The Pianist and The Poet

Seymour Bernstein barely blinks 
when he talks, his eyes as at ease 
in the light of the world as his hands, 
poised over the keys when he asks
us to mark how the note hovers 
in air after it’s struck so that even 
its final hush finds accord.  He touches
his student’s arm with a gentle continuum,
in perfect concordance, urges her heart 
closer to Bach, reminds her to listen, 
to breathe, like my poet friend Amy 
says in a poem: “Listen.  The high kiss
of finch grabs a thread of air.” 
This is a transport, rapid as half of a breath
“as if ears were satellite dishes on stems”.
She teaches too and waits as long as it takes
for her students to hear.  She knows 
what that means, how it helps to blend 
the word and the sound of the word
so the ear and the brain work together.
“These tiniest bones hear us think.”
Yes, listen to the hush that carries the sound.

Judith Bowles

Editor's note: This poem was inspired by Ethan Hawke’s documentary about Seymour Bernstein, Seymour—An Introduction, and Amy Young’s poem “Ossicles.” Scroll below to read Amy's poem.

The Ekphrastic Review was absolutely delighted to hear from Amy Young, who generously agreed to share her poem, too, as well as from Seymour Bernstein, the subject of Judith Bowles' poem and the documentary movie by Ethan Hawke.

Judith Bowles lives, writes and gardens in Washington D. C. She has an MFA from the American University in short fiction and taught creative writing there. Two of her stories were selected for the Pen Syndicated Fiction Project. Her poems have  been published in The Delmarva Review, The Innisfree Journal of Poetry, and Gargoyle. Her book, The Gatherer, was published by WordTech Communication’s Turning Point in November of 2014.

The Ekphrastic Review turns two next month- wow!

It has truly been an incredible journey. 

Today I'm asking for a small favour.

​Very small.

In honour of the amazing poets, writers, and artists here who share their creative gifts with the world, please take a moment today to show their work to a wider audience.

That's it: just share The Ekphrastic Review with your Facebook or Twitter friends. You can choose any post you like, or use this one. 

If you are finding yourself on this page because a friend shared us, welcome! Take a few moments to scroll through and read some brilliant writers, all responding to art. Click on another month in the archives, or enter a writer's name in the search box and discover someone new.

The writers and artists whose work fills these pages have made this project into something truly special. Thanks for spreading the word!
​

Collaboration     
for Christoph Niemann and Françoise Mouly

When I was young I saw a photograph 
             of a fence after an earthquake 
where its man-made border was interrupted 
             as one half was heaved forward and 
one half was pulled back leaving a large gap 
             like a warped spring—a latch 
that can’t quite be forced close or like someone 
             painting a line down the right 
side of a large and invisible street fell 
             asleep and when they woke up 
they accidentally resumed their drawing 
             on the left side instead—the width 
of a street—a common ground—a public right
             of way owned and maintained 
by the city—now left unconnected and you 
             couldn’t see where the earth ground 
against itself sliding or where it rippled 
              like a blanket being shaken 
because there wasn’t a mark and wasn’t a rift--
              wasn’t a scar in the grass—and I 
                                       always associated this image with earthquakes so much
                                                     so that now the New Yorker’s cover
                                        illustration reminds me of an earthquake fissure
                                                     the leafless cherry branch like lightning
                                        slightly off-centre and striking upon the left-hand 
                                                     side of the page where trefoils blossom pink 
                                        and loose petals drift back and up and I think  
                                                     how the artist’s editor was right 
                                        to change the background colour of this dark
                                                     crack canyoning up the beautifully clean 
                                        white—too obvious—to a new version of a branch 
                                                      drawn black against black—unseen--

                             and the flowers float seemingly at random…
​
Jennifer Met

Jennifer Met lives in a small town in North Idaho. Recent work is published or forthcoming in Nimrod, Harpur Palate, Zone 3, Juked, Tinderbox, Rogue Agent, Sonic Boom, Gravel, Sleet Magazine, Weirderary, Bombay Gin, and Moon City Review, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, a finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and winner of the Jovanovich Award. Her chapbook Gallery Withheld is forthcoming from Glass Poetry Press.  See more at www.jennifermet.com.

Editor's note:

​Some of you have asked about my trip to Tunisia in April. You can read a bit about my experiences by clicking here for my new Wine and Art column at Good Food Revolution. Enjoy!

Lorette

Take Magritte 

for example.  He sees an egg 
but paints a bird.  He paints himself 
ogling the egg while painting the bird.  
He pictures himself eating the egg 
while dreaming the bird.
In another life the bird returns.
She is nothing 
but a hole in the bird-shaped sky.
And Magritte?  He’s green as a feather.  
He’s an apple an inch from your eye.

Take me.  I see him painting a pipe.
He writes, “This is not a pipe,”
under the painted pipe.  I write
within the poem, “This is not a poem,”
though it must ring true if it curves, 
has a clapper, and isn’t a bell.
Take Magritte again.  I see him in a room 
with his painted brush and comb.  He writes,
“This is not a room; this is not death; this is
not about a poem.”

Paul Fisher

This poem was first published in Mannequin Envy.

Paul Fisher lives in Seattle with his wife, Linda, two bossy cats and a five-pound poodle. A former visual arts teacher, he is the recipient of an Individual Artist Fellowship in Poetry from the Oregon Arts Commission. His first book, Rumors of Shore, won the 2009 Blue light Book Award, and his second, An Exaltation of Tongues, is forthcoming from MoonPath Press. His poems have appeared in journals such asThe Antioch Review, Cave Wall, Crab Creek Review, Cutthroat, Nimrod, and Switched-on Gutenberg. Paul believes lyric poetry has as much in common with painting as it has with prose.

Go Slow, Leonard Cohen
 
I had a dream Leonard Cohen
was my first and I was his last.
Go slow don’t hurt me, I whispered.
Go slow don’t kill me, he warned.
He taught me why the yellow dog
howls when the pink rose blooms
in the dark of night while the rain
runs in rivulets down the window.
He showed me that sometimes I
would be the dog, sometimes I
would be the rose. But both of us
were always the rain. And to
go slow. The end would come
soon enough.
 
​Tricia Marcella Cimera

This poem was inspired by listening to Leonard Cohen's last album, You Want It Darker. It was first published in Autumn Sky Poetry.

Tricia Marcella Cimera will forever be an obsessed reader and lover of words. Look for her work in these diverse places: Buddhist Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Foliate Oak, Fox Adoption, Hedgerow, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Mad Swirl, Silver Birch Press, Stepping Stones, Yellow Chair Review, and elsewhere.  She has a micro collection of water-themed poems called THE SEA AND A RIVER on the Origami Poems Project website.  Tricia believes there’s no place like her own backyard and has traveled the world (including Graceland).  She lives with her husband and family of animals in Illinois / in a town called St. Charles / by a river named Fox.