 The Houses of Parliament, by Claude Monet (France) 1904 Parliamentarians What weighty matter must they be debating — those so-important men -- What struggles inflame the very air that walls them in-- walls within walls, within which they storm and strut and pound fists against egos, demands, and absolutes. Truth is, this smoldering fog will slowly and inexorably blur their monumental self-importance, as — unaware -- they grow dim and then dissolve into the mist. Kathryn Paul Kathryn Paul is a survivor of many things, including cancer and downsizing. Her poems have appeared in Luna Luna; Intima; Rogue Agent; and The Ekphrastic Review. Kathy has recently transplanted herself to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she finds inspiration in the tenacious plants that insist on growing in the desert. Read Kathryn's poem after Remedios Varo, here. Read Kathryn's poem after the Venus of Willendorf, here.
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 In a few days, our intrepid ekphrastic writers will be writing fourteen drafts of poetry or fiction. The second annual ekphrastic marathon is in celebration of The Ekphrastic Review's eighth birthday. Every participating writer will work independently from wherever they are that day, connecting in a private Facebook group where they can share their drafts, engage with other writers, comment on the process, support each other, and look through an array of artworks and prompt ideas. It's all about devoting a day to ekphrasis and letting your imagination run wild. The thrill is in the surprise. None of us have any idea what we'll write, or how we'll come up with a draft in just 30 minutes. After the marathon, you can revisit your drafts and polish and develop them. You can submit up to five poems or stories before July 31. Selected works will be featured in a marathon showcase, published on The Ekphrastic Review. Last year this event was a smashing success with hundreds of poems and stories written. Let's smash last year out of the park and do it even better this year! Guidelines Marathon: Sunday July 16, from 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 16, catch up at a better time for you in one or two sessions only, as outlined above.) Story and poetry deadline: July 31, 2023 Up to five works of poetry or flash fiction or a mix, works started during marathon and polished later. 500 words max, per piece. Please include a brief bio, 75 words or less Participation is $20 CAD (approx. 15 USD). Thank you very much for your support of the operations, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review, and the prizes to winning authors. Selections for showcase and winning entries announced sometime in September. Sign up below! Lucky 8 Ekphrastic Marathon
CA$20.00
An all day ekphrastic marathon on Sunday July 16, 2023, celebrating eight years of The Ekphrastic Review. Eight hours, fourteen drafts. Polish drafts later and submit your five favourites! Poetry and flash fiction. Marathon will be held in a private Facebook group with multiple prompts to choose from, one every thirty minutes. If date or time zone don't work for you, we have alternative participation options!  The Census at Bethlehem, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Bruegel, in modern day Netherlands) 1566 The Census at Bethlehem In Bruegel’s world it’s all Flanders, a landscape without the angels, no heavenly aspect to the event which is about to take place. Raphael would have painted a great green space, cherubim, seraphim, and hosannahs, but here it’s all plain and no sort of Mediterranean idyll. No one’s looking at the actors in the play, those two parents in the foreground and their precious cargo of infant. No one’s interested in that pair; instead people are busy chopping, cooking, skating, or crowding around the officials behind their desks, anxious to render whatever Caesar wants now. The painter knew well how utterly we are occupied with today, that we pass our lives expecting nothing special-- not thoughtless, but simply tired-- and when snow is on the ground, hoping mostly that the fires will burn, that warmth might conquer the cold, unprepared for any miracle that might occur before our eyes, whether in breath of spring or death of winter-- and before you move to the next picture, look carefully in the corners-- that’s where you might see yourself. Michael Bourgo Michael Bougo resides in State College, Pennsylvania, where he teaches for Penn State Outreach, leads several writing groups, mentors aspiring writers, and organize scommunity poetry readings. His work has appeared in several periodicals over the years, but of late he has mostly self- published. Writing is his retirement vocation, and he works actively in a number of genres, including light verse, prose poetry, and formal verse.  