Tintoretto’s Annunciation She wasn’t thinking of babies at all, before a beefy Gabriel dive-bombed her rackety room; Outside, her almost husband sawed and planed, joined mortise to tenon, slid dovetails into place. Time enough when they were properly wed. She was just reading, puzzling over prophets and all the great reversals of fate they promise: tyrants tumbled, the ragged, downtrodden raised. When would all this levelling happen, and how? Then the brute angel barged in; and in the air a chain, a garland of babies, babies, babies – how could one woman ever welcome so many? But it was just one, her baffling son, she must bear. She pictured the timbers falling from Joseph’s hand. Veronica Zundel Veronica Zundel is a non-fiction writer and graduate of the Poetry School/Newcastle MA in Writing Poetry. Her poems have been published in Other Poetry, Magma, The Alchemy Spoon and various anthologies, used in an OU foundation course and broadcast on Radio 2. She has won the Barnet Open and Cruse Lines competitions and been a finalist in the Mslexia competition. She lives in London, UK.
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Basket of Plums (by Anne Vallayer-Coster, 1769) —after William Carlos Williams Yesterday, I saw your painting, and have been wondering if you had eaten one before setting up the still life, the plummy plums heaped in the basket, so lushly plump that we might taste them. Were you tempted in the moment, in the days when an icebox was no more than a dream and before you knew which way life would turn for you; I mean, were you thinking you could live on art, probably or maybe, saving yourself for yourself, hungry for more than breakfast? Were you worried how long the plums would last? Forgive me for not knowing you before yesterday, me-- I just try to keep up with things as they pile up like overripe plums. Were you aware how delicious they would be, so luscious and sweet, so perfectly paired with the teacakes and the glass of water, so real, that for a moment, the world was not so cold. Purple Brown (by Mark Rothko, 1957) —after William Carlos Williams Someday, I hope to have been able to say, I have eaten just as much as the soul needs, tasted enough plums of joy and suffering, accepted that precarious balance, a feeling you were able to plum and muster in the heart’s cloister, the body’s generator. No icebox for you but something warmer and stirred in thin washes and across scales, which steeped in the aftermath of rainstorm, and you who could plumb a line deeper, were you among the early risers, probably sensing a holiness in the early hour and saving seconds of time for yourself, long before breakfast. Will god forgive the human tendency to dwell on “me”-- our trials and trespasses while they of other histories slip past us, and were we awake or did we only dream delicious thoughts? I see a field suffused with plum, so radiant that I linger, the chapel quiet, the children sweet and still asleep. There is something I have lost and I have come to find it. We harbor dreams and so we hope. We gather what we can against the cold. Sharon Tracey Sharon Tracey is the author of two poetry collections, Chroma: Five Centuries of Women Artists (Shanti Arts Publishing, 2020) and What I Remember Most is Everything (All Caps Publishing, 2017). Her poems have appeared in Radar Poetry, Lily Poetry Review, Pirene’s Fountain, The Banyan Review, Terrain.org, SWWIM, The Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere. sharontracey.com Cooking Tips for the Demon-Haunted Keep those demons at bay, is what Mama always said, for they will try and try to find a way in, and they are many and they are everywhere. Even now, standing in the kitchen as I am, a demon is beside me. If a bird flies into your window, leaves a trail of feathers and blood, it is a demon bringing bad luck; if white roses grow where you planted azaleas, a demon sowed the seed; if the paint separates and the color will not fix, a demon dipped his brush; if the beans sour in the soup, a demon stirred the pot; if the rice burns in the pan, a demon fanned the flame; if a young woman twists and turns on a high wire, rope of braid hanging down, she is a demon in pleasing form and that rope is the noose she holds for your husband, or for you. Too many demons crowd my head; they snap and fly like hot grease on a cast-iron frying pan, spanging through the sky, leaping and multiplying, they are all busy going somewhere and here I stand as the water boils away, leaving a smell of brimstone. Are you feeling well, child? Mama asks, her fingers cool against my forehead. Surely this is Mama’s hand, the hand I’ve always known, so white and dry and cold. Kathryn Kulpa Kathryn Kulpa is a New England-based writer and editor with words in Flash Fiction Magazine, Monkeybicycle, No Contact, and Pithead Chapel. Her stories have been chosen for Best Microfiction and included in the Wigleaf longlist. She is flash fiction editor at Cleaver Magazine. These writings, inspired by breathtaking art, break through our distracted busyness and unbelieving to remind us of our ability to hear other living things communicating with us and with each other. Enjoy! ** José of Lisbon, by Sarah Kilgallon The path is the way in this short, gorgeous piece: “But even that first night the path of stars never let him rest.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/may-29th-2017 ** Manzanita, by Robert Walton With the phrases: “emerald wreathed fingers” and “its stolen treasure,” this poem is fascinating. