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NB: Information about the TER-Arrowhead collaboration follows the student works below.  Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD. Photo by Thad Zajdowicz from Pasadena, California, USA, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons A Waiting Game The watcher condemned to be locked here forever. Cursed with knowledge; And forced with the truth. Just waiting, watching, wishing for something to amount. Wanting a day to come to finally be released from this cage. But knowing that this day will never come; The watcher is forced to exile with only his thoughts to keep company. Hope is lost—forever. Always looking, always watching there is nothing not seen. Ready to reach out; Shielding the past and future with precision. Each glorious golden arm, always ready. Each arm serrated with observing eyes; Seven wonders—needing protection, So why eight arms? What do we not know? A piece of mystery, Each question jogging another; This was a piece of the past. What is its future? Camden Brittnacher ** A People’s Secret Treasure Behold–the golden octopus frontlet, a mystery crafted by the ancients. The jubilant jewels of chrysocolla clench the viewers attention with its eerie colour. The golden frontlet–delicately crafted by ancients who sought magical powers. It’s glistening, gold glamour seeks to draw your attention to its lustrous design. Ferocious teeth growl as if it were a lion trapped in a cephalopod's body–waiting to strike. Each tentacle, sharp as razor blades, waiting to puncture an unsuspecting foe. Who knows the true purpose of the frontlet? Who knows when it was created? Who knows how it was created? Behold–the mystery of the golden octopus frontlet. Luke Dongarra ** The Spread of Wealth All gold reaches eight different ways, stemming from one head. Godly power from the top, reaching out with sharp hands. We dream to be the ones grabbing onto the gold, might take us to the promised land, the land where we feel rich. The land where we reach our goals. The greed we have chasing this wealth ends with our hands in a bloody mess. The head reaches out to us but we don’t grab on, as the ends are sharp. Why don’t we share that wealth? The head reaches out with its sharp hands. Shouldn’t the hands of wealth be soft, against the rough hands of the poor? Wealth does evil. Eight different ways we could help. Reaching out like we want to, with sharp hands so they can’t grab on. A face behind it all, with all of the wealth to help. Why won’t the power give generosity? Are they just too greedy? Seth Lundberg
** Old Art It starts in the ground A metal is all Then found by a people Refined, Polished, Shaped A now piece of beauty A sign of fear and art The eight serpents The eight who created this worldly sculpture The eight serpents The eight barriers to break before entering the heart The eight serpents that revolve around their maker Lucky number eight Made of gold Beauty to outsiders A warning to neighbours A sign of power and resilience A sign of complexity and distrust The neighbours know to be wary Blue and Green The eyes The greed and ambition The authority and commitment Kept hidden from the world Until its blinders are removed Its teeth made of bone From foe and prey Its hands outstretched Hidden claws Acting as hands To those in need This masterpiece Now housed in peace and tranquility Before made by warriors A piece of history and fear Now a piece of beauty and awe Forever…Old Art Sam Michaelis ** The Octopus Bench Thalassophobia has always taken hold of me since I was a child. Even the theoretical creatures deep in the unknown like the giant Pacific octopus. They can reach 600 pounds! I encountered an octopus when I snorkeled in Mexico. It was no bigger than four feet in diameter, but I was purely petrified. Tears filled my goggles and I squirmed like a squid, dashed like a dolphin, and bolted like a barracuda into the boat. I wrapped myself in a towel and sat in the seat farthest from the entrance to the water. I threw up all over the boat deck. The captain didn’t look too happy with me. I slept in the sun until the boat returned to land. A couple of years later, the movie Finding Dory was released. It changed the way I thought about all sea creatures. Hank, the deuteragonist, is a practical character. He learned that being impractical can be okay and realism is not the only answer. Hank also had seven tentacles instead of eight, which led me to think that octopi are living, breathing animals… not just unfamiliar creatures. I knew I was overreacting when I encountered the octopus, but at the time I thought that sea creatures had every intention of hurting me. Not too long after, I went to the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta. The smell filled my nostrils before I even got to the entrance. The fishy, slimy, and rotten smell seeped into my lungs. Each step reminded me that the farther I went into the aquarium, the harder it would be to get out. We first paid a visit to the small freshwater fish. Their habitat was a dark shade of green, it was ill-lit, and it was small compared to how many fish were housed in the specific tank. I felt awful. I could barely tell their faces were gloomy through the murky water. I swallowed my sadness and continued looking at the freshwater animals. The next exhibit my family took a visit to was the stingray petting area. I wanted nothing to do with the interactive exhibit. I curled up behind my mom in hopes of having a temporary escape. My brother pinched the back of my t-shirt and dragged me to the elevated pool where the stingrays were held. My eyes were like saucers. My hands had the same color red as my cheeks. My arms remained at my sides in terror. My brother pushed me into the line of kids with their sleeves rolled up. The brown rays trickled around the perimeter of their tank. My sleeved arm went into the water blindly. I looked away, with my eyes squinted shut. It was a roller coaster. The slimy, smooth ray swam just below my fingers. Tears barrel rolled around my cheeks. It was the scariest, yet calming experience. My feelings were scattered around the tank like stingrays. I stood around the tank with the other children with a thousand-yard stare. I was blank and emotionless. I pulled my hand out of the water and wiped it on my brother's shirt. I trudged and sat on the octopus bench near the exhibit. I sat and thought about nothing. I stared at the ceiling. My eyes caught the sign: “Estuary stingrays only sting when provoked, be kind to the animals!” It took me a few seconds to comprehend my thoughts. Underwater creatures are not monsters, they are just animals. Ever since, I have learned to accept aquatic creatures and recognize they are beautiful animals, capable of love, like any other animal. Megan Okey ** Trapped in a Treasure I gaze out of my glass jail, watching as people walk by and point at me and other artifacts in the museum. My eight gold arms blind my turquoise eyes. A grimace is permanently etched on my face. I will people to look closer at me-- so they can see that I am trapped. They can’t hear me; they think I am a treasure, but in reality, I need saving. Karly Turinske ** Editorial Note For more than a year we have been working with teachers at Arrowhead Union High School who are using ekphrasis in their writing classes, and publishing selected works by the student writers. This has been an exciting collaboration in so many ways, being part of the invitation to students to contemplate art and discover the different ways that it can show us the human experience, near and far, past, present, or personal. Choosing from the student submissions a few to publish here for our readers is a painful process. Every single entry is a success story in our book, showing a facet of the communication that happens between someone far away or in another time, and a student today, and the creativity that connection can inspire. We are profoundly impressed by that creativity, and by your curiosity and by your courage. A big congratulations to the writers whose works are shown here this time. We hope all of you will continue to explore art, writing, and ekphrasis. Our readers and writers know from experience the extraordinary blessings they will bring to your life stories. Love, The Ekphrastic Review ** A Note from Liz Jorgensen and Terri Carnell We teach creative writing and advanced composition at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin. For the past year and a half, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review (1/12/2023, 5/26/2023, 7/10/2023, 1/5/2024). We want to express our sincerest gratitude to Lorette. Providing this authentic opportunity, she has selflessly dedicated many hours, and we are honoured and humbled to again have our students’ work showcased in TER. This year, our 236 students responded to one of the following: · The Chess Game, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 · Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 · Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD (photo by Thad Zaidowicz) · Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 · Three Coke Bottles, by Andy Warhol (USA) Our classrooms buzzed as our students engaged with the pieces of art, creatively expressing their own identity, values and beliefs. We were impressed with our students’ interpretations, their interdisciplinary connections, and their emotional intelligence! Through descriptive language, vivid imagery and sensory details, our students explored joy and nostalgia, contemplation or introspection. The students said they felt inspired and creative:
The study of ekphrasis encouraged each of our students to develop an appreciation for art and to see what is possible when art inspires writing. We hope you enjoy their ekphrastic pieces as much as we do.