A Woodland Walk, by Diana Ferguson (USA) 2020 Because Grace is Often the Small Thing in a pause before kneeling Woman yielded to warm red throbbing nested in her hand yielded to a never forgetting in a beholding before stooping to return red warmth to waiting Bird before releasing communion beneath shared trees Sarah Scott Sarah Scott is the author of the mystery, Lies at Six (Krill Press, 2012; Sarah Scott, 2013) and has written for newspapers (The Seattle Times, The Olympian, Memphis Business Journal) and magazines (Billboard, American Cinematographer, Media Inc.). She has extensive experience as a writer/producer/director for television and other types of video production. Her poetry appears in the anthology Barricaded Bards, Poems from the Pandemic (Pisgah Press, 2021) and is on permanent display at the Olympia Center in Olympia, WA.  Breton Eve, by Paul Gauguin (France) 1889 The Rise The dissolving scales lay on his body like hammered pearls. His tongue, once so lithe, was strange and heavy in his mouth. Mythless. Unworded. Lights flashed--red, amber, green--beyond the slab-littered rise. Invisible monsters rushed and roared there. He followed her as she strode toward them, weaving through the R.I.P.’s and BELOVED OF…’s. “Beloved.” The word drifted in his memory like smoke; hardened into “Begone.” He shuffled on unfamiliar feet, the cool slither of grass against skin a remembered deliciousness. She didn’t look back; she had never once looked back. Her unbound hair, tangling with the wind, was the same bold brown as the seeds clenched in her fist. Donna Shanley Donna Shanley studied literature and languages at Simon Fraser University, and then (of course!) wild orangutans in Borneo. She lives and writes in Vancouver, B.C., where she can see mountains and sometimes, a half-inch of ocean. Her flash fiction has appeared in Vestal Review, Ellipsis Zine, and Flash Frontier. Editor's note: One core conviction at The Ekphrastic Review is that writing is thinking. Writing about art means thinking about the image and all of its thematic and symbolic possibilities. We believe it is one of the best ways to learn about art because it includes automatic contemplation of that image, even if just for a few moments while we conjure a small poem. Art is an invitation to communication. It connects us to the ideas and expression of the individual artist, giving us a window to another’s soul, ideas, perspectives, feelings, and experiences. The relationship between the artist’s work and the work of the viewer is different every time, renewed with each new audience connection. And each connection magically ignites a conversation between past and future, between then and now, between different people but also different cultures, different beliefs, and different experiences. Those drawn naturally to The Ekphrastic Review are usually people who already have an interest in art and art history, writers who want to learn more about art and explore the ways it can inspire their own craft. But the journal is also, in some ways, what you might call “evangelical.” We love to share this invitation or window into art with others in hopes that they might discover the magic for themselves. We want everyone, from all walks of life, to experience the profound insights and connections and inspiration that contemplating art can bring. So we are thrilled that teachers like Elizabeth Jorgenson extend the invitation to ekphrasis to her students. When Elizabeth approached us about curating the selections of art and publishing some of their works we said yes, yes, yes. We are bombarded with millions of images every day. The simple act of contemplating a few of them more carefully can change our relationship with images. Writing is one of the most meaningful ways to engage with images. As the journal’s founder and editor, I was amazed at the thoughtful poetry submitted in response to the three paintings I chose. Reading through these works, I felt astonished at how much thought went into each poem, at the variety of ideas presented, at how each writer addressed or interpreted the different themes. My task was to choose a selection of works to publish in this showcase. The more I tried to pick a few, the more I felt I was leaving out. Since the class size was not too large, I asked Elizabeth if it would be okay to publish all of them in this case. Thank you so