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/manzanita-by-robert-walton ** House Behind the Trees, 1906-07, by Barbara Crooker This poem carries us all to “this house behind the blue trees” with joy and abandon. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/house-behind-the-trees-1906-07-by-barbara-crooker ** Thomas Hart Benton Shows Me Where to Stand at the Edge of the Field, by Sara Judy The title of this poem pulled me into the feelings of the poem. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/thomas-hart-benton-shows-me-where-to-stand-at-the-edge-of-the-field-by-sara-judy ** Under the Trees, by Marion Starling Boyer For the love and power of trees in this beautiful poem based on a painting by Edouard Vuillard: “muted beneath mature trees so content and well-behaved they reach decoratively to one another” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/under-the-trees-by-marion-starling-boyer There are almost seven 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 moving forward, Marjorie Robertson wants to share some favourites with us on a regular basis, monthly. 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! L’Européenne Fayum Mummy Portrait On Roman roads from Antinopolis, you reclined, While tasting dates in a luxurious litter. A sandstorm hit; and panicked, scared, supine, “She died,” Ra and Sol Invictus whispered. Anubis came. The jackal discarded your brain, while Isis wept, incanting a sorcerous dirge. The ibis scribed “avarice” on papyrus. Osiris nodded, you turned to windswept dust. Yet on paneled cedar, eunuch master of Thrace-- Apply the thickened wax and gossamer dyes. Entomb Ma’at. Egyptian raven of grace Pursues a fennec fox with onyx eyes. Now your soul illumines the Louvre—the ancient portal. Alexandrian goddess reborn. At last, immortal. Dave Day Dave Day is an attorney from Honolulu, Hawaii. He has published articles in the Emory International Law Review, the Hawaii Bar Journal, and The Dartmouth. The Gift of Prosperina Wake up, master Gaius, wake up! The house is astir. Can you hear the chickens? The deer came up from the lake and woke them up, and all the fountains too. Do you hear the water? Your father left at dawn for an important meeting. Aulia is baking bread for you, and I must help Dala with the washing. Help me, dear baby, drink your breakfast. I picked a pomegranate from the garden, crushed its great old heart, and let it bleed into this silver bird for you. I bring the gift of Proserpina, master Gaius, so you never part with your mother, young Marcella of the golden bracelets. She is coming soon to kiss your sweet soft hair. I left my mother far behind in Thracia, a land of wild roses and mountains covered with thyme. Drink up, dear Gaius, this will make you stronger, taller than your father. When you become a scholar and a fleet commander, will you remember how I woke you every morning with silver birds and pomegranates? Will you take me home to see my mother?’ Blaga Angelow Author's note: Gaius Plinius Secundus (23-79 AD), known as Pliny the Elder, was born near Lake Como, Italy. He was an ancient Roman naturalist, philosopher, and naval commander. He was the celebrated author of the encyclopedic Natural History, regarded as a scientific authority for centuries after his death. Blaga Angelow lives in Los Angeles, California. She studies Classical Mediterranean History and volunteers as a docent at the Getty Villa Museum in Malibu, California. Creativity. Community. Conversation.
That's what our workshops are all about! Discover new ways to engage with art during our fun Sunday sessions, where we gather as a community to write together. Click on image above for more information about this week's workshop and an upcoming session on the marvels of Magritte. Danaë I waited every night for you, spread my blood across the bed like a blanket. Finally you arrived streaming in through the roof -- a golden rain of many leaves. When my maid caught you, you were gilt, so thin you melted on the tongue, dissolved if wet. When you fell on me your leaves became blood, my pillow blood, my blanket blood, the blood that ran both in & out from between my thighs. I feel your hand slow & rough along the soft line from arm to breast, my open mouth. Gold leaves light my hair, the lush smell of life rises like a cry into the room. Rachel Neve-Midbar Poet and essayist, Rachel Neve-Midbar’s collection Salaam of Birds won the 2018 Patricia Bibby First Book Award and was published by Tebot Bach in 2020. She is also the author of the chapbook, What the Light Reveals (Tebot Bach, 2014, winner of The Clockwork Prize). Rachel’s work has appeared in Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Grist and Georgia Reviewas well as other publications and anthologies. Her awards include the Crab Orchard Review Richard Peterson Prize, the Passenger Poetry Prize and nominations for The Pushcart Prize. Rachel is a current PhD candidate at The University of Southern California where her research concerns menstruation in contemporary poetry. She is also editor of Stained: an anthology of writing about menstruation for the AuntFlo2020 Project. More at rachelnevemidbar.com 18 Canoa with grateful appreciation to Lino Tagliapietra* I Perhaps at first you do not see the shadows underneath the delicate glass fish suspended out of water, tapered like a rainbowed flock of mythical birds-- shadows whisper back memories fashioned by alchemy of blown glass II Endeavor** is a perfect verb for working with glass-- No one but the glassmaker understands the Delicate