 Museum of Detroit Industry, North Wall Mural by Diego Rivera (Mexico) 1932-33 Museum of Detroit Industry, North Wall Mural Jesucristo, I tempered my message yet critics call the murals of Diego Rivera subversive? If you take umbrage at seeing the white and the colored working together, take a closer look at the colored fellow in blue overalls. See him pushing the cart full of engine blocks--eight cylinder engine blocks! For engines of unfathomable power. Does he look familiar to you? If you guessed Jack Johnson, heavyweight champion of the world, you win a free piston ring. I came thisclose to painting Jack brandishing his big fist. Frida kept saying, Do it. Do it, Diego. But no, I exercised restraint. I threw in a young Jesus despite my atheism, but still the priests condemn me as heretic. Do they object to my fusion, the image of the Aztec goddess Coatlicue in the stamping machine? Coatlicue made the moon and the stars, was the mother to the god of the sun, but Padres, I do not advocate a human sacrifice to Coatlicue. I do not even suggest that we roast a goat to honor her, I merely want to demonstrate the unity of America and Mexico, the oneness of technology and art. Do you see the man with the spectacles and the porkpie hat? In my sketches I gave him a much larger nose, knowing it would offend those anti-Semite Fords. Frida kept saying, Do it. Do it, Diego. Granted, I may have exercised self-interest in--well, let’s call it moderating--my composition. I couldn’t afford to lose this commission. But those critics have no idea how I hammered off the rough spurs of my world view, and filed down the edges of my beliefs to assure the smooth running of this engine of a mural. If I had my way I would have painted a team of workers in a dark corner of the shop floor building a guillotine for Henry Ford. Frida kept telling me, Do it. Do it, Diego. Do it. Flavian Mark Lupinetti, a poet, fiction writer, and cardiac surgeon, received his MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. His poems have appeared in Briar Cliff Review, december, and Sheila-Na-Gig. Mark lives in New Mexico where he hikes with his dogs and watches too much pro football on television.
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 Figure of a Male Rice Deity (Philippines) 19th century or earlier Figure of a Male Rice Deity definitely not god, it’s balding, smooth domed cranium glossy in the small display case. put a toupee on him, or may i suggest rogaine because it makes heads tingle. yet i move closer, level with its lozenge eyes, see its legs muscular, knees slightly bent. it’s father, lifting two-by-fours for flower beds while i follow with a drill and a box of screws. i wasn’t fond of hydrangeas or tomatoes. (i would’ve rather been scanning an atlas of new jersey.) but i was there as he carried galaxies after a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, where a patient expelled the entire universe all over his scrubs. and now i recall all those times he had his lips open, thin projection, tongue scolding the stars in retrograde because i didn’t understand what it meant to leave a country over oceans. i saw him a few days ago, his back, proper right side, and base somewhat eroded. he says, “if i’m still alive next year.” i tell him “you're unfortunately stuck with us for a while longer.” and even though for years people reminded me how much we looked alike, i never realized it until then. not exactly a true reflection because he bore more marks by metal blade, but close enough. in the philippines, the bulul is often passed down for generations, overseeing many harvest seasons and ceremonies. i’ve managed to keep a cactus and an orchid alive. back at his house, my father reminds me that he didn’t start losing hair until he was in his forties. i’m only in my mid-twenties. perhaps, this my version of a quarter-life crises. but we both laugh, rubbing the spot on our heads reserved for the insertion of a plume of hair. William Pagdatoon Editor's note: Italics are from artifact information from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. William Pagdatoon is the son of Filipino immigrants. Born and raised in New Jersey, he received his MFA from Queens College—CUNY. His interests include Filipino American identity, history, film, music, food, and anything else that catches his senses.  The Dance, by Andre Derain (France) 1906 Imitating Innocence We walked into the forest wearing costumes we did not understand, our bodies gyrated, hopped, imagined the survival songs of tree frogs to be a music made for us. We searched for our innocence, danced on the body of a snake because we’d read it once had a human voice and would not now be a snake, not here. Naked, we mimicked a movement we did not understand, and thought we had escaped a savage civilization. Repairing that society – it did not interest us. We protested our innocence, alone in those woods, whose citizens, alarmed, retreated into a darkness we did not understand. D. A. Gray D. A. Gray is the author of Contested Terrain (FutureCycle Press, 2017). His poems have appeared in The Sewanee Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Still: The Journal, Collateral Journal and Wrath-Bearing Tree among others. He earned his MFA at the Sewanee School of Letters. Gray now teaches, writes and lives in Central Texas.  