much to Elizabeth and to every writer who participated. I am proud to share the students’ talent, creativity, and insight in The Ekphrastic Review for our readers. I hope each of these young writers continues to pursue art and poetry in their futures. Best wishes, Lorette  Untitled (Black, Orange, and White on Blue, No. 16), by Mark Rothko (USA, b. Latvia) 1961 The View of No. 16 by Mark Rothko A chill fall night. Leaves falling left and right. A night scarier than usual. A night where fear and happiness are mutual. Black cats scurry across the way. The unknown seeps into the bay. But little Cinderella charges out to start her quest. The ultimate test, fighting off zombies and witches, to find her riches. Racing superheroes down the block, a race where she does not walk. Following the black sky which has no end. Darkness which isn't her friend. Finding her treasure, which fills her with pleasure. Orange like a pumpkin, but she is no bumpkin. White as the moon, the treasure will be found soon. Candy corn, a treat the princess mourns every year. Amelia Altmann ** Peace from the Horizon The White fluffy clouds cover the Sky So peaceful as the world flies by The constant, comforting cover remarkably snow White, Fading Sunlight seems to cast away any plight Clouds converge to meet, Above the calming center of citrus-orange heat Clouds like a blanket, making a nighttime routine complete The Sun acting like an all seeing eye, sitting low in the Sky, Like an Orange on a branch barely yay-high The Orange finally dips to meet the cold dark ground beneath It’s almost as if the world is asleep Underneath Elyse Jungbluth Author's note: "(The sunset) was my inspiration for that poem. The piece of art created by Mark reminded me of a cloudy sunset meeting the horizon line. Something about the piece seemed oddly comforting and to me, it felt the same as sitting on the beach after a long day in the sun watching the sun set. The piece seemed so calming, so minimalistic. Sunsets also seem minimalistic to me, they are a process that happens every day without fail and they don't require a lot of thought or effort on our part which is why my poem relates to the piece. Sunsets are peaceful and in my opinion are seen as a time for reflection so I wanted that energy to be reflected in the poem." ** Untitled Stripes, filled with black, orange, and white These colours seem to blend and mix Lost in a stream of dark and light As the colours bring together a fix Perhaps it speaks of love and hate The dance between the light and dark A balance we must create As we head through life and embark Yet orange lies between it A balance amidst the polarity A balance created so none shall fall So those in the world can dance in harmony Outside the world of what we recognize A blue expanse, dark and unknown Tread with care and be wise In a deep blue sea, ominous shadows are prone Austin Kempen **  Kayley Littaritz ** Bands The canvas, deep and blue, in a sense invokes the ocean, embodies a vast and untapped space. Yet this canvas is neither vast nor empty, as its space is filled with bands. The top, the largest: a white band, its top fading into the canvas as a cloud into clear sky. The pure white light, though greyed through time, overwhelms with its joy the remainder of the dark canvas. The bottom: a black band, its looming shadow contrasting the white. This band is the demise to white’s purity night to white’s day or death to white’s life. Its shadow wavers barely with a hint of blue from the canvas but its strength in demise reigns strong. In separating these, the middle: a gold band. Like the object of human endeavor, the thin gold charts a path through the ocean of the canvas between the white purity and the black demise. Alexander MacKay ** Sunset Over the Horizon The sun setting over the dark trees. On the lake with a nice calming breeze. The white clouds in the sky, as the sun brightens the eye. The blue water reflects the light. Making the sun feel very bright. As the sun lowers into the trees the sky darkens, and the light from the moon begins to sharpen. Brady Mechenich ** The Unconscious “The purpose of art: to make the unconscious conscious.” Richard Wagner A man sits, while his eyelids fight to stay open figures try to change the notes, while they stay broken In his dreams he prays for a solution although, they invariably answer in allusions Waking up, he feels he is missing something though he doesn’t realize his dreams created a hidden reply he tries and tries and lets out a sigh “Why oh why won’t it work this time?” His hand slowly starts to move, under the