alchemy of heat, molten glass, the Emotional nature of glass blowing— imagine A slender strand pulled into being, like a Venetian gondola for the Festa della Sensa*** Opulent colours, diamond-cut into shape for a Ritual reminiscent of a water parade. Reflection is a perfect word for glass and memory. Emotions rise looking at the suspended Flotilla— flying flock of birds, sweep of Light shimmering like a school of fish—an Expectation waiting to Celebrate the beauty of a community. Tapered ends stretch out like hands, suspended In stillness, as our eyes explore— see Overhead, the connected fishing lines, bait of boats, Notice their shadows cast in the imaginary waters below. Kitty Jospé *There are 18 elongated boat forms (canoa) that are suspended in the air by steel cables. Battuto cut, is made with a hard diamond edge. https://www.cmog.org/audio/tagliapietra-endeavor-513 ** etymology: , middle English: the sense ‘exert oneself’ to do one’s utmost *** Feast of the Ascension https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festa_della_Sensa MA French Literature, New York University; MFA Poetry, Pacific University, OR. Art Docent (Memorial Art Gallery, Rochester, NY) since 1998. Since 2008, Kitty has been moderating weekly poetry appreciation sessions and occasional presentations on art and word. (Since March 2020, these are conducted by zoom.) Known for her contagious enthusiasm, she embraces the joy of working with language, art, and helping others to become good readers of poems, people and life. Her work is in 6 books, published since 2009 and in numerous journals and anthologies. Her latest book, Sum:1 is available from FootHills publishing: http://www.foothillspublishing.com/2021/jospe.html Dwelling in Delight The more you study delight, the more delight there is to study. Ross Gay, The Book of Delights The majestic maple’s changing colours shout look at me in a way that makes it impossible not to grin even as some docile despair gathers, like old socks, around the ankles. Where the house meets the dirt, some wriggling red worms line up in the dappled yellow of a new day. This abode holds what matters most and ignores the barking coming from the side yard. Wayward joy contains the realness of things, but holds the kindling lightly so oxygen can whisper to the flame resist — be stubborn in your gladness. The wind throws a fit, but this domicile stands. In the before now, this home was enveloped by clouded uncertainty. Even when the sky sang the lapis of a lagoon, the discordant melody fell flat, tumbled in one ear, out through the lungs. But today, this dwelling shines. In childhood, mirth and misery appeared as angry antonyms on the playground and on Looney Tunes. But they’ve always lived in the same house, just different floors. Even when life sings a sorrowful song, don’t be confused. Turn on the lights and study delight. Do this. Mind Metropolis While birds build nests, we write alphabets of their trees. In skyscrapers, the steel beams, like massive twigs, envelop and protect us in a vocabulary of shelter, place. The hills and valleys of the metropolis create shadow, refract the warm light like gleaming mountain lakes. Dichotomous childhood tales of urban and rural rodents highlight only distinctions, but I have seen sunrise-painted skies evoke magic in the mountains and from urban balconies. We can be lost, found, saved or forgotten everywhere we go. Can you recall the exact tones and tunes of traffic or ocean waves, a moment’s particular echoes and silhouettes at dusk, secrets felt in alleys and neural paths – scents of coconut lime treats. I have heard roosters crow in mountainous Monteverde and in a Saigon hotel room, high up above the bustling streets. And in half-sleep notice the newborn sunlight on my morning sheets. All our places leave inner souvenirs – traces of coastal saltwater in our genes. Some boroughs and bogs we can only visit again in our heads. But a known quality of radiance can peek through in unexpected ways, a minds-eye homecoming to a specific street, a morning in a drafty kitchen. All those particles of ash and smog, smells of wet soil and peat form a now of then, the cyclical motions of wash, rinse and repeat. Was the grief worth the poem? No, but you don’t interrogate a weed for what it does with wreckage. For what it’s done to get here. Hala Alyan To Get Here It’s vertigo, plain and simple – the sky spinning under my toes, the same feet that touch summer grass and pavement heat. Where are you from?, they say. We are from a house of longing, a garden full of flowering weeds, where Persian green, black and goldenrod meet. Grief congeals in the lungs, while the past coats the hips, but it’s the shin bones that splinter in the escape, fuse together, never quite heal. Though you walk with a limp, the paintings and poems rush from your fingertips. Small shoots of caper spurge and wild carrot emerge triumphant, weeds in name only. It costs too much to leave the rubble, arrive from across oceans, or even from another side of town. From the compost pile, improbably, roots grow toward the night sky. Ellen Skilton Ellen Skilton’s poetry has appeared in The Dewdrop, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Scapegoat Review, Dissident Voice, Philadelphia Stories, Red Eft Review, and The Dillydoun Review. In addition to being a poet, she is an excellent napper, a chocolate snob, a swimmer, and lives in Philadelphia with Zoomer (her dog), Katniss (her cat), and some lovely humans. |
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