 Nu Couche, by Amedeo Modigliani (Italy) 1917-1918 Modi's Hands Gooseflesh prickles my skin. I shiver. It’s brutally cold lying nude while he paints. The only warmth comes from a small brazier of coal he puts by his easel to keep his oils from freezing. He opens the window a bit because the room fills with choking fumes. When he paints, the creative fire burning within warms him. His black eyes glitter with inspiration as his cold-chapped hands hold brushes loaded with red, gray, white, yellow. Those hands never cease daubing, smearing, spreading colour as he recreates me on canvas. Hands that bring the bottle to his lips time after time as he studies what he’s painted. Those eyes that are hard, determined and see nothing but his vision. "I have to use the pot," I say to him. He growls his consent. I step behind the screen, relieve myself in the chamber pot there. He’s tearing off a piece of baguette when I emerge. The wine bottle was full when we began; it’s empty now, not three hours later. "Bring me another bottle, Jeanne." I try to caution him. We never begin before noon these days. He’s too sick from the wine to get out of bed earlier. "I’m hungry, Modi, let me have a bite." He thrusts the baguette at me. I swallow a bit of stale bread with a sip of the cheap wine. It burns all the way down, but warms my gut. I return to the chaise longue and twist my body into the pose he wants. I stare out the window as his hands and eyes again become the hard, mechanical tools of his genius. Northern light arcs across the rooftops as the day dwindles to dusk. Soon it will be too dark for him to paint. He looks at me then and changes. His dark eyes become soft, liquid pools of desire. His paint-stained hands relax. He unbuttons his shirt and trousers, tosses them on the wooden table where we eat. Naked now he bids me follow him to our bed. His gaze travels down my body as I walk toward him. We sink onto the stiff, uncovered mattress and pull a dirty blanket over our bodies. His eyes melt me. His hands stroke my skin. And he begins to create me again with those hands, those hands of his genius, hands of a Master. Evelyn Jackson Evelyn Jackson is retired, living in beautiful Livingston, MT. She writes in all genres, but has recently discovered flash fiction. Modigliani is her favourite painter. It's said that although he painted his lover, Jeanne Hubeterne, over twenty times, he never painted her in the nude. Or did he??
0 Comments
 La Concha, Night Time, by Darío de Regoyos (Spain) 1906 La Concha, Night-Time I find you in the quiet, amid the nightbloom’s enpurpled hue Where soft tropic night permeates longing heart Our eyes meet and hold, simmering in darkened radiance The sea warmed air murmuring melodies to sweet future I find you in the slow, in midnight tinged with humid stillness In time’s smooth trickle, where twilight rests her head on my shoulder Where music of the shrouded world fades into focus from the gloom Between tree-shadow and lantern’s pull, we softly blend together I find you in the murk, where fallen sky mingles with surface Baylight synapses twinkling, shimmering on slow tides Where waning moon’s glow fights against dusk’s might Sweet nights burning together // whispered conversations of hope Landen Parkin This poem was first published in HAVIK--2019. Landen Parkin is a poet, teacher, and artist living in St. Paul, Minnesota. His work has been published in multiple sources including Eclectica Magazine and Sheila-Na-Gig Magazine. He enjoys reading, writing, sleeping, and is the proud father of several plants that he has managed to keep alive for several months so far.  The Ghosts That Haunt Me Now, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2019 If Only... The ghosts that have her now as haunt perhaps are of her will and want arising as invented dance to chimes that tolled the choice and chance of moments now that might have been in days that will not come again and nights to which she can't return where so much wiser she might yearn to strengthen roots in troubled earth that was the nurture of her birth and youth as much as it could be in circumstance she could not see until as shoot she rose to bloom and sensed the seed awaiting womb and saw where life must dare prevail against the odds that it will fail and thus embarked for points unknown so unaware that she would own the pain that rush to aging earns in trial that by error learns "if only...", as translucent trace, remains forever ghost to face. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment... Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart  This week’s Throwback Thursday highlights the possibility of hope in darkness. Outside my window at dawn, it is late spring, birds are singing, and new, green life is all around. These select pieces of writing are like that. They begin with a touch of thoughtful melancholy and surprise us by giving us wings to fly away. Espagnole: Harmonie en Blue, 1923, by Barbara Crooker Lovely phrasing throughout this piece, such as: “Snippets come to me in birdsong, in gesture, in the dark wing of a stranger’s hair.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/espagnole-harmonie-en-blue-1923-by-barbara-crooker ** Stevia, by Lorette C. Luzajic I love the texture of this flash fiction piece. “There is a gold beacon, a seven tonne angel, high above the maze and urgency of city traffic.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/stevia-by-lorette-c-luzajic ** Leonard Leaving, by Tricia Marcella Cimera Such a gentle rhythm to this gem of a poem inspired by an album cover. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/leonard-leaving-by-tricia-marcella-cimera ** Bird Call, by Monica Kaiser I had to reread this poem for the lift it gave me. “…they were lit by the sunrise—a spray of sparks sowing the soil.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/bird-call-by-monica-kaiser  wee Marjorie Next month, there will be seven years worth of writing at The Ekphrastic Review. With daily or more posts of poetry, fiction, and prose for most of that history, we have a wealth of talent to show off. We encourage readers to explore our archives by month and year in the sidebar. Click on a random selection and read through our history. Our occasional Throwback Thursday feature highlights writing from our past, chosen on purpose or chosen randomly. We are grateful that moving forward, Marjorie Robertson wants to share some favourites with us on a regular basis, monthly. With her help, you'll get the chance to discover past contributors, work you missed, or responses to older ekphrastic challenges. Would you like to be a guest editor for a Throwback Thursday? Pick 10 or so favourite or random posts from the archives of The Ekphrastic Review. Use the format you see above: title, name of author, a sentence or two about your choice, or a pull quote line from the poem and story, and the link. Include a bio and if you wish, a note to readers about the Review, your relationship to the journal, ekphrastic writing in general, or any other relevant subject. Put THROWBACK THURSDAYS in the subject line and send to [email protected]. Let's have some fun with this- along with your picks, send a vintage photo of yourself too!  Abstraction, by Abraham Walkowitz (Russia) 1906 The End of the Women There was your grandmother and your mother, and they were all you needed to know about the women before you. There was perseverance and there was gullibility. When you were a child, you were held on soft laps by strong arms. Their stories were all the stories you needed to know. Mother told you about Grandmother’s first mistake, marrying a lazy man, his flying fists, the menial jobs it took just for her to get out. Your mother lived part of that life, too. But as a girl you only saw the after.Small joys magnified by your grandmother’s shining golden center: her children’s children, and their children. For a while, you overlapped—you, your mother, your grandmother. Print dresses, summer gardens, an old jukebox, a canoe, the lake. Then it was only your mother, your beautiful mother. Who’d believe anything, with her ready, hopeful smile, but who was always lucky, despite being green. Then she was the grandmother, wise and canny, foretelling your mistakes, your joy, pain, love. It would be another long time—when you were nearly an old woman yourself—before you learned what they never said, your grandmother and your mother. That the blues passed from you to yours were first passed on from them to you. The blues, in so many shades, that never completely fade. Because you are the mother of men, it is the end of the women, but not of the stories. We’ll start with the blues, but move quickly now, because there’s little time, and so much more to say. Lynn Mundell Lynn Mundell is the author of the flash collection Let Our Bodies Be Returned to Us (Yemessee) [Chapbooks – Yemassee] and co-editor of 100 Word Story. Her writing has appeared most recently in Gone Lawn, The Masters Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and Hobart Words & Sports.  