control of his mind he feels as though his conscious and unconscious became intertwined only then was the reply in his dreams shown with it, harmony became known Luke Melotik ** Life The first part of my life was white. As white as a dove, pure and loved. Nothing was done wrong, everything was new. The love was plentiful, overflowing from everyone. From mothers to grandmothers dresses to churches fathers and cartoons. The beginning was true. The second part of my life was orange. As orange as fire, burning and free. With each step was a new adventure, a new opportunity to grow. Running through the flames was a child, free as the fire itself. With angry mothers and absent fathers, the middle burnt into my mind like a hot seatbelt. The last part of my life was black. As black as the night, dark and unforgiving. Mindless days of work, the day ending on the couch with a cold drink and tired eyes. The loneliness loomed, and so did the darkness. Every day felt the same as the last. The world was unforgiving, with missiles and bombs alike. The world became real, all throughout the night. Brenna Murphy ** Intricacy in the Unadorned Art, adorned with detailed design, and complex construction, evokes emotion. Yet, one does not need fanciful intricacies. Indeed, found in the unadorned, lies the intrinsic quality of art. Three simple rectangles, not even or regular in size display intense meaning. Blinding white, like the pure innocence of the soul, saffron like the spark of the ancient flame of life, and black, that which marks the great abyss of death. All contained within the deep, blue, endless sea of existence. Three simple shapes, four simple colours, never ending possibilities. never ending interpretations. From which the intricate web of life can be seen, from the first steps, to the last breath. Three shapes and four colours, capture the joys of the orange flame of life, the black inescapability of death. Contained within the simple exists the complex, within the complex exists the simple. Gazing upon the fundamentals, one recognizes, the intricacy contained in the unadorned. Nicholas Perry ** Colours of Life White as the clouds above, clouds in the sky make up the same colour as snow. The snow shows the color of a dove, the dove flying makes the sky flow. Orange paints a picture in the mind, the sunset makes people happy. Happiness will not let them become denied. When people see it, it makes them chappie. Black, the beast of the world. The blackness turns the life away, the sadness makes the mind whirled. The darkness of people create them to betray. Blue is the colour of the sky, which makes anything limitless to apply. Hayden Russ ** The Favourable Three “The ancient Greek philosopher, Pythagoras, postulated that the meaning behind numbers was deeply significant. In their eyes the number three was considered as the perfect number, the number of harmony, wisdom and understanding.” (Welsh National Opera) The serenity, the solitude, the loneliness. The gentle sun, the rolling clouds, the beating rain. The perfect pair, the newly wed, the newly widowed. The cheerful, the content, the desolate. The early morning, the afternoon, the midnight. The busing crowd, the quiet whispers, the dead silence. The rising action, the climax, the end. The starting mark, the race, the finish. The adolescence, the young adults, the funeral. Paige Taylor  Harmony, by Remedios Varo (Mexico, b. Spain) 1956 Untitled A young man alone in a room with his thoughts, Pondering the idea of music and imagining that sound, The two strands of chords click in his head, He sits silently imagining the sound of music and rearranging notes, Birds fly into his quiet room, At first he thinks of them as a disturbance but then he realizes they are music too, The chirps and flaps of the birds start to combine with his music to create a song, Quickly the man writes down the notes to not forget them, The Man opens his box to find more instruments for his symphony, The room is now swelling ideas of music and chords and rhythms, The man is ready to show the world what he has created, Only if he knew that he would change history. Javier Gamino ** Two A man sits swiftly in the protection of a church, he listens to the psalm of two angels, Their melodies blend together to make the perfect rhythm. He then hears the chirping of two birds, they blend together with the music, this melody almost puts him to rest, but not quite. So, he then opens one of the two chests, so he can add to the angels singing, This tune would put him to rest. The church echos with beautiful sounds: birds chirping and