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 The Woman and the Roses, painting by Marc Chagall (France, b. Belarus) 1929 It Was Surreal Without You What do you love you asked not who but what. I thought and having to think hinted at the chasm between waking and dreaming, spoke of grimy windows, cracked linoleum. Dirt. In the museum today, I drift past a painting you loved a dreamscape. Like Chagall, you are dead, but alive you’d float your fantasies over bowls of roses, behold slivers of silver peaking through leaves, clouds pillowing a hovering nude, queen of the blue skyline, angel of cyan, goddess to her lover and and and one lone oarsman below. But no, the perspective is off. It is what, not who you love, and perspective is no matter. You are dead. Left what you loved, named: a domain, claimed, staked with words, tethered to this fragile vessel: a boat, a bowl, roses. Kelly Ann Ellis This poem was first published in Friendswood Library's Ekphrastic Poetry Festival Anthology 2023. Kelly Ann Ellis holds an MA in English Literature from the University of Houston, where she also taught for over a decade. A member of the critique group Poets in the Loop, she is the co-founder of hotpoet, Inc. and the managing editor of Equinox. Her poetry, which has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, was featured in the REELpoetry festival for three years consecutive years and showcased in the Houston Fringe Festival in 2019. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart prize in 2020, and her poetry collection, The Hungry Ghost Diner, was published by Lamar University Literary Press in 2023. Special Showcase: Arrowhead Union High School Students- The Game Of Chess, by Sofonisba Anguissola5/30/2024 NB: Information about the TER-Arrowhead collaboration follows the student works below.  The Game Of Chess, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 The Winning Strategy * Author’s note: Some of the lines are capitalized to represent a move in chess (pawn to c4, bishop to e3 and also at the end with check) * Players stand ready to take action. Deeply staring each other down. Four hands ready to make their move. I cannot lose this game, because If I do my family and friends will never look at me the same. Paths of victory to be seen. Embarking on that journey. Six eyes on the board watching closely. But which piece should I take which piece would bring me one step closer To victory, and them one step closer to failure. Brisk moves are made to determine the victor. How shall I win this time I ask myself. two fingers pick up the next piece. Now my only way to win is for me to sacrifice something. But which should it be it could be a knight or bishop or maybe even a rook. Breaking down their defenses to gain an advantage. Causing them to lose hope, Five more moves to win. I have finally won I can rest easy from now on. I raise my hand in victory Standing firm and proud Always confident in my winning strategy. Cheap tricks and moves, Have made you lose this battle. Each of my moves worked perfectly in my favor, Calmly I step off the podium and extend a Kind handshake to my enemy. Peyton Bodway
** A Letter to My Future Self Dear Future Me, I am about to graduate, go off to college, and start a new chapter. It seems like the right time to set out some hopes for my future. 1. Make that Trek to Culvers You better take that hour and a half walk to Culvers from the dorms at least once in your college career. When you are eating your ice cream, call your parents. 2. Enjoy the Freedom I hope you are enjoying the freedoms that come with college. Remember how in high school, you couldn’t leave the classroom without asking, go to your car without a permission slip, and how you had to fill out a 15 question survey to sit at a table in the library? 3. Flip Over a Mailbox Your cousin also attended the University of Minnesota Twin Cities. One day, he was riding on a scooter and his friends were running beside him on the streets, trying to keep up. When he was looking back at his friends, he flipped over a mailbox and broke his toe. I hope you have friends to run beside you as you flip over a mailbox. 4. ¡Viaja a España! I hope you study abroad in Spain and try authentic Spanish food. Remember how you made el pan for El Día de los Muertos and it was awful. I hope you’ve had some. Also travel to other European countries while you're at it and soak up the culture. 5. Call your Friends I hope you didn’t drop everyone from high school. Even though I know you said you wanted a fresh start, please keep at least one thing stable. Go call them. 6. Do Not Slip in the Slimy Dorm Showers I hope you survived the dorms. I am trying not to think about the cramped space, getting a bad roommate, and my irrational fear of slipping in the sticky, slimy dorm showers. 7. Make Six Figures I hope you are making a lot of money. Remember how you went to the Society of Women Engineers weekend in Minnesota and debated whether you wanted to go into engineering? You don’t have to love my job, but loving the amount of money you make is the next best thing. 8. Paint the Walls Yellow I hope you have a yellow room in your house. Your dad abhorred Mom’s yellow room and thought it was outdated, but there was something about the bright walls that was comfortable and homey. 9. Be Seen I hope you meet someone that makes you feel seen. I hope he listens to all of your crazy stories. Don’t settle for less. 10. Be Comfortable with Being Uncomfortable Try new things. It’s ok to not always feel comfortable. Remember it is almost always just in your head. If it’s not, take it with a grain of salt. Sincerely, Nicole Boudreau April 18, 2024 ** The Game of Life The Chess Game by Sofonisba Anguilossa can be seen as a metaphor for my siblings and my relationship. As I look deep into the picture, I connect to the woman on the left with myself, the oldest sibling. This Italian piece demonstrates that the woman on the left is highly capable of playing chess and is a role model for the other girls. The lady in the red portrays what it means to be the oldest with her leadership, professionalism, and responsibility. After attentively analyzing the lady in red and connecting her to myself, my eyes peer to the left of the painting towards the girl raising her hand. Her facial expressions and mood reminded me of my younger sister, the middle child. The girl's sassy body language was a spitting image of my sister. The curiosity in the girl's eyes reminded me of a time when my sister was young. I remember a phase when my sister curiously ate everything in her path, whether it was snow, grass, or even ladybugs. After she devoured these nasty snacks, she would always stand proud, ignoring the bewildered fractions surrounding her. The painting was a reflection of my sister. The girl with her hand raised represents key characteristics of my middle-child sister. Her attitude, sarcasm, and curiosity in their painting made it feel as if I were having a conversation with my sister. Lastly, the youngest girl in the middle of the painting. The first thing that I noticed about the girl was her infectious smile. I assimilate the smile of my beloved baby brother and the joy he feels when my sister and I include him. Maybe the little girl in the painting is happy to watch chess and spend time with her loved ones. Looking closer at the painting, the little girl's eyes are filled with admiration for the other girls, which clearly stands out to me. The girl's smile, eyes, and even body posture scream that she has the characteristics of the youngest sibling. Except there is one more thing: the older woman on the far right—who could she be? After thinking and analyzing the painting, I came to two conclusions. The first being that the chessboard symbolizes something more than a game; it symbolizes life. This explains the oldest’s confidence and experience in the game, the middle question and curiosity, and the youngest’s hand, who’s barely on the board and just watching the others play the game. Yet this leaves my final conclusion. The older woman is the mother of the girls, and the reason that she is not participating in the game is because she has already lived her life, and her main responsibility is taking care of her children and making sure they know how to play the game of life. David Dobbertin ** The Royal Family The queen is ready to move the queen. She looks to me for help. I tell her I can’t help her. My two daughters are about to beat my wife. They have played this game for years. They have never won. My daughter raises her hand with confidence. She knows her mom doesn’t know what to do. She sees her look to me for help. She knows she's finally won. My youngest daughter smiles. My eldest daughter knows she's won. My wife pleads for help with her eyes. Our maid looks on in shock. I watch in awe like I'm looking at a painting. Kieran Dwyer ** A Triumph in the Evening Author's Note: The royal daughters face each other in an intense game of chess as the brother watches closely, the eldest and the middle daughter go head to head. Adorned with the soft hues of a lazy afternoon, two sisters sat across from each other, their gazes locked in a fierce battle of intellect and will. Carmen, the elder of the two with her hair cascading like a river of silver, turned towards her brother view with a confident smile, her hand poised over her rook as she assumes its wraps. Haley, her eyes alight with determination, studied the board with unwavering focus. Her hand rises over the pieces, beginning her next move. Evalynne stands and views and quietly giggles as she watches Hayley quickly turn the table around. Sherri, as requested by their parents, stands by and watches closely over Hayley’s shoulder so they don’t get too hostile. Should we continue the game or call a truce… Giving a swift and decisive motion, Haley moved her knight, a move that seemed inconsequential at first glance. A moment of silence enveloped the room, broken only by the sound of the younger sister's triumphant gasp. She had done it–defeated her older sister in a game of wits. Marveling at her sibling's cunning, a mixture of pride and astonishment sat within Carmen’s eyes Evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the patio, the two sisters embraced, their bond strengthened by the timeless game they had just played. Evan Eisch * How Art Flows “Why does a poem flow like art on a canvas, a window in time?” The painting flows in gold, in red, in black, and in white, The dresses flow. And just like the dresses, and the paint on the canvas, the painting too does flow. The painting flows, It flows on the wall, In the Anguissola household. It flows, through the eyes of a man who sees it, and knows art. It flows like water, Through fingers of a Fulvio, And the hands of an Odoardo. It flows, like a spirit past royal Bourbons. In Spain, they sat. It flows, flows past him, he who is the brother of a great conqueror. Now it Flows, By the eyes of thousands, full of wonder. Tanner Hansen ** Order of Power The oldest daughter moves her chess piece and looks away. Her clothes are red and gold, showing the family’s wealth. She smiles smugly, proud of herself. Looking away without a care. The middle daughter looks at her oldest sister confused. Her clothes are black and gold, showing the family’s wealth. She holds her hand up questioning her sister's move. Waiting for her to look back. The youngest daughter looks at the confused sister smiling. Her clothes are white and gold, showing the family’s wealth. She is excited for her turn to play chess. The maid stares at the youngest daughter with an envious smile. Her clothes are white and covered in dirt, showing her lack of power. She wishes she could play along. Alex Mills ** The Magical Game I peer at the painting hanging on the wall in my uncle’s living room. The cozy brown and red pieces, the players poised to play the next move, the joyous air–it all reminds me how much I love chess, my favorite game. Throughout my life, chess has helped connect me to countless people–family members, teachers, and friends from around the world who have joined me in playing hundreds of games. Not only that, it has been a way for me to develop my critical thinking skills and grow my ability to concentrate. Like a smoothie with the perfect ingredients, chess is a magical blend of both intense