 Mona Lisa, by Leonardo Da Vinci (Italy) 1503 Mona She was told to smile by the man who painted her. They called him, genius now, she sits like a rock abandoned in the surf. The dark of the night surrounds her. He stroked the canvas any way he wanted. This is not a metaphor. Imagine what she’d tell us if she could speak. To young girls trying to learn from a master by sketching her into their own books. She says Paint your own body, paint it the way you want it to be seen. While she remains fixed in that tiny frame. People come, flash photos to remember her by then leave, like the artist when the canvas aged. Stare at the smile, that curved stroke he forced upon her. Is she tired of smiling yet? The eyes follow you, what are they seeking? Siren, when the paint melts, will we hear your howl? This is not a metaphor. Taylor Franson Thiel Taylor Franson Thiel is a graduate student at Utah State University pursuing her Master’s in Creative Writing. Her writing frequently centers on her experience as a Division One basketball player, her family, the female body, abusive relationships and mental health. You can find her on twitter @TaylorFranson
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 Harbinger, by Jack Balas (USA) 1987. Click image for artist site. Change Right now I don’t feel a city in me, no life in a night without edges, no night on the Cali-coastline like before. Some days may show beauty and some just the fumes, or high-risers and designer jackets, really, does he true-ly live under this sky, and what does he paint for a living? Structures I think I need to follow, fascinatingly complicated, while fortifying under a new-ly occurring moon, under a one-cloud shout, with shades on my body, suddenly surrounded by hot stones, cold feet, while wondering wandering with you in silent city lanes, a day and age so far ago, it seems all dream without wooden locks, so fast forwarded, seems I feel a solar upgrade to some self, a weather watcher, continuously observing changing, more and more episodes to hold on-holding on, a mass lingering past hope and dream, past peace and machines. Kate Copeland Kate Copeland started absorbing stories ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching & translating, her love for art & water to poetry…please find her pieces @ The Ekphrastic Review (plus Podcast & translations), First Lit.Review-East, GrandLittleThings, The Metaworker, The Weekly/Five South, New Feathers, Poetry Barn, Poetry Distillery a.o. Her recent Insta reads: : https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ Over the years Kate has volunteered at literary festivals and is now assisting Lisa Freedman with Breathe-Read-Write workshops. She was born @ Rotterdam some 53 ages ago and adores housesitting @ the world.  The Enraged Musician, by William Hogarth (UK) 1741 The Enraged Musician How did it happen? One minute I am standing before the picture, around me the respectful hush of murmured conversation, the next I am precipitated into a head-splitting turmoil of sensations. I stare down in shock at my clothes. A long, rough, woollen skirt, blood-stained apron, tattered leather corset and torn blouse. And what is that smell? On my arm hangs a basket filled with reeking fish and I hear a screech issuing from my mouth: ‘Fish, fish, come and buy my lovely fish! Fresh only yesterday!’ My shout, though to my ears hideously raucous, hardly carries above the surrounding hubbub. To my right issues the clang of hammers from a pewterer’s workshop; in front a knife-grinder’s squeal causes his dog to raise a howl; here a farrier sounds his horn; there the dull thud of a paviour beating a recalcitrant cobblestone into submission. A bell-ringer limbers up, vying with the yowls and hisses of two cats on the church roof. To my left hangs a parrot squawking in its cage above the head of a whore-cum-ballad-singer, babe in her arms, singing ‘The Lady’s Fall’. A boy pisses against a wall, watched with a singular lack of interest by a small girl wielding a rattle. Towards me walks a young, slender, woman, holding a pail balanced on her head. I think we must be friends as she raises her spare hand to me and waves. She is a milk seller, though I know I wouldn’t drink her milk. Carried uncovered through the streets, it picks up the contents of chamber pots flung out of windows, mud thrown up from passing carriages and who knows what else. Surely, though, she must have a melodious tune to advertise her wares? But no, her piercing shriek of ‘Any Milk Here!’ would succeed in curdling her already tainted brew and rather spoils my impression of her fresh, innocent air. A small crowd has gathered round a street musician - a thin, ragged hautbois player, trying to entice the notes of ‘Black Jack’ out of his battered instrument, at the request of an onion seller, who has promised a free onion for the player’s pains. Suddenly a window is flung open above the musician’s head. A haughty figure, with a pointed nose and a French wig, holding a violin, leans out. We all know this fellow - a pretentious music master who will only give lessons to aristocrats, though since there are few of those in this area, he keeps himself poorly as a result. ‘Zounds Sir, what do you do?’ he cries, ‘bringing our profession into disrepute playing for onions!’ The crowd jeers and Monsieur slams down his window in disgust. I laugh with the rest, my 21st century empathy gone and with it my modern senses of taste, smell and hearing. Just as suddenly I am back in the gallery. The silence is almost as deafening as the uproar of a moment ago. The room is empty, the light fading. An attendant yawns, checks her watch and looks at me curiously. I realise I was laughing out loud. She recognises me and shakes her head. With as much nonchalance as I can muster, I walk slowly out into the evening air, still feeling the itch of the woollen skirt round my ankles. It’s no good, I must desist - an excess of Hogarth is clearly driving me mad. Bridget Daly Bridget Daly lives in the UK, in North London with her husband, son and cat. She has had various pieces of flash fiction published and used to be a writer and editor of children’s non-fiction. She now works as a museum tour guide in London.  Elvis 11 Times, by Andy Warhol (USA) 1963. Photo by author. Fading Glory “Saving the world, everyone wants to; men think they can do it with guns, women with their bodies, love conquers all, conquerors love all, mirages raised by worlds.” Margaret Atwood, Surfacing I dream in silkscreen, against which your facsimile fades, becomes delicate, over time and space. In the first hour, the darkness obscures you and the gun, but I see you there, your legs strong, stout, and ready. The belt and the holster astride your waist, pleading your case to protect, avenge, exact natural justice. Second, third, and fourth hours pass into the light and back out again. Cuffed shirt open, chest barely bared, your eyes sliding up. The barrel aimed at me, you take a publicity shot before playing hero on the silver screen. In and out of consciousness you go in hours five, six, and seven. Hours eight, nine, and ten your simulacrum drifts into copies of copies, a palimpsest on which I write my own salvation. Who are you at hour eleven but a vapor?  Diamond Dust Shoes, by Andy Warhol (USA) 1980. Photo by author. Fantasy A fantasy dances with cerulean hope, burns with crimson fire and dollops a white-hot flame on top. It cools the floor with teal, suggests suggestion with hot pink. The fantasy takes turns with the spectral spectrum, asks for a new partner each night, with no regard for the ache of high arches. A close-knit matrix does fantasy construct in patterned heels clicking against the black background of patriarchal night-dreams, gazes not our own, but its own. We catch stars in the same shoes, night after night, always thinking it’s a shoe of a different colour. Fantasy calls us to synthesize our style into a synthetic aesthetic, a visceral glisten of social capital. We leave altruism in the diamond-dust of our last transaction. Fantasy fits in, a stealth agent dressed in glittering night stars, shoe-boxed into freedom, asks you to purchase a pronoun at your leisure: she/he/they/ze/who/it. Who wins? The eyes have it. A bright subtext; a soulless sole.  New York Post (Madonna: I'm Not Ashamed), by Andy Warhol (USA) 1985. Photo by author. Let the Body Be and the Mind Will Follow “I recall the feeling, puzzled, baffled, when I found out some words were dirty and the rest were clean…the worst ones in any language were what they were most afraid of, and in English it was the body, that was even scarier than God.” Margaret Atwood, Surfacing Let the body be under scrutiny, the mind a scalpel, indexing iconography. Let the body be broken on an altar, a sacrifice to the mind proper, separate from the unspoken parts-- fashion a whole temple with no holes. Let the body be a map with compass roses in its hair, charting a course the mind cannot follow. Let the bodies coalesce into complete consciousness, a space where no shame is inscribed. Let the body of Christ unite us, and the mind will follow where the Spirit leads, but-- Even a whisper is too loud. Even demurring is not enough, even the suggestion will go to print-- the idea a precursor to touch. A headline: “Reveal the body and the mind will fill it.” Jessica Mattox Jessica Mattox is an adjunct English professor who is passionate about the teaching and learning of writing in higher education. Her poetry has appeared in The Amethyst Review and Last Leaves Magazine. She lives in Virginia with her husband and two cats in their 1890s Victorian home.  