angels singing. He falls asleep to the two harmonies. Rylee Wessley ** The Spirits As I sit and think, I feel something strange, a presence perhaps, felt all around, a presence perhaps, that makes no sound. The birds fly around as I wonder, who sits before me, changing my harmony? And who sits behind in the corner of my room, adjusting the tune? I feel them all around, but they make not a sound. The presence grows and consumes my mind, I feel it all around, rising from the ground, emerging from the walls, but still no sound. I sit in thought and wonder, what do they want? The feeling it consumes me, pulling me in every direction, as I wonder, is it my time to go? Layla Slife ** Secret Song To you, it may seem futile. A hopeless, exhausted endeavor. As if one person were attempting to play every note of every instrument of an orchestra In harmony. Scattered throughout my dim, hollow chamber, the works of such composer. You can see the madness, but not the method. The notes but no song. “What's the secret?” you ask, “What sounds can you hear?” To you, it may seem chaotic. Prisms and plants, strung together in hopes they will sing. Will the geometric and organic ever play a song in tune? I hope, just as you, to unlock this melody of our world’s vibration, soon. Landon Kozlowski ** The Abandoned Music Room A musty blue smudged across the walls, like stormy clouds rolling in. Cut up paper shreds pasted on, her face hidden within. The room smelled of old newspapers. Blocks of haziness plastered on the floor. Chests full of old crumpled up music notes, of the songs she used to sing and hum, in her tomato red chair. The music still echoes within the room. The old decorations of different vases hanging on the wall full of dust. A rotten banana like blanket, she would cover herself with, late at night. When she wanted to be alone, and find herself through what she loved most, music. Isabelle Berres ** The Spirit Of Music Music is an art that heals in times of darkness. An art that saves people in a time of need. The walls are colourless, crumbling, and cracking. Their gray dullness strengthened by the sands of time. The tiles are brown, battered, and broken. Their once bright blues and golds, tainted by the test of time. The clouds outside are brown, dark, and dirty. Their once bright fluffy whites, polluted into brown and grey darkness. I sit here, alone, yet not alone, carefully creating my masterpiece. I sit here as songs of love, life, and light fill my mind and space. I pay no mind to the brown haze of my world outside. I pay no mind to the dark deterioration of my room. In my eyes, I see angels, grey yet magical, in the deteriorating walls. In my eyes, I see plants and souls, small yet determined, escape the fragmenting floor. Songs of love and life, only fathomable by angels, fill my heart. Songs of growth and spirit, only possible by life, surround my body. Such is my world, dark, colorless, and deteriorating. Such is my life, alone yet not alone, creating my masterpiece. So I continue, my music powering my spirit, pushing it to continue. So I continue, my world seemingly dark, but to me, brighter than ever. Gavin Dai ** The Sounds of Life and Death What sound truly encapsulates life? Gaia lurks in the air, considering each possibility on a harp string: the shell, the leaf, the stone. What sound truly encapsulates death? Nyx appraises the same materials; could one be the sound? The neglected roots strewn across the floor say no. The never-ending search continues a room’s distance away from each other. Maybe, the sound of life and death is the same. After all, life and death are two sides of the same room. Lily Liu ** Perfectionist A poem about being stuck by the fear of not reaching your full potential. I am a perfectionist. My body sitting here for years trying to make my music just right These walls that surround me peel away from my everlasting fear of not being enough. This room that I've spent every spare moment in is getting messy. The colours that were once bright and beautiful, feeling like a fresh start, have dimmed to the dark thoughts I will never live up to my full potential Nettie McClutchy ** Untitled The lady peacefully sits in the middle of the room This room is buried under 100 feet of solid rock building There is no escaping Her name is wang The tiles on the floor inspire her to create a beautiful piano piece She spends hours constantly thinking in this room The walls block out every bit of distraction from her thought The ladies on the wall are the goddesses looking down on her to inspire her every move The goddesses give