strategy and pure fun. As a kid, I loved imagining the intricately designed pieces on a battlefield, like soldiers and generals. Sometimes, I would imagine the pawns acting as defensive walls and the bishops like archers, streaking across the diagonals. I enjoyed setting up my pieces to an arrangement that looked aesthetically pleasing and symmetric, something that captivated me early on in my chess journey more than the actual playing of the game. There were so many combinations of positions and arrangements; it enchanted me! In middle school, as I began getting more serious about the game, I joined our school’s chess club, where I quickly befriended the advisor, a kind, older gentleman who had been playing chess his whole life. His warm expressions would often turn into a cool, calculating guise during our games. He was one of the first people to kindle my interest in the game, as he encouraged and complimented my playing skills with each encounter. The advisor also taught me about famous chess players and their strategies, and recommended that I see videos and lessons regarding their ideas and tips. Like a kid in a candy store, I began exploring the vast new world of chess openings, middlegames, endgames, tactics, and positions, from some of the best experts in the world. I remember, as my attendance to chess club meetings grew, I met other classmates who shared my avid interest in chess. I remember playing a particularly long and difficult game against one such friend, and finally managing to deliver a tricky checkmate to close it off. I felt immense pride about how my skills had improved through all my training and help from my advisor and friends, and I was motivated to continue practicing. I continued learning new openings and tricks, and soon swiftly defeated my brother in our tactical duels. “Admiring the painting, I see!” It’s my uncle, smiling, catching me in my reminiscence. I nod my head. He silently walks across the room, and opens a wooden cabinet, reaching inside. It’s a mahogany wood chess set. “Care for a game?” Rhushil Vasavada ** Editorial Note For more than a year we have been working with teachers at Arrowhead Union High School who are using ekphrasis in their writing classes, and publishing selected works by the student writers. This has been an exciting collaboration in so many ways, being part of the invitation to students to contemplate art and discover the different ways that it can show us the human experience, near and far, past, present, or personal. Choosing from the student submissions a few to publish here for our readers is a painful process. Every single entry is a success story in our book, showing a facet of the communication that happens between someone far away or in another time, and a student today, and the creativity that connection can inspire. We are profoundly impressed by that creativity, and by your curiosity and by your courage. A big congratulations to the writers whose works are shown here this time. We hope all of you will continue to explore art, writing, and ekphrasis. Our readers and writers know from experience the extraordinary blessings they will bring to your life stories. Love, The Ekphrastic Review ** A Note from Liz Jorgensen and Terri Carnell We teach creative writing and advanced composition at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin. For the past year and a half, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review (1/12/2023, 5/26/2023, 7/10/2023, 1/5/2024). We want to express our sincerest gratitude to Lorette. Providing this authentic opportunity, she has selflessly dedicated many hours, and we are honoured and humbled to again have our students’ work showcased in TER. This year, our 236 students responded to one of the following: · The Chess Game, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 · Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 · Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD (photo by Thad Zaidowicz) · Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 · Three Coke Bottles, by Andy Warhol (USA) Our classrooms buzzed as our students engaged with the pieces of art, creatively expressing their own identity, values and beliefs. We were impressed with our students’ interpretations, their interdisciplinary connections, and their emotional intelligence! Through descriptive language, vivid imagery and sensory details, our students explored joy and nostalgia, contemplation or introspection. The students said they felt inspired and creative:
The study of ekphrasis encouraged each of our students to develop an appreciation for art and to see what is possible when art inspires writing. We hope you enjoy their ekphrastic pieces as much as we do.  Wheatfield with Crows, by Vincent van Gogh (Netherlands) 1890 Freeing Crows A moment born in captivity, the sky an origami of moods. I’ve slipped under its storm-blue veil into a labyrinth of twisted wind and hidden aviaries. I’m wondering about freeing caged crows from my mind, how best to unstick the hinges. I’ve gathered cobalt, russet, white: I’m twining with colours and toying with flight while the sun dips and sparks I’m still setting but I’m arrowing for something more like magenta. Linda Kohler Linda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com. Linda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com.Linda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com.inda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com.Linda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com.Linda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com.Linda Kohler lives and writes in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a lorikeet. You can find her at lindakohler.com. Special Showcase: Arrowhead Union High School Students- Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell5/29/2024 NB: Information about the TER-Arrowhead collaboration follows the student works below.  Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 The Blue Cabinet “Crash!” Dan rushes to the kitchen to see what happened—frightened to see if his nephew is hurt under his care. Staring at the broken glass on the ground, little Kevin says quietly, “Sorry, Uncle Dan.” “It’s alright,” Dan grunts as he picks Kevin up and moves him away from the shattered glass. “I was just playing. You should really clean out your cabinet though—it’s dusty.” Kevin smirks and Dan chuckles. “I’ll clean up this mess, you go ahead and watch some TV.” Dan follows Kevin to the living room and turns on the TV for him. He then walks to the closet and grabs a broom that he can sweep up the glass with. After sweeping up the glass in the kitchen, Dan walks up to the left of his blue cabinet and sets down the broken glass which stood there before. He takes a step back and begins to realize something; why does the glass look like it is not broken from far away? Why does it look tall? The chipped blue and white paint gives Dan the illusion that the glass is full of bubbling champagne—as if it never broke. An inch away from the broken glass is a little flag toy that Kevin must have created with a blue napkin and old thumbtack. The flag points to the right, at yet another glass. But the glass on the right is complete. Shorter than the “champagne” glass, but complete. He sees four groups of small pieces of string glued onto the cabinet's base—sticking upwards in between the two glasses, “Now what in the world did he do that for?” he mumbles. “They’re markers!” peeps Kevin from the doorway. Dan was startled. “Sorry” says Kevin as he walks towards the cabinet, and Dan. “The string pieces are like stepping stones,” Kevin explains. “What do you mean?” questions Dan. “It’s like a journey. I don’t really know how to explain it, but the glass is growing up. Look” he points to the two glasses, “It’s tiny and then it gets bigger!” “Ah okay I see, and what are the pictures for?” “The bird picture is flying freely into the sky, through the hoop—the hard part. And the right picture are memories.” “Like a timeline” whispers Dan as he is staring blankly at the cabinet. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m hungry.” Dan laughs, “Alright, we’ll get some pizza. Wait for me in the car, okay?” “Okay!” Dan was about to clean up his nephew's new creation, but couldn’t stop staring at it. He began to see his own life journey—starting as a little boy who was filled with so many unrealistic wishes, hopes, and dreams who grew up and realized that everything he needed was right in front of him—the memories he made and the people he knows, like Kevin—who reminded Dan that his life is fulfilled, complete. Ella Barrie ** Looking Through the Glass The world doesn’t seem to make sense. Looking through the glass, you’d think everything would be clear. And everything pops out against the dusky blue, but nothing seems to have a purpose. Just stand back and let your eyes adjust; then it will all make sense. A bird flying high in the sky, way above the sandy shore below, plants sprouting from the sand reaching towards the dulling sun, and two tall towers waiting patiently for someone to move in. You see the purpose is to not have a purpose, People like thinking, and this gives people a reason to wonder. Art makes people ask questions that will never be answered, so that we always have something to think about. As I look through the glass, I see the same things: the bird, the sun, the towers, and the plants. But what really matters is what you see, It may seem mundane to some, but lively to others. Art allows anyone to be creative and share their ideas, but not every piece of art tells you its meaning, allowing for the viewer to find their own meaning. So if you take time to look through the glass, you can find the meaning of anything. Jackson Hargreaves ** Alive Inside Pictures A Second: The bumped glass shatters and falls as a photo is hung from the top of the box. * A Day: A tiny layer of gray has begun to build up on the shards like grains of sand, Long gone relatives smile, their faces in pictures hanging from the wooden ceiling. * * A Year: The sharp shards are engulfed in fuzzy layers of monochromatic dust bunnies, Lumber which encased their former home remains damp, the pictures lighter in the sun’s stare. In formerly shiny metal, dark spots begin to collect as brown and red splotches break out. * * * A Century: The now brown tinted glass shards lie beneath a layer of dirt and stones. Lonely mahogany rots with the passage of time, gaping chasms left in the fungal wastes. Internal rust spreads throughout the pole’s core, falling on the remains of faded photos. Valleys of white have crawled through the glacier-like dark blue fabric for a hundred years. * * * * An Eon: The glass breaks further and further until it and the rich soil have become one. Lying beams now cross each other, the box has collapsed due to failed structural integrity, Inside, pebbles of rust and scraps of paper mix together until they are indistinguishable. Varying pictures of long gone relatives are now long gone themselves. Even still, it’s alright, you don’t need pictures to know the ripple of their lives are still ALIVE. Lucas Kempen ** The Glass is Half Full Growth is a lengthy process. It involves trials and tribulations, shortcomings and success. For some, growth comes naturally, others it is caused by some event. No matter where we start, our paths only take as long as we allow them to. When I find myself broken and needing to heal, I let it take the time, because after all, time heals better than any medicine could. Healing is the steep staircase to a building so tall all we can think about is what’s at the top. If we slow down and learn to enjoy stepping around the broken glass and dodging the rusty nails sticking out of the unfinished, creaking hardwood, healing becomes a process and not a chore. I have assimilated the process to enjoy the hoops and obstacles going up the stairs, to become a stronger person. Time is the ultimate medicine. I have found that no matter how challenging of a life event I have experienced, people coming and going, new celebrations of life and accomplishment, awards, money spent and money earned, all evolve through time. Slowly, the memory fades, the razor edge dulls and the bitterness subsides. Leaving me with an earned wiseness, I can look back and think, “I made it.” It may seem like time