The Crucifixion of Saint Wilgefortis, by Hieronymus Bosch (Netherlands) 1497 “Don’t Say Gay” Bill Passes in Florida Oh Wilgefortis Liberata Uncumber crucified by your father crucified like Christ crucified with eyes looking up not down while men point and men weep and no women allowed to tend you your disobedience? a soft beard a body you called your own my God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Oh Wilgefortis Liberata Uncumber with your arms wing-wide and wrists tied we kneel inside your poem where doves coo and candles flicker on the numinous altar of your courage Carey Taylor Carey Taylor is the author of The Lure of Impermanence (Cirque Press 2018). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the 2022 Neahkahnie Mountain Poetry Prize. Her work has been published both in Ireland and the United States and most recently in The Black Spring Press Group Anthology-Before the Cameras Leave Ukraine (London). She holds a Master of Arts degree in School Counseling and currently lives in Portland, Oregon. https://careyleetaylor.com  Artist, date, origin unknown. Artist Unknown Follow wheat buzzes with the wind, the soft tops tickle my palms. From a wood pile in a discarded field a roughhewn visage stares at me. Board nose & crooked mouth, chiseled face, silvered patina-- Artist unknown. Kept close for near five decades hung on walls from here to there. Disdained by some: Too crude, too poorly rendered, too stern, maybe frightening. Your starkness draws me. Reminds me of then. Then, what was coming—unknown. What had been—pushed aside. Crafting a lived story, breathing in the day, exhaling the future. Then was Jodie, David, Jimbo & Judy Blueskies, Owl Creek Farm, Fool on the Hill & Down the Road. Once, strangers gathered in yurts, & farmhouses. Cows milked, chickens fed, food harvested. Music, art & poetry were created. Wanting to remake the world-- thinking we had the answer. Then travelers wandered through, hoping to share our community. We partied, danced, denounced the war, spoke of injustice & railed against the man. Then was the annual pig roast. Short hair John Birch farmers with made families Long-haired hippies with chosen families, gathered, shared potluck, & conversations, as fiddlers' strings twanged, a square dance and called opposites to weave and reel together. Our journey from coast to coast, from North to South marked by explosive joy & shattering grief that threatened to break me apart. And yet you and I remain. I accept what life has given me. As I sit in stillness under your watchful eyes. Mary Chris Bailey Mary Chris Bailey is a retired pediatric emergency medicine physician. In retirement, she can often be found willing words to flow from her brain to the keyboard and onto the computer screen. Her work has been published in Please See me, Defenestration, The Gulf Coast Bards Anthology, and others. She lives with her husband and two dogs. Her dogs love her writing. Her husband is withholding judgement.  Portrait of a Polish Woman, by Amedeo Modigliani (Italy) 1919 Modigliani Knew Them All I noted the dolorous length of the face. The tilt of the delicate head as if in confusion or doubt. The hands placed demurely, though restlessly on the thigh bones. The thighs are covered in the coarse fabric of the sensible or the poor. The mouth is small with a confusion of muscles animating the appearance of misgiving, sadness. The jet black hair like a raven before flight. I recognized my foremother, in fact, all of my foremothers in her eyes. Modigliani knew them all, by each feature their passions, terrors, regrets and insincerities. With his brush he fashioned from a woman from paint who speaks to me across generations and time. A woman who he would immortalize on canvas, to be venerated and adored, though she be created in ambiguity and forever nameless. Michelle Reale Michelle Reale is the author of several poetry collections, including Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) Blood Memory (Idea Press, 2021) In the Year of Hurricane Agnes (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). She is the Founding and Managing Editor for both OVUNQUE SIAMO: New Italian-American Writing and The Red Fern Review. Surface Matters "The most interesting thing is what it is itself." Vija Celmins I saw two stones yesterday at the Met Breuer inside a plexiglas case. Identical, but one was stone the other cast in bronze and painted by Vija Celmins. What if you can't tell what's real if you can't tell a Rembrandt from a fake? If your husband dies after 68 years of marriage and no matter how many times your daughter tells you he's gone you don't believe it. A man came over to look his face close to the top of the box, and close to mine. We muttered like old friends