singer Sargent exhibit, AIC Her russet hair is hidden in the dark folds of window curtain; the long white neck catches the sunlight streaming in below, the deep blue dress velvets her shoulders, waist, and spills upon the floor-- a carpet of Persian red and yellow: Louise Lefevre, 30, in 1882.  Mrs. Hugh Hammersley, by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1892. Mrs. Hammersley, in carmine, wasp-waisted even in heavy felt: how was this portrait ever sold within her lifetime? the slim silk slippers peek out to ask.  Mrs. Marshall Field lll (Evelyn), by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1913. Evelyn, Mrs. Marshall Field: Before the divorce, before her eyes sank more deeply into the slim face, before late middle age saw her sit with her small spaniel for other painters, she was taken, almost a girl, in charcoal: the angelic head haloed in short blond waves-- Athena’s face, but more serene. The soft gaze sees her future, her left hand, foreground, firmly bent, just touches her heart: The good was never worn out of her.  Mrs. George Swinton (Elizabeth Ebsworth), by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1897. Assured in worldliness from London to Moscow, cheeks as pink as her favorite chair, lips as firm and plush-- her eyes and sharply pointed coronet forbid all gentle thought. Mrs. Swinton, Elizabeth Ebsworth: the cumulo-nimbus of her satin seems more delicately beautiful in the shading and tracery of the wall.  Portrait of Mme. Lina Cavalieri, by Giovanni Boldini (Italy) 1901. Lina Cavalieri is on her way in black with silver fox: She waves happily, late for a Winter tea; you cannot catch her eye-- quick and light as the artist’s brushstrokes on the canvas whose sisters all became sails, taking their summers, as Lina once, on the blue-white Sound.  La Carmencita, by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1890. La Carmencita, imperious in her gold pearled dancing dress, the paint as if impastoed by flamenco heels, her chin, at five feet even pointed above us all.  Thistles, by John Singer Sargent (USA) 1883-1889. A russet sky, the whitened thistles dance before their burning. Gene Fendt Gene Fendt is a poet and a professor of philosophy.  Parade Street (East), by George Dow (UK) Contemporary. For George: Parade Street (East) Canvas, blank, hung at eye height a whitewashed mirror, mirror on the wall, reflecting everything and nothing, what you see in your mind’s eye, a swirl of possibility, potential, creativity who’s fairest, rarest, do we darest? carry on, acrylic, oil, pastel, pencil every colour medium in small and large and extra large a trumpet sounds, we charge, imagined battle lines now drawn and sketched as brushes dip, allow the paint to dry and tell me what you see, and why in mirror, mirror, on the canvas wall, in gentle daubs and slashing strokes conductor in the pit, a parry-thrust baton our rainbow orchestra ignites, excites the sensory, to stimulate like saturday tv and crazy, crazy tunes in technicolour runes hurled like thunderbolts from thor, electric art, eclectic start and finish, finish every time, again I challenge why, once that gets answered, every how is nothing more than detail Bill Arnott Vancouver author, poet, songwriter Bill Arnott is the bestselling author of Dromomaniaand Gone Viking. His poetry, articles and reviews are published in Canada, US, UK, Europe and Asia. Bill’s column Poetry Beat is published by the League of Canadian Poets and the Federation of BC Writers.  The Burghers of Calais, by Auguste Rodin (France) 1889. photo: Wally Gobetz. Creative Commons. Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) The Burghers of Calais in Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden Not even the Hirshhorn Garden’s small reflecting pond was salvation from humidity’s heavy hand that lunchtime. Sun poured heat relentlessly From cloudless skies. I moved Closer to Rodin’s Burghers of Calais, to visit with the bronze man among them whom I most admire-- He is cast looking down head in hand, anguish deep at leaving home and hearth for duty I see him as a man despairing of these futile duties, yet mired permanently in bronze, unable to move himself or his city. I peek up, into his face, My eyes tear up at his well-sculpted agony, then I gasp. Rivulets of sweat run down his cheeks as well mine. I shake my head—is this illusion? An empty plastic water bottle lies next to the statue. Someone has tossed a saving bit of water onto the face of my Burgher. His tears are waste Mine are simply wasted. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer who has loved playing with words on page and stage since childhood. She is especially intrigued with the beauty of the ordinary and with finding alternative realities for visual art and sculpture  They F*** You Up, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2019. 63 Reasons The world is full of bunnies. Some of them just happen to be knitted. It’s also full of roses and other flowers, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that makes me happy. I’m allowed to be irascible. In fact, I have 63 reasons for that, and most of them come into my library every day. My students scribble endless tripe so I tell them to stop tinkering at the edges and write something from the heart. The world is full of bunnies, but real happiness is a world of perfect prose. Henry Bladon Henry Bladon is a writer of short fiction and poetry based in Somerset in the UK. He has degrees in psychology and mental health policy and a PhD in literature and creative writing. His work can be seen in Potato Soup Journal, Forth Magazine, Mercurial Stories, thedrabble, Tuck Magazine and Spillwords Press, among other places.  