My Mother's Garden, by Dorothy Embacher (Canada) 2021 Welcoming Mama Buoyed in blooms amid cantos of colour you doze near the crimson recital of poppies. As you rest adorned in blossoms and gossamer dress coneflower hums to the rhythmical thrums of a scarlet sage welcome. As melodies spill in the chromas of lemon and dill silvery tones fill hybrid tea rose in this garden of song. In Anisoptera style you pause in the fragrance awhile your wings echo the shine the light and sublime of your soul. In dragonfly form you’ve returned to the softness of norm to the garden you shaped poured faith and heed into loam. Buoyed in blooms amid cantos of colour you doze near the crimson recital of poppies. As you rest adorned in blossoms and gossamer dress coneflower hums to the rhythmical thrums of a scarlet sage welcome. As melodies spill in the chromas of lemon and dill silvery tones fill hybrid tea rose in this garden of song. Blossoms unite honor the rebirth of life cheer for you sing for you welcome you home! Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts lives in Wisconsin, where she writes, draws and paints, and often photographs her natural surroundings. She’s authored seven books, five poetry collections and two illustrated children's books. Her newest collection, As If Labyrinth - Pandemic Inspired Poems, was released by Kelsay Books in April of 2021. Her poems appear in Anti-Heroin Chic, Blue Heron Review, Sky Island Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere. She’s an animal lover, a nature enthusiast, Best of the Net award nominee, and a poetry editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. Dorothy Embacher is a visual artist from Meaford, Ontario. Her creations are influenced by the waters of Georgian Bay and the woodlands of the Niagara Escarpment. Dorothy works in a variety of media, including painting, printmaking and collage. Her process is intuitive, shaped by poetry, personal experience, and collaboration, inspiring art from poetry, poetry from art, with a deeply environmental perspective. She has exhibited at Meaford Arts and Cultural Hall, Owen Sound Banner Project, and the 2020 International Telephone Game. Her latest work will be featured in the 608 Exhibition, to bring attention to 608 trees that may be destroyed by developers.  Brother and Sister (Mary and Gerald Thayer), by Abbott Handerson Thayer (USA) 1889 Say Uncle and nobody asks if I’m willing and they put me in charge of picking the casket and part of me is sure my father's voice booms a message take your brother and that’s crazy talk which is what they say happens and at the last minute I give my brother the nod and it’s the two of us on a mission and the dipso Florida sun looks hung over in mourning for one of its own and Christmas trees line the highway in bold pink ferocity and my brother is dressed for upstate that old Donegal tweed and the old man not even dead a day and already Mother putting aside the green wool Burberry and nobody asks what I’d like and my brother pulls my arm into the funeral home and it hurts like when he said it’s only a game and twisted waiting for me to cry and I never did and all the while Father sitting with his newspaper folded in thirds and my brother whispering say Uncle say Uncle say Uncle and Father stands and reaches for his pipe the scent of cherry tobacco filling the room and I say Daddy did you see what and he shakes his head and walks out and my brother stands by the ugly mahogany one and says this one looks good and as he heralds his choice a long line of caskets some open some closed silently cheer him on and my hands clasp tightly behind my back and my brother tugs my arm and pulls me closer and my arm hurts like always and I breathe in Donegal tweed and the scent of cherry tobacco hovers a double halo over our heads and my brother whispers I’m sorry about and the undertaker clears his throat and my brother says whatever my sister wants and just like that the pain in my arm is gone. Roberta Beary Roberta Beary has work in The New York Times, Atticus Review, Litro, New Flash Fiction Review, and the Best Small Fictions 2020, and Best Microfiction 2019/2021 anthologies. The longtime haibun editor at Modern Haiku, she recently collaborated on One Breath: The Reluctant Engagement Project, which pairs her writing with artwork by families of people with disabilities. Carousel, her most recent poetry collection, won the Snapshot Press UK book award contest. She lives in the west of Ireland.  