our eyes going from one stone to the other-- which is which? We were unaware of being happy. On the way out I saw the people in the first room of the exhibit. I was jealous of them still locked in trance faces inches away from Vija's ocean drawings which appear to be photographs even close up. Vija spent ten years on the ocean drawings sharpening her pencil shading a wavelet shaping the larger undulation of the surface of the sea square centimetre by square centimetre. Lisa Olsson "I am a poet, artist and cellist living in the Hudson valley. My poems have been published in various literary journals such as The Westchester Review, BigCityLit, and Lumina, but a particular joy for me is when someone I know is walking in Sleepy Hollow and they come across the poetry walk and read my poem inscribed in the sidewalk. I play cello in the Yonkers Philharmonic Orchestra and with the Kort String Quartet. I draw and paint in my home studio. My experiences making art and music inspire my writing, and I enjoy letting the different modes of expression influence and inform each other."  The Collective Invention, by Rene Magritte (Belgium) 1934 Recipe for Salt-Baked Maidmer Ingredients * a marooned maidmer * three obols of Charon * skeins of kelp strands * moistened seasalt to cover * ginger, coriander, lemongrass, lime Method * rinse sand from the maidmer * gut her, keeping head intact * close each eye with an obol * insert the third in the mouth * trim dorsal and pectoral fins * shave the pubis * scrape silvery scales * pinion knees and ankles with kelp strands * lay maidmer on a bed of moist salt * stuff chopped aromatics in body cavity * mound maidmer with remaining damp salt * ensure there are no fissures * bake in a hot oven until done * allow to rest * crack the crust with a hammer and discard * serve at a banquet with thong-weed salad Christian Donovan Christian Donovan lives in Pembrokeshire, Wales and works as a part-time guide in ancient, beautiful Carew Castle. She leads ghost walks around the castle.  Misericord in Holy Trinity Shakespeare's Church (England) c. 1400s Misericord (or Lasciviousness) a conversation with a particular misericord at Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon The guide tells me, “She is a picture of transgression,” the bawdy, pictorial satire of the time telling all who cared to look, how far you ‘fell’, how low you are: a woman, not a man. He notes the loose hair. The nudity. The garland. The scroll. The stag you ride. Each coded rejection of social norms; of God’s truth; of Mary’s docile obedience. I think you look angry and free, a pattern of a woman who was other. A thing they refused to comprehend. Friend, you were the object of their fear: a wild creature that could not be tamed, or owned. (And I know a man carved you, for a man to sit upon, while a man told other men how they ought to think about the travesty of your unmanliness.) You’re bloody livid, after all these years, lurking under the choirboys, like a suffragette beneath a stage. Howling your disharmony, your discontent - and I get it, girl. They are still telling people what you mean. Lauren K. Nixon An ex-archaeologist enjoying life in the slow-lane, Lauren K. Nixon is the author of numerous short stories, The Fox and the Fool, Mayflies, The Last Human Getaway and The House of Vines, along with various poetry collections, including Wild Daughter, Marry Your Chameleon and umbel.. She has also written two plays - one on purpose! When she's not writing, she can be found pootling around the garden or library, researching weird stuff, making miniatures, annoying the cats, and playing board games. You can find out more at her website: (www.laurenknixon.com) Or check her out on Instagram (@laurenknixon) Facebook (@IndieAuthorLaurenKNixon)  Our English Coasts, by William Holman Hunt (England) 1852 I Wish to Return Home Untainted tranquillity breaches past my mind Waves of hills stretch out like stony arms, Rocks crunching underfoot As another step, Cautiously pushes forward, Beneath fingers of blackened cloud Gripping the trees, Uprooting, once lush green, Toxins smothering with a noxious seal. But here, we are clean. Pure and untainted by roughened hands Blades of grass, brace, swords pointed to the sky Allow me to walk along a little more to Rest my weary feet along the coastline. It is not long before their corruption will reach us, Gripping us by the curls sprouting atop our heads Tearing through the serene, Choking us with electric smoke, Spores will blister along our lungs, Tumours bleeding along the walls. Our feet unsteady we rise up We must continue along Our pilgrimage back to Where the waves Join to the towering cliffs, A blanket of blue hovering overheard. All the way back home. Millie Percival Millie Percival is currently studying literature and creative writing in university. She is especially interested in writing poetry on the Romanticism period in art history. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
July 2026
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