provides a way to forget what happened, but time is the growth of character, the blooming of the soul and the administrator of life. The shattered wine glass recalls distant memories with old friends and family. The fragile glass container was assembled and upright, standing tall and stout—but in an instant, came crashing down in retaliation to a negligent arm sweeping it from its feet. Glass scattered scarcely over the hardwood floor, its life put into irreparable dismay. We cannot let ourselves fall victim to this hopelessness and must go on, avoiding potential harm to our character, to keep our glass in-tact and upright--ready for the next drink to be poured. We find ourselves desiring to be paired. To have a plus one, thinking—hoping—that someone else will solve our trauma. This isn’t the case. Being with another person can create the illusion of growth and accomplishment, but as soon as they leave, it may feel like we are right back where we started. Growth is independence and self-love. We must fly through the hoops and slide down the scary zipline by ourselves. No other person has control of who I am. Colin Kipp ** The Bottom of the Sea Endless azure fading darker and darker. Darker the farther down you sink, sink to the bottom of the Sea to join what has sunk before. Two bottles, photos, a flag. Junk. Junk deemed junk because it never satisfied the owner, Owners who are ignorant of the potential of their ‘junk’. The bottles to hold something. The photos to show sometime. The flag to mark someplace. But what is the bottle when empty? Is it waiting? Is it useless? It waits to carry something that you cannot. What is the same photo years later? A snapshot from another life. Untouchable, but memorable. Where does the flag belong? At the peak to be seen by everyone? Or where everyone can recognize its identity. Looking through the endless ocean, somewhere out there through its vast darkness. Is your junk to make your own. Ben St. Martin ** In His Bubble Hours and hours by the beach they'd spend, morning glasses filled, joy without end. Drinking till sunset, their spirits soaring high, peace, belonging, beneath the blue sky. Joseph Cornell's in his own little bubble, his world depends on this beach, and how the woman he shares it with gleams, They look at paintings on the sand, for long they forget how to stand, they are the ones hanging up, in his box. One day his glass shattered, his bubble that was once bright is a hazard, his woman now gone, no more mornings, no more light, in his bubble, darkness fell, replacing the bright. His grief felt like an endless tide, that would drown him. Yet amidst the darkness, rage and despair, he clings to the shards, a silent prayer. Gazing at a full glass, he finds hope, in his broken bubble, learning to cope. In the room of broken dreams, which was quiet, he starts gathering pieces under the sky, with hands that were trembling. He was to rebuild what had been destroyed. He turned to his art for comfort, finding safety in the act of making. He used his art to hold memories of them in the sand, each item was a tribute to the love they had shared. He felt calm for a moment, and caught a glimpse of the beauty, that was still in the world, in the delicate dance of colours and shapes. As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, he discovered that his despair gave him strength, beneath his grief. As the sun set again over the beach, Joseph stood alone among his broken bubble, he learned to see beauty in broken pieces, so he placed it in his artwork. Addy Strack ** The Broken Glass Everyone experiences an event in their life that makes them feel like they were a wine glass dropped onto the hardwood floor shattering into one thousand pieces. This life changing event could be anything; Your dad dying, losing one of your best friends, ending things with your significant other, breaking a body part, getting fired, or anything that would never make you feel the same again. There is only one thing that can help. Time. Thinking back I can think of all of these different times in my life where I would never be the same person again, but looking back, I recovered and changed for the better. I broke my arm when I was five years old. For months I was in a cast, not able to use my dominant arm. I told myself I would never be able to play baseball again because my right arm would never be strong enough to throw the ball hard enough, I could only use my left arm to get by. I lost my best friend during the beginning of the school year during my sophomore year. Everyone has that one friend who is always there for you anytime of the day. That one person you spent countless days hanging out with or talking to. Mine just disappeared like they were never there to begin with. I crashed and tumbled down a local ski hill during my junior year ski season. After jumping out of the start gate and making it to the third left hand turn I clipped the tip of my ski into the snow and flipped forward down the slope of the hill losing both skis. After standing back up and going to look for my skis, I felt a sharp pain in my knee that made it hard to stand, later thinking, what if this is my last ever ski race. Looking back at these events I realized something, these were my broken glass moments. I went from not thinking I would play baseball that year to playing with my other arm, something unheard of in the world of sports. I met new people, and even reunited with that old friend after months of wondering where they went and realized how much more they meant to me. I went on to win one of the biggest ski races I have skied in to this day after spending weeks healing from the crash that happened earlier in that season. The only thing that can put glass back together is glue. While you can still see the crack, the glue makes the glass whole again. The glue of our everyday life is time. Time is needed to placate the pain. Time is the only thing that helps after an event that makes you rethink the way you go about life. Time is what helped me find out what I needed to do to be me. Reflecting back on all of this, I realize that now after plenty of time to look at how these events broke pieces off of me I self repaired over time and was able to rebuild the shattered pieces that broke off from the base of glass during the fall but it always finds a way to be able to be put back together with a little glue. Josh Zirgibel ** Editorial Note For more than a year we have been working with teachers at Arrowhead Union High School who are using ekphrasis in their writing classes, and publishing selected works by the student writers. This has been an exciting collaboration in so many ways, being part of the invitation to students to contemplate art and discover the different ways that it can show us the human experience, near and far, past, present, or personal. Choosing from the student submissions a few to publish here for our readers is a painful process. Every single entry is a success story in our book, showing a facet of the communication that happens between someone far away or in another time, and a student today, and the creativity that connection can inspire. We are profoundly impressed by that creativity, and by your curiosity and by your courage. A big congratulations to the writers whose works are shown here this time. We hope all of you will continue to explore art, writing, and ekphrasis. Our readers and writers know from experience the extraordinary blessings they will bring to your life stories. Love, The Ekphrastic Review ** A Note from Liz Jorgensen and Terri Carnell We teach creative writing and advanced composition at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin. For the past year and a half, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review (1/12/2023, 5/26/2023, 7/10/2023, 1/5/2024). We want to express our sincerest gratitude to Lorette. Providing this authentic opportunity, she has selflessly dedicated many hours, and we are honoured and humbled to again have our students’ work showcased in TER. This year, our 236 students responded to one of the following: · The Chess Game, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 · Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 · Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD (photo by Thad Zaidowicz) · Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 · Three Coke Bottles, by Andy Warhol (USA) Our classrooms buzzed as our students engaged with the pieces of art, creatively expressing their own identity, values and beliefs. We were impressed with our students’ interpretations, their interdisciplinary connections, and their emotional intelligence! Through descriptive language, vivid imagery and sensory details, our students explored joy and nostalgia, contemplation or introspection. The students said they felt inspired and creative:
The study of ekphrasis encouraged each of our students to develop an appreciation for art and to see what is possible when art inspires writing. We hope you enjoy their ekphrastic pieces as much as we do.  Water Lilies, by Claude Monet (France) 1915 Water Lilies “One instant, one aspect of nature contains it all.” Claude Monet Floating above these blue depths-- round islands of pastel, some flat, rippled, wavering; others high islands w/ ridges reaching into air, conical like volcanoes, which are the lotus flowers we aspire to. From a distance, and under just the right condition, the green streaks of growth become visible as if revealed below the surface of things. Its streaming tentacles flexing, holding everything together in what Blake called generation-- the very fiber of plant, animal, and human; nothing as mystical as light or soulful as smoke-- just pure growth for growth's sake; but for some reason hidden below the surface called primordial images by some. These strands are the space between, mostly unseen, taken for granted; however, when ignored, they just take you over, then there's nothing you can do but float. DH Jenkins DH Jenkins' poems have appeared in Jerry Jazz Musician, The Tiger Moth Review, The Global South, Bellowing Ark and The Wave. For many years he was a professor of Speech and Writing for UMUC-Asia, living and working in Japan and Korea. He now lives in New Zealand and enjoys hiking in the Southern Alps as well as scuba diving and snorkeling in the Pacific Islands. NB: Information about the TER-Arrowhead collaboration follows the student works below.  Three Coke Bottles by Andy Warhol (USA) 1962 Message in a Bottle Pop! Fizz bubbles over the bottle leaving your hands sticky with sweet syrup. The sparkly, red and white booths deliver comfort to friends. Hot dogs, cheese fries, milkshakes, cheeseburgers. The jukebox plays Elivs, yet not loud enough to cover the laughter of friends. A little red Corvette was admired in the parking lot. Men lean against the car with a bottle in hand. Clink! Here’s a toast to another beautiful summer day. Skin cooks under blazing sun.. Outside nine to five working day to night. Dirt decorates the fingernails, mulch decorates the beds. Sweat drips down the cooked skin, like a rainstorm from the pores. Time for a break? Pop! Fizz bubbles over the bottle leaving your hands sticky with sweet syrup. Nothing better than an ice cold Coca-Cola on a hot summer's day. The crowd roars, “Run! Run! Run!” Popcorn fills the stadium like pebbles on a sandy beach. The claps of high fives fill the air. “Home run!” On the edge of the seats, fans rave for the team. Third inning approaches—perfect time for a refreshing sip. Pop! Fizz bubbles over the bottle leaving your hands sticky with sweet syrup. Clink! Clink! Clink! What a beautiful day. Alexis Arbucias ** America's Real Choice Three nearly perfect glasses, with three perfect drinks. Slightly askew to show perfection without perfect. Refresh Yourself, because it's the Best Friend That Thirst Ever Had. Because Thirst Knows No Season. An aged sign with faded letters display a black and white back with the proud and bold letters, Coca-Cola. And now staring this box of sextuplets pulls you…me or anybody into its tight unrelenting grasp and asks you. No, tells you to Join the Coke Side Of Life, and Taste the Feeling of America's Real Choice, and Buy the World A Coke. Connor Crumer ** A New Look Strolling along the bustling streets of my hometown, the echoing thunder of war still reverberating