Writing Boy, by Albrecht Anker (Switzerland) 1883 [The Journal] – with a Grass Green Coloured Sleeve for Amina Khan Scene/Act One: Kotli, Kashmir – Winter of ’93 C.E. / She is actually sitting at the foot of the bed / … / I possess the energy to share the dream (from the night before) with her: you pay me a visit to inquire about my health (since I was feeling under the weather with a serious case of flu and fever; had to take a leave of absence from school for the entire week); you sit on the bed with me, while I rest my congested head on the home made pillow (made from chicken and duck feathers) / But I still cannot muster up the courage to confess to her that I’ve an unbearably heart-crushing crush on her / … / And I adopt [the journal] – with a grass green coloured sleeve (with a couple of Chinese words embossed on it in gold—which probably read: “Notebook”) / (But it would still take me another decade or so to properly learn a few phrases in Chinese, too!) / … But of course, [its] opening page opens with a couple of my virgin-verses (a hymn, more like) for her: The green in your eyes – as fresh as the lush grass in the Spring, The Kashmiri-white of your face – as fair as the dew bathed lily. (Somethin’ along these lines) / … / And thereafter, the habit of keeping a journal is adopted (for life) / … / And [it] would also note a couple of my childish inquiries: who created God(s); if we became immortal, what would become of heaven & hell? / (But it would still take me another decade or so to find--MANUFACTURE, more like—any convincing answer(s) to that!) / … / And [it] would also note a few lines (an homage, more like) on Kashmir: The rivers of blood are runnin’ wild, cries a child! The forests of fire are dancin’ wild, cries a child! (Somethin’ along these lines) / (But it would still take me another decade or so to truly appreciate the (value & power of) metaphors) / … / At the raw age of 13, not in the wildest of my wildest imagination(s) would’ve I ever thought that only in a decade or so down the line, I would be becoming hopelessly addicted to hats, corduroy jackets, cigarettes/cigars, chukka boots, long over coats, rock n’ roll, whiskies (on the rocks), and pens & papers! / … / But I still haven’t been able to figure out as to what became of that girl--My Virgin Muse, more like—and a philosopher’s stone of My Virgin Journal? / (But perhaps, it would still take me another decade or so to find--MANUFACTURE, more like—any convincing answer(s) to that!) P.S. This entire poem has been composed on a couple of lined A5 sized grass green coloured post-it notes, too – with a grass green (almost) coloured fountain pen / Coincidence (?) Saad Ali 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. This poem was inspired by Seven, by William Wray (USA) contemporary. Click here to view. The Neon Rosary I tell you I am drowning in my pictures, how the colours are closing in around me. I tell you the moon has tumbled out of the darkness and is spitting pale tongues of flame, like rosary beads, from the O in hotel in an old neon sign. Lorette C. Luzajic  TRANSLITERATION Roshan Maalaa Sach mein, main apni tasaaveer mein doob rehi hon, kaise rang mere gird ghera tang ker rehe hain. Sach mein, chaand andhere mein se loot-poot ho ker nikal aaya hai aur pilay zard lambay aag ke sholay thook reha hai, jaise ke maalaa ke daanay, eik poranay roshan ishtihar mein hotel ke O se. translated by Maraam Pasha and Saad Ali
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. Maraam Pasha (b. 1999 C.E. in Lahore, Pakistan) has been raised in Rawalpindi & Islamabad, Pakistan. She earned her Bachelor’s degree in Accounting & Finance from the National University of Pakistan, Pakistan. By profession, she is a Marketing & Communication Executive, and now works at Mob Inspire, USA. She has been published in The Ekphrastic Review. She finds literature a way to connect with both herself and others. Her other interests include: photography, painting, music, travelling, baking, and sculpting. She shares her artistic creations on her page: www.instagram.com/maraam_pasha. Lorette C. Luzajic's latest collection, The Neon Rosary: Tiny Prose Poems is available through Cyberwit Books.  