The Tempest, by J.D. Collins (Canada) 1989 The Tempest It’s too intense she whispered to her new husband. The chalk pastel was a wedding gift from you, his best man. The artist. I imagine your hands seeking shelter in pockets or each other. Your mouth remains closed, smile tight, as the couple unwraps The Tempest, mounted professionally in a frame you could not afford. A personal gift. The canvas screams a message that only receptive ears can hear. The name isn’t original. For some artists, the tempest was a violent storm. For Shakespeare, it was love and betrayal. Freedom and repression. Art historians have tried to unlock the meaning of Giorgione’s La Tempesta. A breastfeeding mother, her pubic area exposed. A soldier smiles at someone outside the frame. Neither woman nor soldier seems to be aware of the gathering storm. His work remains a mystery but I see the unsettled clouds, feel the temperature drop. Wind licks the seaweed air. My memories permeate the scene like tea-stained paper. Repressed pangs of decisions I cannot take back. When I look into your Tempest, I see conflicted emotions. A cauldron of troubled brew. “This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.” You blend layer upon layer of meaning like the contours of a topographic map. Trails to follow through depressions, valleys and slopes. What do you see? Forests of despair. Mountains of hope. An ocean hiding unexplored depths. Everyone’s story is there somewhere beneath the surface. Yours, mine, others. The Tempest now hangs on my wall, purchased after the wedded couple returned it. Each stroke infused with your perceptions and biases. Intentional and unconscious lines and color, your narrative laid bare. Original. A female dancer poses for you draped in a sheet. You sketch from above, a bird’s eye view. Hours of observation and anatomical study honed to capture her fast-twitch muscles and explosive power. A body trained to express emotions with ease and grace. Your fingers slice through the current of doubt. Shall the feet be this large, this masculine? Shall the nose be longer, stronger? How many drafts end as crumpled papers shot into the wastebasket? How many sketches start on a fresh page? You stand back to view from different angles. Female. Male. Both. Neither. Questions ripple from the center. You like your modifications, a new story. Saltwater stings the eyes and floods the mouth. You light a cigarette. Inhale and exhale curls of turbulent truths. Keep your rudder in the water and face the bombardment of crushing waves. You come out. I see your fingers smudged with black, blue, and yellow chalk-pastel. A bruise at various stages of healing. Stephanie Reddoch Stephanie Reddoch is a retired educator and sommelier. She lives in rural Eastern Ontario with her husband and menagerie of rescued animals. She’s published in Sweet Lit and White Wall Review. When not reading or writing, she jogs, cooks, and hacks up golf courses. You can find Stephanie on Twitter at @brut11.  The stories written in these workshops with Meg Pokrass and Lorette C. Luzajic are everywhere! Seeing them in journal after journal and watching them in the process of igniting is so amazing. Some kind of magic happens in these collaborative workshops. They are warm and expansive, a space to take risks and try a new approach. With peer feedback and critique from Meg and Lorette, the stories are shaped and sharpened. It feels like a magical lab, where anything can happen.
Meg Pokrass is known for her stories about messy love, and her prompts that mine writers' imaginations for the theme. Lorette C. Luzajic loves digging into art to find the complexities, complications and beauty of our world reflected back at us. Join us for some enchanting, dramatic love stories in paint and leave with several of your own. This workshop is online, at your own pace, from June 23 to June 27. Click here for more information, or to sign up. Tritina after Trinity, by Kelly Latimore (Click here to view.) Blue sky, sun warmed where wings as wheat reach out. Temples rise from land where once was water. Three varied angels vow to nurture nature’s background. Unseen, a white-tailed deer bends to scavenge ground. Tannins thrash tongue, deer spits the acorns out. Humans leach their distaste out with water. Our better angels guide us to spit out bitter water. It’s three decades growth before acorns pounce the ground. Drought tough white oak it spreads not wearing out. From reservoir of groundwater, blossoms yet sprout. Mary Ellen Talley Mary Ellen Talley’s poems have recently been published in Banshee, Beir Bua, The Plague Papers and The Ekphrastic Review as well as in several anthologies. Her poems have received three Pushcart nominations and her chapbook, Postcards from the Lilac City was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
Join us: Facebook and Bluesky
May 2025
|