within me. The sights and smell of blood and sweat remain etched into my memory as scars on my soul. Propaganda lined the streets like a sinister backdrop of a past life I once knew. But beyond the mass media madness, I paused upon a trio of green stained-glass bottles. These bottles had a steep contour upon the neck with round pillars lining the body with an ashy vignette for a vintage flare. The poster was held upon the old family diner, I headed inside to pick the owner's brain on the new decor. “Rocky! How are we doing old fella?” The diner cheered upon my entrance. “My boy’s back from the war!” said with his Italian flare, and greeted with a hefty hug. “Buddy, I have to ask you. What in Lincoln's green land hangs on the window?” I question. "Ah lad, that there's the latest ad for the new 'Coca-Cola' bottles created by the leading figure in the Pop Art movement, Mr.Andy Warhol, " said Rocky. “Andy Warhol? I've never heard that name in my life,” said with a southern curve. “Mr. Warhol created that poster because he criticized the consumerist idols and surface values of the “Postwar” culture. No matter where or when you bought it, it's paid the same.” “Well, what kinda help does that do for us? If it's always the same then what's the point?” “My fine lad, Coca-Cola has made more than Gatsby and that green light,” said sarcastically. I stood still absorbing Rocky's words, I couldn't help but feel a sudden ache of reminiscence mixed with peculiarity. Andy Warhol—a name I found so foreign, yet incredibly significant enough to embellish the exterior of Rocky's diner. I glanced back at the poster, studying the vibrant ruby dye on the trademarked “Coca-Cola” title and the seemingly tedious subject matter of those glass bottles, now understanding there was more than meets the eye. Rocky must have noticed my contemplation, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “You see, son, Warhol’s art ain’t just about Coca-Cola. It's about the culture, the society we are living in. It's a reflection on how were all chasing after these manufactured ideals, these symbols of wealth and success, yet at the end of the day, it's all surface value.`` His words struck a chord within me, resonating with the conflict I felt between the wartime experiences etched into my very being and the consumer-driven world I found myself in this very moment. But before I could delve deeper into the philosophical implications of Warhol's work, a commotion at the entrance caught our attention. A group of young teenagers, dressed in the latest fashion chatting excitedly, entered the diner. Their eyes immediately pierced the Warhol poster, as one of them exclaimed, “Aye, isn't that the new Coke ad? That's sick!” “Sick indeed, kiddo. But remember, sometimes there is more to art than meets the eye. Let's take a closer look, and you just might find a whole new world of meaning behind those bottles.” As the young men continued to admire the poster, I couldn't help but smile. Perhaps there was hope for this generation, a new opportunity for them to look beyond the surface and appreciate the deeper layers that add to our lives. Leaving the diner, the repetition of Warhol's message reminded me… “A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better Coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking.” - Andy Warhol Arianna Daughtery ** The Green Bottle The green bottle, the hot summer day, the cute boy. All the things someone would want in their life. He hands me the coke bottle, he tells me he loves me, he kisses me. All the things I kept a memory of. My stomach fluttered, my cheeks got red, my smile got wider. All the things I remember. The memories kept safe, the emotions created, the experience I remember. All the things the green bottle kept. The green bottle, the hot summer day, the cute boy. All the things that Coca Cola gave me. Suzy Flynn ** Coca Cola Belize Coke, sweet, chilled, refreshing. Brings back memories from my time in Belize. Coke regularly sold in glasses that read “Coca Cola Belize.” My head is pounding. I just don’t feel right. I need something to Drink. What should I have? I know what! A “Coca Cola Belize.” Now what remains in the bottle is little drops. Something about those bottles and that shade of green makes them so iconic. Any bottle is always refreshing, so much so you’re at a point where you had three bottles of coke. Lucas Gibes-Pearl ** Mamaw
I remember the good old days like it was yesterday. Driving in the vintage Cadillac to her cottage, tucked under the willow trees. There’s no other place I would want to be in the world. Everyone wanted to go to her cottage. Mamaw was the sunshine in the clouds, she was the joy in the sadness. We knew how loved we were by her. Mamaw’s refrigerator was stocked full, so I reached for the Coca-Cola in the glass bottle; she made a special trip to the local market to get me these. That was the kind of person she was. That drink will always be memorable for me. It was something Mamaw and I shared. Every time I feel that ice-cold glass bottle in my hands and the refreshing taste of that fizzy drink, I think of her. Taylor Thimmesch ** Editorial Note For more than a year we have been working with teachers at Arrowhead Union High School who are using ekphrasis in their writing classes, and publishing selected works by the student writers. This has been an exciting collaboration in so many ways, being part of the invitation to students to contemplate art and discover the different ways that it can show us the human experience, near and far, past, present, or personal. Choosing from the student submissions a few to publish here for our readers is a painful process. Every single entry is a success story in our book, showing a facet of the communication that happens between someone far away or in another time, and a student today, and the creativity that connection can inspire. We are profoundly impressed by that creativity, and by your curiosity and by your courage. A big congratulations to the writers whose works are shown here this time. We hope all of you will continue to explore art, writing, and ekphrasis. Our readers and writers know from experience the extraordinary blessings they will bring to your life stories. Love, The Ekphrastic Review ** A Note from Liz Jorgensen and Terri Carnell We teach creative writing and advanced composition at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin. For the past year and a half, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review (1/12/2023, 5/26/2023, 7/10/2023, 1/5/2024). We want to express our sincerest gratitude to Lorette. Providing this authentic opportunity, she has selflessly dedicated many hours, and we are honoured and humbled to again have our students’ work showcased in TER. This year, our 236 students responded to one of the following: · The Chess Game, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 · Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 · Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD (photo by Thad Zaidowicz) · Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 · Three Coke Bottles, by Andy Warhol (USA) Our classrooms buzzed as our students engaged with the pieces of art, creatively expressing their own identity, values and beliefs. We were impressed with our students’ interpretations, their interdisciplinary connections, and their emotional intelligence! Through descriptive language, vivid imagery and sensory details, our students explored joy and nostalgia, contemplation or introspection. The students said they felt inspired and creative:
The study of ekphrasis encouraged each of our students to develop an appreciation for art and to see what is possible when art inspires writing. We hope you enjoy their ekphrastic pieces as much as we do.  The Bathing Man, by Edvard Munch (Norway) 1918 Ekphrasis of Edvard Munch’s Bathing Man As one foot presses the surface, breaks the tension, and descends into the river, does it stir the water, or do the waters stir him? Resplendent in rainbow-dappled nudity his sense of light and air and wetness ebbs and flows with his emotions, all of them roiling in response to the universe of his creativity. ** Oppenheimer Observes Edvard Munch’s Bathing Man Behold the polychromatic man astride the river, moving like a god or fearsome titan, the colours swirl in response to the placement of his feat, like neutron reactions marshalled in accelerators, no muzzle velocity for the hubris of unmaking Creation. . . Am I Prometheus, illuminator of Man? No, I am become Death, destroyer of worlds and he is not bathing but burning, limned by radiation, gamma rays my brush, my Bhagavad-Gita, and I am clean only of innocence. All that is solid melts into air. M. Benjamin Thorne M. Benjamin Thorne is an Associate Professor of Modern European History at Wingate University. Possessed of a lifelong love for both history and poetry, he is particularly interested in exploring the synergy between the two. He has poems published in or forthcoming from Topical Poetry, The New Verse News, The Savannah Literary Journal, and The Main Street Rag. Special Showcase: Arrowhead Union High School Students- Christina's World, by Andrew Wyeth5/27/2024 NB: Information about the TER-Arrowhead collaboration follows the student works below.  Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 A World Reborn The blackened ash begins to dissipate… The darkest time is over. Safety appears in the distance. A peaceful house in a desolate land. Through the gloom, a girl climbs out of hiding. The darkest time is over. Heaving herself home with harmed hands, she abandons the chaotic destruction behind her. Her frame frail and forgotten, she delicately opens the door. The darkest time is over. Safe and sound, she explores security with memories of asylum flooding in like a river. The trembling girl smiles, tears in her eyes– as the golden sun liberates the smoky sky– and the somber world is radiantly reborn. The darkest time is over. Jr Araque ** All Alone No Way To Move At night, I wish for legs that worked. Long cold nights, I wish I had a blanket. I used to laugh but now I cry. Laughing is something I missed doing before I got stuck out here. A few years ago, I became paralyzed in the legs. Legs are very important if you want to get around. One night, I was riding in the back of a friend's pickup truck in the middle of nowhere. Next thing I know, I have fallen out of the truck and the only thing I can see is a house far away. Even though I could see the house, I didn't have legs that worked, so I had no way to get there. Nights have always been the hardest part, it's so hazardous to sleep out here in the cold field. One day I hope the people in the house find me and take me in. Wishing for a nice meal, I eat whatever is around me, grass, straw, dust, whatever I can reach. ALL ALONE NO WAY TO MOVE. Years have gone by, and the only way I can tell what day it is is when the sun goes down. Tomorrow I hope the family in the house finds me. I used to laugh but now I cry. October is my favorite season because I get to see the leaves change colors out here. Making it this long out here with no working legs is impressive to me, all alone, no way to move. On a good note, since my legs are paralyzed, I can't feel them, so only half my body gets cold. Vibrant orange and yellow leaves in October are what I always look forward to. Even though I am all alone with no way to move, I still manage to find positives in my situation. Mei Astle ** Motherhood A baby saying “Mama” for the first time. A little girl playing with her Barbies. A teenage girl sitting in a room surrounded by friends doing each other's hair and makeup. Experiencing her first heartbreak. Starting a career. Starting to settle down. Getting married. Having children. I sometimes forget that it is everyone's first time living too. No one has done this before and everyone is still learning and will inevitably make mistakes along the way. When I see the painting Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth I think of my mom. To me, the girl shows a sense of longing combined with a sense of fear, but there is also strength. The girl in the painting seems to be longing to get to the buildings further back in the picture, but can’t quite get there or knows she shouldn’t. This reminds me of my mom, and all mothers, as their children