Paysage Colore aux Oiseaux Aquatiques. by Jean Metzinger (France) 1907 Wonder Gardens We have returned each year to the gardens to gaze at the neon flamingo standing on one stilted leg to conserve body heat. She twists her long neck resting her head on her back resembling a package of pink feathers A pelican floats nearby a flock of white ibises step through the lagoon unable to coax our eyes from the flamboyant flamingo feasting on shrimp and plankton to assume that exquisite hue We extend our hands with specks of food in hopes a hooked beak with a shiny black tip will choose to nibble. Instead her neck stretches into the water as long skinny legs allow her to search for prey down deep. Lois Perch Villemaire Lois Perch Villemaire resides in Annapolis, MD, where she is inspired by the charm of a colonial town and the glorious Chesapeake Bay. After retirement from a career in local government, she concentrated on her love of writing. Researching family history led to memoir and creative nonfiction. Her prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and have been included in several anthologies. She enjoys yoga practice, fun photography, watercolor, and raising African violets.  The First Day of Light, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2017. Click image for artist site. Origin The Light became the universe, the palette strewn as perfect art, that He would frame and yet disperse as all together though apart within which earth by sun and moon would know its passing night and day where life thereafter coming soon would rise and rest in vast array and only man could sense the soul to which all being would return and paint it as abstracted whole imagination could discern as Light from which we were begot that faith could prove though fact could not. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. This pairing is from a collaborative coffee table dialogue on art and poetry between Lorette C. Luzajic and Portly Bard. Click on image below to view or buy on Amazon. Available in a large paperback format or hardcover. If you would like a free PDF virtual copy, please let us know at [email protected].   Still Life With Lobster, by Nicolaes Van Gelder (Netherlands) 1664 Elegy for the Rich Red liquid dripped from the golden platter, the shade of lone cherries drowning in acid. The food sat still on the dining table, rotting unattended. White sand had grown on the grapes. The lobster leaked a bitter, metallic taste. After that first sip of wine, their bodies crumpled on the carpet. They wore their best tuxes, petticoats and dresses, with faces pale like a bone left beneath the sun. Eyes open, stared at the ceiling. The peeled orange had started to smell. Solitude engulfed it. Decay became a companion to the old country house. A stench of death flooded the air. Only the rubies laced around the corpses’ throats still blazed, reflecting the chandeliers’ gleam. Two days later the help would return, to find nothing but all that remained of that Christmas dinner. The one that the family agreed to be their final. Aggelianna Tsitouridi Aggelianna Tsitouridi is an unknown writer from Greece, currently studying Classics in University of Cyprus. She hasn't been published before, has only won a few school poetry contests and one in university with a microfiction piece titled "Absinthe". She is a new writer, that is focused on studying and painting, and for the past year experimenting with long form content that she hopes to push towards publishing in the future.  Hand with Reflecting Sphere, by Maurits C. Escher (Netherlands) 1935 Hand Held I wince at my reflection in grandmother’s crystal - what did she see, not me… perhaps her own face, etched like glass with myriad cracks, signs of wisdom she would tell me, sitting at her feet, always a relief to hear words, kind from her lips even though others she read would not, I mean less than kind they heard and she would offer a word, advice for coins, sometimes offered to me, not advice but a penny squirreled away in pocket for licorice whips that burned my tongue, and now if I imbibe Sambuca, reminds me of grandmother, always smelled of licorice, her favourite she said, me as her heir and grandson, will inherit the crystal, hand held high I see myself in her wizened form; when did this happen, that I sit in her parlour, surrounded spirits books and chairs that were hers, unable to read like she did, it’s just an old man reflected with a whiff of licorice in the air. Julie A. Dickson Julie A.Dickson discovered ekphrastic poetry in 2017 after attending a workshop led by Jessica Purdy. Since then, ekphrasis has become one of her favourite types of poetry. Art provides a wonderful prompt. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on two poetry boards, and as a guest editor, and has books available on Amazon, as well as poetry in many journals including Misfit, Blue Heron Review and The Ekphrastic Review. She advocates for captive elephants and lives with two rescued feral cats. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
June 2026
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