A Still Life
 
Miss Emma moves the objects around until they are in perfect dialogue with one another. The wooden mice, one longing to dance, one turning away. The doll with its expressive porcelain face, observing. The platinum teapot possibly the home of an elf. The lonely but small and sturdy pig. She caresses each one. These tinys, as she calls them, touch her child heart, rarely accessible with the weight of life and the passing of time.
 
The compartments of her printers’ tray, once filled with letters for hand setting type, now offer a home for these treasures. She’s gratified to be part of a long tradition. Cabinets of Curiosities,  also called Wonder Rooms, originated in the sixteenth century and housed oddities, art, and archaeological finds.
 
Her camera captures the arrangements. Through the camera’s eye, she immerses herself in this other world, and listens to the banter between her treasures—mice and milk bottles, silver snails and desert snails, books and sand dollars.
 
She records her imaginings in her Diary of Curiosities, started thirty-one years ago, all the more precious for its worn and faded red leather cover. The black and white pot, perhaps from the Acoma Pueblo in New Mexico, captures the long-eared rabbit with the slimmest brush. The clay jug the colour of the modest beauty of the desert.
 
She is dogged in her pursuit of the provenance behind each object, nuggets of information to inspire daydreaming. From The Miniature Book Society (chartered in 1983), she discovered that young Victorian ladies discreetly carried tiny books of etiquette to ensure they behaved properly.
 
Miss Emma is fond of objets trouvés, especially ephemeral offerings from the sea and desert. The white snail (also known as Eremarionta Immaculata), a hermaphrodite which survives in the desert by going dormant underground. Miniature sand dollars from Cayman Brac which clone themselves. Seaweed washed up on the western shores of Newfoundland; and a fragment of bone, now pure white, found on the edge of Lake Ontario.
 
Her small objects are mysterious and reassuring. Each tiny perfection entices her to look more closely, even whisper to them. They draw her into a secret world, a step away from the chaos and clatter and chatter of unruly everyday spaces. She’s always been solitary, inclined to invention, finding pleasure and reassurance in her own imaginings.
 
Today yet another clash on a busy street with the bully boys on bikes who swing around her in circles, laughing maliciously and chanting Witch! Witch! Witch! 
 
Miss Emma brushes off the outside world and constructs walls out of stories. She lowers her hunched shoulders and breathes deeply. Not defeated. No, never. She carefully re-arranges her tinys, listens to new conversations, and embraces the comforting intimacy of her treasures.
  
Linda Briskin 

Image from a photo series on printer’s trays by Linda Briskin titled A Still Life. Part of Luminous, a forthcoming exhibit at the Heliconian Club (Toronto) in October 2022.

Linda Briskin is a writer and fine art photographer. Her creative nonfiction bends genres, makes quirky connections and highlights social justice themes—quietly. Frozen Air, an editor’s pick, was published in CNF journal Barren in 2020, and What the Body Remembers in *82Review in 2021. Hubris is forthcoming in Canary. In her fiction, she is drawn to writing about whimsy, fleeting moments, and the small secrets of interior lives. In 2021, these flash pieces--Purple Polish and Red Silk—were published in Tipping the Scales, and Modest Sabotage in Cobalt Review. As a photographer, she is intrigued by the permeability between the remembered and the imagined, and the ambiguities in what we choose to see. She also seeks new ways to combine text and image. Recently, her photographs were published in The Hopper, Flare Journal, Alluvian, Canadian Camera, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Burningword Literary Journal and High Shelf Press. In 2021 and 2022, her photographs were chosen for the Herstory exhibit sponsored by Manhattan Arts International. https://www.lindabriskinphotography.com/

This week’s Throwback Thursday presents 15 fun, imaginative and surprising responses to an ekphrastic writing challenge based on the painting The Gallery of Cornelis van der Geest, by Willem van Haecht. Dive into this pool of poetry, haiku, essay and flash fiction. Each selection will leave you smiling and inspired.

Here are a few quotes to spark your interest!

“The doyenne of decluttering, simplifying, and organizing would not abide by this mess,” by Ann Maureen Rouhi, 

Megan D. Henson writing about justified agoraphobia, among other things, and  

the beauty of Maraam Pasha’s words, “Silver reflections off the water’s surface, Shone everywhere; from purple walls to indigo ceiling.”

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/willem-van-haecht-ekphrastic-challenge-responses

​

All That Has Begun Again

Patterns springing out of blue,
here eternal we can view,
pieced together, seeming whole,
climb to lead returning soul

to heavens granting fleeting berth
as legacy becoming earth,
a cosmic germ of life evolved
to consciousness still unresolved,

struggling to behold its Grace,
clinging to its time and space, 
seeing self as bloom and seed,
living gift of future's need

to know more clearly where it's been
as all that has begun again.