Water Lilies, by Claude Monet (France) 1905. Looking Back at Monet's Water Lilies a river from nowhere to nowhere fills up the body of the frame, makes its way through weeping willow, reeds, irises. red, yellow and pink accents sit shyly atop lily pads like a bunch of ladies trying outrageous hats on a weekday afternoon at a store. unlike the reticent brightness, the blue is brave and limitless here. the blue of the sky and the blue of the water are one, the way there is no one answer I can point to as the source of my unsolidified sadness. on the back of this postcard a lover has dotted his many I's as an afterthought, each point a hat tip to haste or to the brink of forgetting. it matters how we make our points. Monet, for example, just with little brilliant spots births entire lilies. only in the presence of the numberless water lilies, like tiny misgivings of numerous lovers, do we realize that this scape is a reflection. understand that he planted an actual garden, diverted a river, before he painted it. that this is the moment in which I swim through all your features that I sowed in my memory-bed: the birthmark behind your ear, the note you sing too high, the sureness of your right hand around the line of my waist and turn them into blurred impressions. I observe every big and every little idea of us and carve it into shadow. Preeti Vangani Preeti Vangani is an Indian poet & essayist. Her work has been published in BOAAT, Buzzfeed, Noble/Gas Qtrly, Threepenny Review among other journals. She is the winner of the RL Poetry Award 2017 and her debut book of poems titled Mother Tongue Apologize was published by RLFPA Editions in February 2019. She owes her MFA to the University of San Francisco.  The Last Supper, by Carl Bloch (Denmark) c. late 1800s. Judas Judas - Traitor, hypocrite, informant, fraud - Confined to Hell’s Ninth Circle, A reminder the heart is deceitful above all else And desperately wicked. Your name suggests a dad Well-versed in Holy texts, A mother’s hope for her son. You were the South’s sole disciple, Isolated from the start, Yet enraptured By His love, His parables, His feats, Perhaps performing miracles yourself - The lame could walk, the mute could talk, And the dead could burst from their graves. But afterwards you became disillusioned; Your heart hardened like the aspen wood On which He would be nailed. You could not grasp He would not saddle a white horse for conquest But would save the world through Surrender on Golgotha’s Hill. Alas, you negotiated a deal, struck a bargain, And with kisses you sold your soul and the Saviour For thirty pieces of silver, A price foretold. Then with blood on your hands, You discarded the shekels in the temple And hung yourself on a tree, A fitting reminder your sins would find you out. Judas, you walked with God And knew what could have been. Now your bones dry in Potter’s Field, To await the final judgement, And we honour you In the tradition of Cain. Jo Taylor Jo Taylor is a retired English teacher from Georgia who enjoys writing poetry on faith and family. "Judas" came about during Holy Week shortly after an in-depth study of John's gospel. Dear Faithful Readers, Writers, Supporters, and Friends,
The Ekphrastic Review is temporarily closed for regular submissions until June 15, 2019. We have a massive backlog, plus I have been away and I will be unable to read for most of May. Don't worry, the challenges will continue and we are not going anywhere- just a temporary rest. We are generally open around the calendar for submissions and don't have restrictions on number or frequency; we don't charge reading fees; all of this means that we are overflowing and we need some time to catch up. There will be lots of poetry and prose continuing to post multiple times a week so keep on reading as we catch up with our stuffed inbox! THANK YOU. Lorette, editor  Pennsylvania Dutch Farm, photograph by Ben Weakley (USA) 2017. Villanelle on a Pennsylvania Dutch Landscape Naked branches praise the winter sky divine, just as light echoes against blank spaces – the empty canvas tells us something more than lines. Bolts of black lightning come apart like frayed twine In fractal patterns across heaven’s traces. Naked branches praise the winter sky divine. We tell the children their work is unrefined before crayon fills their pages, but their empty canvas tells us something more than lines. Once you told me about your saddest times: Sundays in spring when blooming leaves fill the spaces where naked branches once praised winter sky. Outside, in the sun’s final hour, sublime light strokes long shadows across weary faces. The empty canvas tells us something more than lines. We drive home past green valleys, fruit budding on vines, pastel dresses hung to dry. My mind retraces blank spaces: naked branches where winter sky’s empty canvas tells us something more than lines. Ben Weakley Ben Weakley lives in Tennessee with his wife and children. He writes poetry and enjoys hiking in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  The Glass of Wine, by Johannes Vermeer (Netherlands) various dates suggested from 1658-1661 The Glass of Wine Girls learn to sit very well held by the frame of their bones in the frame of the bones of the dress but muscles tire so she slumps onto the hard chairback. The table so warmly covered, the floor a checkerboard of cold tile. Every edge but the cushion’s sharply admonishes. Oh for Breughel’s wedding dance-- The men’s excitement clearly rising between their legs The music a reedy cry of delight not the cold thread of wine down her throat, this man’s intentions hidden beneath his elegant cloak, ruffled cuff. He tries to impress with the jangle of his imperfect cittern plucking that she smiles through, pretending not to be bored. Ann Quinn Ann Quinn’s poetry was selected by Stanley Plumly as first place winner in the 2015 Bethesda Literary Arts Festival poetry contest, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her work is published in Potomac Review, Little Patuxent Review, Broadkill Review, and other journals and is included in the anthology Red Sky: Poetry on the Global Epidemic of Violence Against Women. Ann lives in Catonsville with her family where she teaches reflective and creative writing and music and plays clarinet with the Columbia Orchestra. Her degrees are in music performance; she fell in love with poetry in mid-life. Her chapbook, Final Deployment, is published by Finishing Line Press. Please visit online at www.annquinn.net. |
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