her strength to keep pursuing the challenging art career They keep her in this room for hours until she is satisfied with her work will she be let out Will she survive the inspiration room? Ava Popp ** The Ancient Room The colour of ash fills the room, covering every wall. The cherry wood box with fragile glass, vases with slim stems, leaves attached the same colour as the box by the entrance. The harmony of past memories echo through the hollow room. Projected through the old woman’s thoughts memories of old. The presence of past lives breaking through the walls. Floor patterned with dullness with nature and the past breaking the barrier below. The bed lay above nicely made with a curtain only a ladder can reach. A book shelf lie under the bed, hoisting the bed like royalty in the small side room. Outside the room leads to an eternity of nothing. Braden Schilling ** The Struggling Composer Up all night, working in the shadows, trying to develop new music for piano players around the world. Up all night, harmony after harmony, head down, pencil in hand, trying to write a composition for piano players. Up all night, pot of tea after pot of tea, trying to compose the perfect piece for piano players. Up all night, no rest for weary, the struggling composer striving for something new for piano players to play. Up all night, the composer wants to leave a legacy behind, so he stays up all night working on the best piece for piano players to play. Isabella Schkeryantz ** Outside These Walls Static Hissing Ringing It almost sounds like bees. But no, it couldn’t be, bees can’t survive in our world. Not anymore. Static Hissing Ringing our skies darkened our air lost its weight our bees lost their breath. I can’t make out the voices. Not anymore. Static Hissing Ringing Are they in the walls? Are they in my head? If I could just tidy up, if I could just care for my home, maybe everything will sound clearer. Joelle Winn Author’s Note: This poem is supposed to show the perspective of the character in the room, reflecting on how the world has turned into an inhabitable environment, and the lack of picking up after themselves leads to hostility. This is shown in the character's own room with the messiness of the floor and walls, and the symbolism of organizing all the pieces into harmony, or a less hostile world. ** Creation Gloom envelopes around the light, the light of creation. One note after another, constructs of previous works scattered. Instruments of creation, shelves upon shelves and tiles upon tiles. Alone sits a man. In tune with the staff. Enveloped by creations. Lifts each tool, each piece, each idea. Man sees his creation, and desires perfection So as creation goes. Braden Wirth ** Perfect Song The people below, headed towards the mysterious room. The strings he strung, broke his mood. The treasure once locked from the box, flowed through the room. The darkness from inside him, started changing from within. As the green curtain swayed, his mood had changed. That once terrifying mood, caused a wall to be dark blue. But as the song had played in the room, the wall changed to a more light blue. The people peering through, to get a good look, were in awe at the sight, of what a song could do. With the rhythm of the song, still flowing in, the man was finally at peace. He accomplished making, the “Perfect Song.” Gianna Woida ** The Unconscious’s Unity Pale and gaunt, the sculptor strings items of nature, of humans, onto a musical score, creating an abacus of objects of life. Ghostlike fabrics and colourless vegetation seep from a tiled floor, from lifted tile stretching upwards, far from the sky. The sculptor is assisted by figures in tears of the walls. Faces emotionless. Forearms outstretched to fiddle with the sculptures. Prisms and potted plants litter the floor. Birds streak and rest in a chair. A bed is inside a wall. The outside of the sculptor's room is a brown haze. Through the confusion, only the sculptor’s subtle smirk brings harmony to his work. Jonas Zhang ** Untitled Beside me lay my box of ideas. Some fit, some do not, some will be saved for later. My face withers away in exhaustion but my mind is too tightly tied to the task at hand. I carefully craft the melody so that it lays parallel to my vision in mind. I work so intently that some ideas have fallen away from the box and made a new home on the cold tiled floor. The floor’s cool comfort is not a stranger to me but I keep on warm socks because I know as time goes on my toes will freeze. My visions of my music come to me from the past and from the future. They combine new