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

Cracked Chorus
 
Here in lies the question – which was first, concert or egg, not for
Instance any fowl poultry, nay, but egg-cellent revelry, harmonious
Evangelical hymns sung, flutist accompaniment, captive mandolinist, fine
Riesling swings in crockery, voices imbued solemnly, sans mockery though
On pates sat owl and crane, sing praises to his name, those illiterate will
Not read but hum or croon, lest sister wield raised switch- they participate,
Yes, in fiery twilight, among temptations reign serpent, raven, branches sat
Mutant tree from within concert, egged on by masses below, dare not to fear
Or dismiss the hymn as you pass this evening, pause to listen, perhaps join
Us in pious tune, after which a feast to celebrate welcomes you, alongside
Sanctimonious chorus, question not faith, cracked appearance not withstanding
 
Julie A. Dickson
 
Julie A. Dickson has dabbled in ekphrastic poetry for over four years, finding fodder in art, as well as other prompts. Her poems appear in Misfit, Pulse, Open Door and The Ekphrastic Review among other journals. Dickson advocates for captive elephants and shares her home with rescued feral cats, Cam and JoJo. She has served on two poetry boards and is a Pushcart nominee.

Unaware

I didn’t know it was jazz back then,
filling the house when I was a boy,
aurally, but visually, too,
abstract art on the cover of albums,
propped against the leg of a chair,
or a lamp on a table while the record played,
Mingus Ah Um, Getz/Gilberto,
Miles, Monk, Dave Brubeck, Take Five.
I only knew that Mom and my brother 
seemed to have a special relationship,
a secret connection when he’d
bring home a record, 
and put it on the record player
in our shared bedroom.
Mom would come in 
and sit on the bed, 
cross her leg 
like when deep in thought,
smoke a cigarette, 
tap her thin foot,
not on the floor, 
on a cloud just above it.
There’d be long stretches
when they wouldn’t talk,
but would listen, listen,
for I don’t know what,
equally lost in the geometry of space,
as the horn player dug cat claws
into my ears.
Right about then I’d always 
slip out, unnoticed,
with my ball and mitt,
and go find Denny for a game of catch.  

Lee Stockdale

​​Lee Stockdale has worked in many restaurants, as a house painter, in a car wash, as a New York City cab driver, and as a US Army Command Judge Advocate. His collection of poems, Gorilla, is forthcoming in the fall of 2022, and is available now for (discounted!) pre-publication order from Main Street Rag Publishing Company. Lee and his wife, a potter, live in the Western North Carolina mountains where they ride bikes, practice hot yoga, and feed the wild turkeys.

age is just a number

for A. Ali Khan


1.

This bench is definitely many years younger in age than I. Sometimes, he utters the statement rather loudly; other times, he murmurs it—as if laying a whisper in the mouth of the wind.

But, then again, age is just a number. One ought to stay young at heart! He rather prudently follows the preceding (as if a compulsion, really) with this salutation with a loud laughter, too—every time we meet i.e. 3 to 4 times a week at the park that sits right at the centre of our residential block—as an ever-vigilant guardian—and separates our streets.

2.

When I had immigrated to Canada back in the 80s, I used to earn my pocket money through painting—signs on the roads and old walls and lampposts in the streets; sometimes, even the buildings in Toronto, you know.

I still remember that elegant wooden bench: it was made form the Red Oak; the fruity scent of it—it’s still fresh in my head. It had emerald coloured iron arm rests and legs. It was my favourite bench on the University Street.

I used to take my lunch breaks on that bench: with my favourite sandwich—tuna with sweetcorn & garlic mayonnaise & cheddar cheese & lettuce & tomatoes on multigrain brown bread with a hint of Extra Virgin olive oil—from a local sandwich bar, which was run by an Irish family, on the very street, which had also moved to Toronto from Belfast around the same time as I did.

I didn’t mind sharing a few corn kernels with an occasional squirrel. It was a treat that I always looked forward to—especially, during the Summer. The Summer-Time in Canada is second to none in the whole wide world! My Make-Your-Own sandwich used to cost me 10 to 15 cents more than the Big Mac by McDonald’s, but it was worth every cent! My palate could never agree with the sense of plastic fast foods, really—that these Fordism inspired restaurants were feeding the people with. It still doesn’t, to be very honest.