grow up and start to leave home. Moms have to watch their children leave after their kids become their everything for years of their lives. They watch their child go off to college or leave home knowing that they have to start letting them go. They have to start giving their children space because they aren't so much children anymore. In the background of the painting, there are buildings or towns, symbolizing a mom's child, resembling how a mom’s child leaving can almost feel like a step back in life. A mom puts a big portion of her life into her kids and a lot of times her life becomes her kids. Then after they leave, life partially goes back to the way it was before kids, but now there is an emptiness of them being gone that wasn’t known before. I put myself into my own mom's shoes to imagine this feeling. Sad that I have to go, but proud I am going. Trying to restrain from being there every moment, to let me flourish on my own. Fearful of me being alone in the world, but knowing I have to learn to do things for myself. These feelings remind me of the girl in the painting, while it may not be her story, her feelings seem to encompass that of a mother watching her child grow up from a distance. As I think of these feelings of motherhood, I am reminded that everyone is living for the first time. I think of myself going to college, then I remember this will be the first time my mother will be in an empty home. I remember that at one point my mom was once the girl leaving her parents, but she was younger and with a lot less opportunity than I have, or she has given me. I remember that years down the line I will become the mom watching her child grow up and create their own life. I am getting older, but so is my mom. It is a scary thought to think about but a reminder to keep her close and be grateful for everything she has done and continues to do. Because I remember that I was once the baby saying “Mama” for the first time, but so was she. And I was once the little girl playing Barbies, but so was she. And I will once be the mother watching her child go off to college, just like she is now. It’s a placating thought to know that we can grow together, we were both once girls, and one day I will be a mother. Julia Buzzell ** little woman in the lands Sunlight licked the curtains of clouds and his saliva of blazing light slid unto the Earth’s blanket of lush olives and across his bed of cornflower blue. Sky, naked and gratifying, clothed herself with the many stitches of all shapes and sizes of cotton across her body. The daughters of Sunlight and Sky–the heavenly Rays–with their dresses of blistering cloth draped down from their father like a chorus of angels descending down from Christ’s home. The daughters’ dresses flowed onto a home of lingering, with its stone frame, walls of plaited clay and secrets hidden inside. Sunlight eyed an abandoned barn near the house, wilting with cobwebs hanging from its spine and critters littering on its forgotten corpse. Surrounding the lingering house and solemn barn, the land was hushed; no one had dared to trespass the lands during the scorching Sunlight’s presence. The wind glided with passion but it seemed as if it were, too, avoiding the land. All but one avoided the lands of fever. Sunlight, his wife Sky, and their daughters all noticed a little woman in the lands. She wore a lovely pink dress with her charcoal hair pulled back. She crawled through the open grass in this heat and they feared for her safety in this revolting warmth. The Rays questioned their parents as to why she simply did not get up and walk. Sunlight scolded his rude daughters but Sky soothed his anger. Sky, with her gentle words, untangled their inquiries of the woman; “She is not like many others; her legs carry a grief that many do not know. Many will never know. But I know this: she cannot fly like us. She cannot stand. Not even for a moment.” “But she can get around other ways?” The daughters observed an empty wheelchair accompanying a standing husband with paints on the porchway of the lingering home. “She refuses to,” Sunlight explained. “Why?” Sky had no answer, for she was not the woman. They were of the same kind; not of the same mind. But still, she responds: “Not even her other flesh knows why. But even he does not question it.” To aid the woman’s journey back to her lingering home, Sunlight avoided the woman to protect her pale complexion, Sky moved her stitches above the woman to shield her sensitive eyes from Her husband, and the daughters, with their dresses, flowed onto the little woman’s beloved husband, who awaits for her return on the porchway beyond the fields. Ella Cutts ** The World of CMT Disease Charcot-Marie-Tooth-Disease: Inherited disease that causes nerve damage. I was diagnosed when I was three. It will never go away, and it only gets worse with age. Symptoms: Decreased muscle bulk, an inability to use feet or hands. I was going to have to use a wheelchair, they told me. It felt like a death sentence. Treatment: Medications to help with comfort, and using a wheelchair when I can no longer walk. I would not walk the same way as everyone else, they told me. It felt like an outcast. At first I could walk, but I stumbled and tripped wherever I went. My feet arching more and more every day. I felt pain, and it hurt to walk on my feet. I felt weak, and I was barely able to walk. I felt sadness, knowing I was different from everyone else–an outcast. Then I couldn’t walk, so I crawled everywhere. My feet now arched like a C unable to balance. I can’t let my disease take me out. After all this is my life, my world… –Christina’s world. Kaci Dassow ** Christina, Keep Running. Keeping away from home appeared to be the hardest thing she had to do. Every day she lay on that field and stared at what she used to call home. Every hour that passed by as she lay in the grass haunted her with every memory. People don't understand her; she doesn't even understand herself. She's all alone now. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Remembering memories was no good, for they were all nothing but harsh. Ultimately, deep down she just wanted to go back home to have somewhere to go. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Nothing but hatred and evil lived in that house. Nothing but her father lived in that house. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Ignoring all the bad is what she did; she had to in order not to hate her very own father. Every hard noise that was made, every quick movement someone made… She had to suffer with thinking everyone was out to get her. Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Nothing could be done for she had run away two years ago now. Going nowhere far, she still knew the only way she would be happy was if she stayed away. Everywhere she went she was just telling herself to Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running. Christina hated her name: the name that was given to her by her father. Her mother was not in the painting she had molded into her mind. She was scared to ever go back to a place where she knew no love existed, her only choice was to… Keep Running, Keep Running, Keep Running Sidney Doble ** My Home “Take care of your body–it's the only place you have to live in.” Jim Rohn. Looking ahead as the grass is a dull green The wind slightly flows this way and flows thataway. The building’s too far to reach, she wishes to pull them aside. Unable to run down the hill and roll in the grass Unable to stroll around the open field. As her legs are weak, staring across at the place she calls home. Sitting alone in the dull straw-like grass, dreading the strenuous walk back, to the place she calls home. Sitting alone, hoping that one day those dirt tracks will turn into something more. Tripping and stumbling, but still walking up the hill to the place she calls home. Each day rising a new, a new view of the sunrise to gaze upon. Each day the same dull grass to walk upon, the same hill to walk up and down. As her legs are weak, she's still trying to stay in good health. Each night she spends some time making a bowl of soup. Each night she wishes she could bake her famous Cinnamon scones. Wishing someone else was here to help her more often, Her body is too weak to keep up with her Jada Fournier ** The Chronicle October 29, 1998. This week has been tough. It’s been four months since Martha passed, and each day shows a new challenge. In the mornings I fight my toughest battles; waking up without her next to me creates a hole in my heart bigger than the Grand Canyon. The afternoon brings no better feeling, sitting on the couch watching our favorite show reminds me of her as I try to forget. I understand that healing takes time, but I can’t help but be reminded of her in every aspect of life. We are tempted by the past, seduced by memories and what-ifs. We try to change it, but it never does. We are urged to rewrite history, and mend broken relationships. We are powerless to reach it no matter how close it seems. The truth is that the opportunities that we had have disappeared like dust in the wind. I have learned this lesson through my numerous days on this floating rock. As I reflect and crave my younger self, I reluctantly remind myself of this simple but hard-to-grasp concept. I am only starting to accept my reality: an old, weathered man who is so focused on yesterday that he can never live today. The future lies ahead of me, clouded by uncertainty and fear. I am haunted by my anticipation, and anxious about my next step. The truth is I'm scared of what is to come—afraid of my inevitable end. I live day in and day out waiting with nothing to look forward to except the end. Unable to embrace elegance and the beauty and potential of today. Even as I confront my frightening truths I strive to find meaning and purpose in the present. As daunting as it can be I must make the most of the time I have left. As I have navigated through the puff clouds and rough skies of life, I have learned that the key to calming my inner self is acceptance. I may not be able to control the future (or alter the past), but I can choose how to respond to the challenges and uncertainties that lie ahead. And still, I continue to search for closure in my daily life as I try to grasp the unstoppable passage of time. Tomorrow is a new day, and I will continue to take it one step at a time. I know that Emily will always be with me, guiding me through my day's challenges, as she always did, and always will continue to do. Luke Heberlein ** The Wooden Frame My eyes flutter as a harsh breeze brushes by. I feel the ground beneath me, sharp and coarse. As I force my eyes to fully open, my heart drops. Where am I? The unfamiliar surroundings startled me as I shuffled to my knees. There I lay, in a field of dry and golden grass. As my mind tries to make sense of it all, I feel around across the ground for a clue to how on earth I may have gotten here. Close to tears, my fingers brush past something. Something rough. I quickly grab the unknown object and examine it. The mysterious rough object was a piece of wood. It was cedar brown, with small yet intricate details. I slide the wood into my dress pocket and stand up. In the distance, I could see two buildings, one a little smaller than the other. Against my discretion, I wander towards the bigger of the two. The walk seemed to drag on longer than expected, the houses seemingly not getting any closer. I start to slow, as I become more and more unmotivated. Depressing thoughts started to loom over me. Where is my family? Did they notice I’m gone? Will someone come look for me? Then, came anger. Why was I brought out here out of all people? The rage took over as I threw myself to the ground and let out a crying scream. Feeling utterly defeated, I quickly stand up and sprint towards the wooden house. Finally, I could see the house getting closer and closer the more I ran. The wind, blowing in my face, does not stop me. I march up the rickety stairs and reach for the door handle. I slowly turn the squeaky door handle and push. When I peer around the door, I’m met with another shocking sight. The room was almost completely…empty. The only furnishing was a single picture frame placed on the back wall. Yet, it was lacking a picture. Searching each nook and cranny of the house, I gravitate towards the wooden frame. Then, I noticed that the frame had been broken. It was missing a piece along the top. I brush my fingers along the immaculately broken wood. Suddenly, I recall the object with a similar design. The piece of wood. I excitedly reach into my pocket and grab the rough object. Slowly, I slide the wood into the perfectly crafted spot on the frame. Then, I wait. I wait for something to happen. To be greeted by a helpful stranger. To be given a clue. To be taken back home. Yet, nothing happened. Everything was as it was a few minutes prior. At that moment, I lost all hope. Getting back home seemed like an unimaginable dream. Completely defeated, I walk towards the door of the house, out onto the rickety porch, and down the small set of stairs. My feet landed on the dry, dirt-covered ground. All of a sudden, that same harsh breeze that awoke me in this world, pushed past once again. It threw me to the ground. I felt my vision blur and slowly turn black. As my vision slowly came back, I felt a pressure on my shoulder. “Honey, honey are you okay?” said a familiar voice. Mom? As my vision slowly came back again, I stood face to face with a painting. Confused, I pan around the room. An art museum. Once again, I look at the painting. Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth. In the painting lay a girl, lost in a field. My name is Christina. Elizabeth Henkel ** Stuck Frozen in fear, I can’t move, I can’t get up My sickly body won't allow me to anyway My eyes blur, the house is miles away. Inside awaits my loving family My two sisters, one brother, and mom and dad. Mom is making dinner, and the paved field from dad driving to work My sisters playing with toys, and my brother trying to get in the way. Frozen in fear, I can’t move, I can’t get up My family doesn’t notice me The sound of explosions pierce my ears Ringing more and more each time Growing closer by the minute. I'm stuck in the grass, Waiting for my time to return to my family. But that will never happen, As I watch the dust erupt from our Broken down house in front of me. Tears stream from my eyes Frozen in fear, I can’t move, I can’t get up. Halie Humbrecht ** The Maid He put me in there car, he drove for hours My frail body, only skin and bones shook with fear As I pleaded for a second chance. I didn't mean to drop the vase I was only dusting the shelves. He drove to an open field My body shook rapidly as he made his way up the path I cried for hours and begged to have another chance He left me there with nothing Nothing to eat -- Nothing to drink -- Nowhere to stay but the abandoned house Where the red fox lives. I lay there looking at the house for hours hoping he will change his mind and turn around The fox peered out from inside the doghouse and stared at me I walk to the house and try to fix up some things and watch as the fox digs a hole inside the dog house to lay in. I tidy up the house and make a spot to sleep. The fox stares at me with his green-yellow eyes. It makes me feel calm, he snuggles into his tail and starts to sleep so I curl up and sleep as well. I slept for hours. I don't know what happened, it all went dark. I didn't wake up from that sleep. Paige Klingele ** war he wouldn’t stop yelling i couldn’t get away they shouldn’t understand the deeper meaning he’s been home for three years now nothing seemed to change empty glass bottles scattered everywhere a menacing feeling he told me i could eat if i came back so i did a supper of flexible leather gripped in his hands he never stopped intervening the wish of welfare, was war the proposal to be loved, was war the thought of war, was coming home Charlie Perri ** Ataraxia A soft, almost invisible light pours out the windows of the house on the hill. A familiar vitality exudes from it as family gathers after a long day. But not Christina. She remains in the field, resting on delicate arms. Her hair is tossed from her shoulders by the breeze, just as the tall grass dances against pretty pink fabric. She gazes towards the old, gray house curiously -- the quiet mystery of the field is hers and hers alone. The sweetness of summertime will never be reflected in another’s memory. She runs her fingers through the clovers and the ferns, allowing herself a moment longer to bask in the beauty before her. Chloe Pingle ** Where the Prairie Dims The world has gone dull. What once was a blazing green has now turned into a murky stew of distasteful browns and coppers. Even the never resting sky appears to have lost its sense of humor, fading with age. Either my vision is fleeing or all that surrounds me is; I don’t remember my house looking so gravely ill. I don’t feel well myself, maybe it’s contagious. All I wanted to do was fraternize with the other kids in the area, but even the walk to town was troublesome, with its tough terrain and my hoary shoes. After gossiping about the new folk down on Cedar, I had begun the trek back to my house, suddenly realizing my limbs didn’t feel quite right. Still, I had dragged myself on, for what felt like several days, until my house panned into view. Then suddenly a little winged creature flew into my hair, leading me into a panic. My legs started to kick beneath me, carrying me until one of my feet caught on the other, tumbling at the bottom of the hill to my haven. Now here I lay, pressing my pale coarse hands into the Earth, the tough dirt creeping underneath my fingernails. I heave with all my might, but my legs refuse to obey. I collapse for the second time. The right side of my face greets the bitter ground, splat. I lay there for several moments, waiting for the wind in my head to quit whirling. But it denies my silent plea, trickling its way into my throat and stealing the precious air which I so desperately need. My lungs feel as if they were kissed by the sun, blazing and cumbersome. Gasping, I struggle to sit up, looking at my elderly dwelling, hoping that my little sister or mom or dad or grandmother are out doing yard work and will bring me back to reality; I abhor how helpless I feel. I look at the pale sky, feeling the breeze ripple through my dress and around my neck and through my hair. I realize how calm everything is. I realize how vast the horizon is and how honed and weary the grass appears to be. I realize that when you stop and listen the silence is eerily loud. As the world begins to deafen, my momentios meritable mother emerges from the house with her hands placed on her hips, scanning the fields. I can see her lips moving as she shakes her head but she is too far for me to hear the words tumbling out. I take in deep breaths, the now cool air siphoning through me. I begin to try calling to her, it mostly coming out as mangled cries; I use my arms to crawl slowly toward her, my legs dragging behind. She eventually sees me and starts trekking her way down the hill, her pace quickening as she sees my distress. She sits down besides me and cradles me in her arms, making everything seem okay as only mothers can do. “My legs,” I sob, “they don’t work.” Liliana Puetzer ** My Childhood Farm As I lay down on the field where I grew up, all that I can think is what am I going to do now? This house and this farm has been a part of my family for generations and this can’t be the end. This field has been the place where I can just calm down and appreciate the beauty of this farm. I can’t let this place go, it’s the only place I have left since my husband passed from a mysterious disease. Before he passed, I said to him: “I promise that I will never lose our house.” Earlier this morning, I went out to feed the cows, chickens, and sheep before breakfast. Right before I made my pancakes, I heard a thud on the door and I jumped a little. I started to worry, so I looked out the window, and it was the cops. I froze like a statue because it reminded me of when the cops told me that my husband was dead. I hesitantly walked to the front door and opened the door. There were two cops and the taller one walked in my house slowly and sat down on my wooden table, while the shorter one waited outside. The tall cop made a loud sigh and said in a deep tone: “Hi, Ma’am. How are you doing? I know this is going to be hard to hear, but you can no longer live in this house because the bills aren't being paid and the house is no longer useful in this area.” He didn't sound serious at first and I thought he was joking, but when I saw his face, I knew. I knew it was true. “A construction team is coming tomorrow to tear it all down. You have 24 hours. Again, I’m sorry and have a good night dear.” As they walked away, I closed the door and I started bawling my eyes out and dropping like how the titanic went down. I got up and ran to the field and I swear I saw the tree make a sad face. I can’t believe this is happening, I thought. I could feel everything and everyone laughing and mocking at me as I said goodbye to my house. I turned my body toward my house and remembered everything that happened. I remember the first time I rolled down this hill. I remember riding my bike. I remember the first time my friends came over to this house. I remember all the smiles and laughter that was in this home. Even though people think this house is useless and a dump, it’s not to me or my husband. I just want my kid to grow old here. I want my kids to assimilate with my life. As I lay down on the field where I grew up, all I can think is what am I going to do now? Paige Schleicher ** Christina’s Fight The woman in the dress crawled and crawled, severely weakened through the unadorned field, she didn’t want any help, didn’t need any help. She is stronger than us all. She creeps and crawls through an uninspiring, yellow farm field wanting to get home. She was watched as she crawled, yet she glowed an irresistible glow. She is stronger than us all. The woman has fallen angel wings. She is a fighter, a warrior, fighting every single day, day and night. She thinks to herself often, I can’t do this anymore. But yet, she pushes and fights and doesn’t let anything stop her. She is stronger than us all. Yet the woman knows nothing lasts forever. All the pain, eventually one day, everything will stop and only one thing can be certain: She was stronger than us all. Connor Torres ** Horseshoe A few cans of soda, a trip to the gas station for a quick whizz, and some upbeat tunes about your pick up truck and beer will get you there. The cityscape begins to thin, and the sidewalks turn to open fields decorated with flowers instead of trash. Nevertheless the breeze is warm. The brakes to the rustic, red truck squealed like a piglet. “Whew!” An old woman exclaimed, wiping away a fictitious bead of sweat. “What a ride that was, aye, Bucky? Only three n’ a half hours later and here we are! I’m starving!” Bucky’s eyes reflectively closed as she ruffled his hair. “Like duck fluff,” she would tell him, which he supposed was better than the alternative ‘Albert Einstein’ the kids would sneer at school. “Sure was, Grandma,” he responded quietly. “What are we doing here again?” “Getting us some of the finest, freshest food out there, boy!” she bellowed. Bucky followed the burly woman out the truck, waddling behind her like a chick as they neared a small farm house located in the middle of nowhere. The occasional fluffy cloud decorated a baby blue sky on an otherwise cool summer afternoon. The cicada's high-pitched rattle rang in a crescendo over his hunger cramps and the intermittent cars, racing like police officers to an active crime scene across the old country road. “Finest, freshest food, aye?” Bucky repeated, watching as a horse and buggy trotted across the road they previously arrived from. Grandma’s voice came jovially. “You betcha! The finest–” As she threw open the door to the farm house, Bucky was knocked upside the head by a waft of homemade baked goods. The delectable smell could have carried him by the nose; tongue dripping slobber and all. “Freshest–” Bucky peered over the counter at the bountiful feast of carbs. Some bread was spotted with seeds and oats, others were dark and firm with patterned insides like marble. No matter their difference, Bucky was captivated. “–Food out there!” Grandma turned to the little girl watching her attentively from behind the front counter. Beyond her, a group of women in traditional dresses worked: cooking in stone ovens, kneading bread on a dusty counter, or churning butter. Grandma’s booming voice startled Bucky out of his observations. “We’ll take five loaves of bread: one rye, two white, a pumpernickel and– oh, what’s that muck your dad likes again Bucky?” He inquired, “Whole wheat?” and Grandma snapped her finger, grinning like she had discovered E=mc2 herself. “That’s the stuff. Muck. Oh well. If he likes it.” The girl nodded. After the deliverance of a wad of cash and a thank you, she bagged their desired loaves in a wax paper bundle and they were on their way. Before their departure, the girls smiled at Bucky. He double-takes to see if there was somebody behind him. Then he returned the genuine gesture. Bucky’s feet bounced across the dirt outside. “That girl had a fancy dress on,” He said through mouthfuls of delectable bread. The crunch of the bakery’s golden crust before his teeth melted into the warm, fluffy insides was heavenly. Over the truck engine roar, Grandma said, “She’s Amish.” “S’at what she was?” Grandma nodded. “They got a simpler way of doing things–different, but simpler. If the horse shoe fits, ya know? I don’t judge your dad for eating muck,” she winked, nudging his elbow playfully and Bucky smiled, “nor their different ways.” He looked from the bread back to the farm, slowly shrinking in the distance behind them. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “If the horseshoe fits.” Brittain Wittig ** Editorial Note For more than a year we have been working with teachers at Arrowhead Union High School who are using ekphrasis in their writing classes, and publishing selected works by the student writers. This has been an exciting collaboration in so many ways, being part of the invitation to students to contemplate art and discover the different ways that it can show us the human experience, near and far, past, present, or personal. Choosing from the student submissions a few to publish here for our readers is a painful process. Every single entry is a success story in our book, showing a facet of the communication that happens between someone far away or in another time, and a student today, and the creativity that connection can inspire. We are profoundly impressed by that creativity, and by your curiosity and by your courage. A big congratulations to the writers whose works are shown here this time. We hope all of you will continue to explore art, writing, and ekphrasis. Our readers and writers know from experience the extraordinary blessings they will bring to your life stories. Love, The Ekphrastic Review * A Note from Liz Jorgensen and Terri Carnell We teach creative writing and advanced composition at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin. For the past year and a half, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review (1/12/2023, 5/26/2023, 7/10/2023, 1/5/2024). We want to express our sincerest gratitude to Lorette. Providing this authentic opportunity, she has selflessly dedicated many hours, and we are honoured and humbled to again have our students’ work showcased in TER. This year, our 236 students responded to one of the following: · The Chess Game, by Sofonisba Anguissola (Italy) 1555 · Christina’s World, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1948 · Gold Octopus Frontlet, by the Moche people (Peru) 300-600 AD (photo by Thad Zaidowicz) · Blue Soap Bubble, by Joseph Cornell (USA) 1950 · Three Coke Bottles, by Andy Warhol (USA) Our classrooms buzzed as our students engaged with the pieces of art, creatively expressing their own identity, values and beliefs. We were impressed with our students’ interpretations, their interdisciplinary connections, and their emotional intelligence! Through descriptive language, vivid imagery and sensory details, our students explored joy and nostalgia, contemplation or introspection. The students said they felt inspired and creative:
The study of ekphrasis encouraged each of our students to develop an appreciation for art and to see what is possible when art inspires writing. We hope you enjoy their ekphrastic pieces as much as we do.  The Persistence of Memory, by Salvador Dali (Spain) 1931 The Blue Watch Tells the Cliffside Time When young, he had loved to study the rugged cliffside of his native country by the coast. His eye traced the broken, crumbled top of each cliff down the jagged fissures through their walls right to the water's edge. Sitting still and quiet, he took in the bright light crowning them and the tawny hue descending their sides; then the rocky, olive hills beyond the cliffs running to the shore and the small, gray outcrop of stone at their base; he noted the strong shadows that set one gold cliff off from another and gold cliff off from olive hill. The scene impressed him in every sense. It appeared full of original beauty and brilliant in detail. Amid its grandeur, his attention often turned to the water that lapped the border of the scene. He saw there the reflections of the hills and the cliffs undulate quietly on the fluid surface. The broken hilltops appeared smoother and rounder there, the crooked fissures in the cliffs, thinner and softer. The perspective was a modest change, but the water clearly had worked the edges off the terrain in reflecting it. Strange to say (and he did feel very strange at times), the effect was not unlike when he had found ants all over his father's pocket watch in the family kitchen. Sugar had gotten on the outside cover, and the ants had run in from all sides, eager to taste of it. He watched them nibble as they crawled everywhere on the watch cover. While they were there for the sugar, he felt sure in a way they were eating away at the watch itself. Its gold had appeared a permanent certainty in his father's hand, but those ants, lapping at the sweet cover, like the water at the cliffs before him, convinced him they could wear down the watch's burnish, however fine it looked. He carried the idea of the cliffside within him now and meant to keep visiting the scene in person even when older. But life did not give him the opportunity: his family moved and he had to leave that country. The end of any chance to be amid the brilliant cliffside felt like a shadow falling over him. He did not want the memory of the place to be left behind him, though; he returned to the idea of the locale often in mind. He would reflect, iterating how he had been formed as a person knowing the cliffs and the hills. He had taken firmness in body stepping amid the terrain and in mind seeing their strong, hard rock. His eye had gained brightness and quickness in looking on the brilliant light streaming along the clifftops. His perspective had expanded in studying the wide extent of the olive hills. All of these effects were imprinted in him over time and had given him shape, he considered. He cherished the idea greatly in his sense of dislocation from the rugged place. While reflecting in this line, he had some strange incidents occur with his pocket watch. He had used it daily since getting it as a graduation present from his father years ago, but recently the watch had stopped. He put the timepiece out of the way on the mantle in his living room. He was not sure if it were the sun that fell on it in the afternoon that did the job, but the half of the timepiece on the mantle's edge melted the longer it sat there; it got to where the watch hung down toward the floor, its hands bent now in perpendicular planes that no longer could lay flat. All this while, a fly had developed the habit of visiting the watch's face. The fly went to tasting the glass on each of these visits, much like the ants he'd observed on his father's timepiece. As the fly kept returning, its shadow morphed on the watch glass from that of an insect to a grown man standing upright in a wing-like cape. He couldn't explain the event except to suppose that somehow the fly's interest had brought about the difference in his shadow. But even more remarkable was the blue tint he saw the watch take. The color spread all over its face, if more lightly on the sun side, the longer the watch lay on the mantle. Pocket watches do not turn blue, reflect flies as grown men, nor melt in the sun, he knew very well, which suggested that there was more at play here. He came to figure that the timepiece was undergoing a physically grounded but basically metaphoric change before his very eyes. This change pointed, as he felt, to the extraordinary significance the watch held for him. The watch was an object he'd long cherished, his father's gift, his watch of daily use. He had considered its time at different instants as fast, accurate, slow. He had remarked the item as handsome, tarnished, or in need of repair. He had thought it unnoteworthy one moment, valuable another. These thoughts over the watch made it different from any other item of his, gave the thing a personal bent, set it in a uniquely tinged light. He realized the fly's shadow had grown, taking a man's form, as he himself had grown, reflecting mentally on the watch and his life. His fondness had colored the watch as much as an oil paint might. He could see how in these ways that the sense of consciousness may have rippled the timepiece's hard, cold form and left it an ethereal blue. A similar metamorphosis was working on him, he knew. He could admit, aged past youth, apart from his grand, native country, living under a shadow by the day, that he had changed. His body had lost its firm contours, its tone fading through his extremities, since he moved less than formerly. His dominant eye, great at seeing far and picking out detail, closed often now in tiredness, dozing, picturing cliffs he could not visit anymore. Long, soft eyelashes crossed his face and grew as he dreamed, replacing the hard fissure-like angles of his cheeks and jaw. Regret over a past beyond reach thinned his bright, blonde hair. He had softened like paste if still he lived within the shell of his remembered experience, itself a kind of exoskeleton like that on a fly. The habit of memory kept acting on him too, he found. Like a tongue, it went lapping and licking his interior, sampling and re-knowing the past. And in its wet pressing and searching, that tongue cleaned out the ephemeral, passing, and transient and left him the essential. He had the cliffs in idea though not every fissure marked in mind as he'd observed in youth. He knew the gold and tawny rock in memory, but it had not the brightness his eyes had seen in the country. He had the outlines of the place, the heart of their form captured within. The rest, the small details, had gone. In his perception of his cliffside past, he had become like a barren tree, a skeletal scaffold, supporting the memory of youth. He held the precious form on the long branch of his attention, where it drooped like his pocket watch, its edges softened by familiarity. He trusted he was supposed to preserve this heart of memory, the wisdom he had retained from experience. He knew this precious object had meaning whenever he thought of the blue now on his pocket watch, the special feelings and ideas it conveyed, grounded in memory. From the colour, he read out the value of his formative years. He saw in it the shaping power of consciousness that had melted the watch. So, he clung to this meaning that came from memory, holding it in a high place within him. Then he thought to set the wisdom he had distilled from memory out before the world. By the blue sea, he built a platform painted in blue, the colour of the pocket watch tinged by memory. In its ethereal colour, he hinted at the fineness memory created in its summary of experience. He believed that blue painted platform gave the world a sense of the fantastic changes that can come by reflecting on the past. The blue itself signaled for him a higher plane where wisdom dwelled while grounded in the everyday and the concrete. The platform still stands to the present day, not unlike a shorter, simpler version of the cliffside he had cherished in his native country. Norbert Kovacs Norbert Kovacs lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. He loves visiting art museums, especially the Met in New York. He has published stories recently in The Ekphrastic Review and Timada's Diary. His website: http://www.norbertkovacs.net. |
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December 2024
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