and old ideas to create the perfect harmony. The future is bright and up-front with me helping me curate the thoughts that leak from my mind into the melodies of my music. The past sits alone in her shadowy corner. She is reserved, and she is alone. The memories of the past crawl back into the floor tiles to be forgotten but the most important ones stay unchanged like strong marble pillars protected and locked in a green box. When I need an old memory of an idea I sit back in my old wooden chair and dig through my green box for the perfect one. As I work at my melodies I draw inspiration from the pair of birds that call my old red chair home. I now settle for my stool but I don’t mind because they give me company. They have a pair of eggs that sit incubating in their nest. I await the day they hatch, grow up, and take their parents' place. Of course, that is all in the future which is destined to one day become the past. Ava Ziegler  Harmonizing, by Horace Pippin (USA) 1944 An American Original This is America. A sweet summer day. We relish shoulder to shoulder. This is America. Sweet sounds of our voices drift through the neighbourhood. This is America. Are we free? Is it over? A fresh beginning, fresh shavings of grass, fresh new clothes, fresh smiles. This is America. We wait by the church, praying. West Chester. This is America. The street my kids will grow up on, life, warmth. America gives us comfort and so we sing a song. This is America. The neighbours gallantly smile to our tune. I can feel it. Odd fades of hope. This is America. The stark fence stares at me. And We stare back with promise. “We’ll paint you.” The fence softens. He says, “I’ll protect you.” The bullets the fence has taken. I say “Thank you,” “Thank you so much”. This is America. We need to bring peace. We need to bring hope. For America. Double victory. We’ll help. We are one with everyone. We are the same. We demand. We plead. We fight. Because…This is America. Manasi Karthikeyan ** Time for School The illuminating sun lights the streets. The streets branch in a plethora of directions. The directions children scurry to school. The school produces smiling children as the illuminating sun. The illuminating sun soaks on our faces. The faces smile nervously scrunched gloomingly at the bus stop. The bus stop is a ticking time bomb. The ticking time bomb counts down as the yellow bus appears. The yellow bus appears reflecting off the illuminating sun. Time for school. Ella Kempen ** The Collection Men chat over yesterday's news, Police chase, car accident, shoplifters, They talk as fast as lightning, Employment, children, life, The chatter between the men doesn’t last, They step away, And step back singing, Singing for EMPLOYMENT, Singing for their CHILDREN, Singing for LIFE, The collection of voices fill the street, With a sweet melody, And above all, They fill it with HOPE. Megan Okey  The Unburdening, by Lucy Corwin (UK) contemporary Retrieval In a pool beneath the sun-stained glass seal-sleek she drifts weightless trusting the water. She’s slipped the grip of a hurried life and it’s larceny, remembering where she began. This body in liquid, suspended― corded to sun corded to air slowing the ending by finding the beginning, floating in this sacred pause. No longer parched and starved― breath by breath breath by breath lifting to light, she retrieves her skin. Lucy Griffith Happiest on a tractor named Mabel, Lucy Griffith lives on a ranch beside the Guadalupe River near Comfort, Texas. As a retired psychologist and rancher, she explored the imagined life of the Burro Lady of Far West Texas in her debut poetry book. We Make a Tiny Herd was published by Main Street Rag and has gone on to win the Wrangler Prize for Poetry as well as the Willa Literary Award for Poetry. Lucy received a Bread Loaf Scholarship in Poetry. Wingbeat Atlas, poems and images of our citizens of the sky, has just been released by FlowerSong Press.  