You cannot imagine getting a Make-Your-Own sandwich with an absolutely organic-organic meat & cheese & fruits & vegetables served at any local cafes & bars here for < a dollar now, can you? Three to four decades ago or so, I think, people & things & relationships were more organic, you know.

I even had a nickname for it, that bench: Bucephalus—after Alexander’s black stallion, you know. (The horse is buried in Jalalpur Sharif—outside Jhelum in Punjab, Pakistan. And that’s where my ancestry belongs: to Punjab in India.) I would sit on it and ride away with many, many thoughts of future plans: making a name for myself in that foreign land, finding a handsome paying job, meeting a beautiful girl and settling down with her, starting my own family, and making my parents and family proud back home, you know. I was the first child in the family, who had moved to a Western country in his early twenties, you know.

What are the chances that that bench would still be there?

At an early hour of one hazy dawn, as we sat down on the bench to continue with our talk and ideas on politics, religion, science, art, architecture, et cetera, after an unusual long walk around the block that morning, he finally opens to me about his likings for the bench, which happens to be installed almost in the centre of the park, which happens to be compartmentalised into two parts: East Side, which contains the iconic basketball court of the colony, and also has a border of a small wooden fence; West Side, which is a Kinder-Garten of a sort, with a knitted steel fence around it.

3.

Once I did give a serious thought to the idea of becoming a painter in Toronto, you know; a rather very, very serious thought to even take up painting as a vocation, you know. I’ve always had a knack for painting, too. I’ve had a liking for artists & painters, too.

He adds with a hint of remorse. 

Oh! My daughter-in-law paints, by the way!

He shares the news with me rather proudly.

Saad Ali

This first appeared in  Ephemeral Echoes: Poems – Twenty Twenty-One Edition (AuthorHouse, 2021).
​
Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an (existential) philosopher, poet, and translator. Ali has authored six collections of poetry. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Management Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com, or his Facebook Author Page at www.facebook.com/owlofpines.

​Lucky 7: an Ekphrastic Marathon
 
Try something intense and unusual- an ekphrastic marathon, celebrating seven years of The Ekphrastic Review
 
Join us on July 17, 2022 for our craziest challenge yet! 
 
It’s an ekphrastic marathon! With amazing guest judges, Meg Pokrass for flash, and Brent Terry for poetry.
 
Write to fourteen different prompts, poetry or flash fiction, in thirty minute drafts.
 
We will gather in a specially created Facebook page for prompts, to chat with each other, and support each other. 
 
Time zone or date conflicts? No problem. Page will stay open for one week. Participate when you can. The honour system is in effect- thirty minute drafts per prompt, fourteen prompts. Participants can do the seven hour marathon or two sessions of 3.5 hours. 
 
Polish and edit your best pieces later, then submit five to our Lucky 7 e-chapbook.
 
One poem and one flash will win $100 each.
 
Thank you to our flash judge Meg Pokrass for the marathon technique.
 
Marathon: July 17, 2022 10 am to 6 pm EST (including breaks)
(For those who can’t make it during those times, any hours that work for you are fine. For those who can’t join us on July 17, catch up within one week.)
 
Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2022
poetry and flash, 500 words max- include a brief bio, 75 words or less
 
Chapbook e-anthology selections and winning entries announced sometime in September.
 
We are delighted to have guest judges Meg Pokrass and Brent Terry.
 
Meg Pokrass is the queen of microfiction, with nearly (or over?) a thousand journal credits. Her flash is widely anthologized in both small press publications and Norton’s. She is the founder of the Best Microfiction Anthology series and the New Flash Fiction Review. She has been a guest judge for many flash contests, at Mslexia and Fractured Lit. Meg is also well known for her microfiction workshops and creativity prompts. She is the author of The House of Grana Padano (with Jeff Friedman), The Loss Detectors, Spinning to Mars, and many more.
 
 
Brent Terry is an award-winning writer and a runner who teaches at Easter Connecticut State University. He won the Connecticut Poetry Prize and was nominated for the PEN Faulkner Award for fiction. He is the author of The Body Electric, Troubadour Logic, and 21st Century Autoimmune Blues, among others. He is an accomplished Spoken Word artist. He loves Dr. Pepper.

​Modern Art Note 6: Clyfford Still, PH-125
 
Say this is molten gold spilled in a hot smelting field 
Time measured
As things could thus be happening.
Say an idol melted down, 
                                        its bright blood screeched,
to a great red neuron, threaded and hooked
encrochier, and then  new ideas of white
And blue, a yellower than gold
Unravelling, colours showing through
                                       tearing their way in.
Add to the world’s visible things, unheard
the wild sounds imagined
                                       listening to gold.

Charles Tarlton