Fish Magic, by Paul Klee (Switzerland) 1925 Fresh Off the Vine Within the garden they pick fish off the vines, fresh and shimmering. The ripest ones barely struggle, but fall apart on the bone, rainbow scales scattering like sharp petals on the watery pavement. Soft-skinned children gather them by the basketful, their daily duty. Bubbles trailing behind, they propel to waterlog-framed houses with a home-grown dinner. No doors can open, no windows can close. Those who drift without lodgings sleep over the post office foundation, near the old clock tower, floating inches off the dirt. Sometimes they tie themselves to bike racks, in case a current carries them afar. They stretch and mumble morning greetings, water tangling in their vocal chords. Whatever needs to be said, has already been said. Shadows of waterfowl pass over like oblong clouds, light shining through webbed feet. Light shines through the fingers of the soft-skinned children too–gossamer water threads trailing, bony knuckles peeking through. They avoid the graveyard, stones slick with algae and silt. Fish don’t grow there on the vine. The garden flourishes elsewhere, as many fish as they can carry. Janna Miller Librarian, mother, and minor trickster, Janna has published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Cheap Pop, Whale Road Review, Best Microfiction 2023, and others. Her story collection, All Lovers Burn at the End of the World is forthcoming from SLJ Editions in 2024. Generally, if the toaster blows up, it is not her fault.  St. Francis of the Guns, by Beniamino Bufano (USA, b. Italy) 1968. Photo by Rob Corder, via Flickr. (CC BY-NC 2.0) What to Do With Our Guns First, disassemble them, saw off the tips, remove the clips, unhinge the hammers. Now give the parts to people who make art, like Al Farrow who created a divine rendition using guns and spent ammunition, a gothic cathedral with barrel columns, spires of shotgun shells, butt ends of casings arranged as a rose glass window. Yes, give these weapons to artists, I say, let them play, force on us a new perspective, provoke awe and inspire reflection. Melt that metal down into something more profound like Bufano did in the 60s, 1,968 guns turned in, reforged to make St. Francis, nine feet tall, outstretched arms in peaceful greetings, robes inlaid with mosaics faces of murdered American leaders. Install him on a college campus as guardian monk, bulwark against all this madness. What if we gave up our guns to make metal-toed boots for shoeless refugees, or cooking pots to simmer a stew for the starving or exchanged the bullet lead for pencils instead? Let’s use our weapons to build a plane shaped like an angle, charter it for a return trip, bring back our untimely departed. Morgan Ray Morgan Ray was born in Utah. She lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for four decades then returned to Salt Lake City just in time to witness the impending environmental disaster of the disappearing Great Salt Lake. She lives near Emigration Gap, a split in the mountains where pioneers entered the valley. She’s sure she would have been a lousy pioneer, questioning the authority of anyone who thought it was a smart idea to settle next to a salty lake. She has two poems about to be published by Dos Gatos Press in, Unknotting the Line: The Poetry in Prose and is about to release her second book, Unsolicited Greetings, a collection of post card poems.  Santo Guerro, by Al Farrow (USA) 2007. Photo by Rob Corder. (CC BY-NC 2.0)  Man Lying on a Wall, by L.S. Lowry (UK) 1957 Lowry's Colours This man, I thought, was not ill, only weary, seeking the warm, friendly wall to support his rest, a place to pause in the flurry of the day amid the smoking chimneys He was but one of the many exhausted workers that captured my attention with their drab poverty and pale pinched faces as they marched together, toiled in the elemental mills, took their leisure in the parks To honour me for showing him and all the others to the world you have built an edifice in my name on the docks, by the mighty Ship Canal Oh Manchester, Manchester I thought you would have understood it was the colour of the brick that I loved slick with the sheen of rain, dappled by cloudy skies. Ivory black, vermillion, Prussian blue, yellow ochre, flake white I needed only my five colours to paint your industrial scenes I never sought an honour in my lifetime only praise from my painting peers now you have put my name on this huge and burnished building all silvered steel and glittering glass for which there are no colours in my palette Frances Owen Frances Owen lives in Salisbury, England. Now retired from a career in public health, she writes poems about the places she has lived in Africa as well as about health issues, social justice and inequality. Having had a number of academic papers published, she is now working on her first poetry pamphlet and a memoir. She workshops her poetry with a number of writing groups. A member of Lapidus, she facilitates Writing for Wellbeing Groups with the WEA, at her local doctors' surgery and for Wiltshire and Salisbury Museums. |
The Ekphrastic Review
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July 2025
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