I, the Ripened Orange i. In the middle of the night, I awake with watery eyes from the memory of being a child. In the dream, I am peeling away at an orange and my fingers are wet and sore from digging at the rind. The citric stench of ripe childhood itches my nostrils, (but I accept it for its benign sting, because like the bared orange, vulnerability once came easily.) I peel for you. We sit cross-legged on the floor, faces flushed with a fiery glow. I am certain that our paths have been dovetailed into one, but I am too buried in youth to know nostalgia, and all that occupies me is a star-stapled headstrong confidence of knowing [you] forever. I cleanly break the fruit’s flesh into two and I happily give you a half, and then I realise: I have offered you half of me. I remember this moment so vividly that if I were to reach out I think I could draw it back into my chest like a jumping heartbeat — but whether it was maybe a fraction of a fortnight, six years, or ten summers ago I doubt that you’ll be able to recall. I still think about it, you know, but the essence of you has now become so lost that the only way I try to summon this impossible warmth is by (pretending) thinking of the faded shadows of your hands sliding slowly across my torso; And I think I’ve become a heretic, for the only thing I’ve really ever worshipped is that once raw radiance of mine, which has been snuff’d out like a burnt bulb that has done its time shining bright. And as I lay here, yearning for it to return, I try to hold onto the thought of us happily devouring those oranges, knowing that was the last time I ever did anything without inhibition. (If only I’d known that most citruses sit bitterly on the tongue.) ii. (Nothing about me is organic anymore.) I don’t think you notice but I now wear Sicilian oranges on me like an antique necklace, and I’m thinking to myself while I smile at you, “O, why have I taken you with me these years like a hex’d souvenir?” The scent sits like cling film on top of my skin and I don it like a cloak so I can sink and shrink back into my slippery sockets. Every now and then, I stand very still in the shower, whilst my hands scratch furiously at my soul as though they are begging for it to reveal itself to others. But I’m fairly sure that if I were to shave myself down to the bone, I’d find that I’m no longer sturdy and white and that I’ve become brittle and yellow with the unwanted knowledge that condemns me to the reality that I am, in fact, my mother’s child. I’ve observed how my phalanges creak and my voice inflects the same way as hers, and with every question of yours that I respond to, I hear myself growing [painstakingly] aware that she is: echoed and hammered and forged into my very being. (It’s funny how even though I am defined by this hereditary infection, I am further than ever from knowing who I am.) So as I sit here with you, I find that when you ask me how I feel about myself, most of the time I simply shrug, worrying that I would take too long to think if I were to answer your questions. And as I swallow my sentences and look up to the blank ceiling, I pray to god that you are too deaf to notice that my speech has become pockmarked with jagged reprieves like bloody hangnails dragging on white silk. It’s almost like I seem to have trouble acknowledging that the truth is: I am just a rotten pearl that has lost its childhood gleam. (I am no longer sure of myself like I once was when I was child.) iii. That was the last time we ever spoke, so I suppose it’s a shame that I was too focused on my own reticence, because I cannot recall much from our conversation except for this one thing you had said to me: “When I was younger I never ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ understood why my mother couldn’t remember her age, but now t̶h̶a̶t̶ I̶’m̶ o̶l̶d̶e̶r̶, it makes sense to me: I often wake up and I’m unsure whether I’m 19 o̶r̶ 2̶5̶ o̶r̶ 3̶2̶. I guess none of it really matters l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o." I vaguely remember how after I heard this my lungs audibly deflated, hissing out breath like a punctured balloon. If I hadn’t been so occupied by the fact that all this time my diaphragm had been stretched thin like a pink gossamer parachute — I wouldn’t have forgotten to will myself to look you in the eyes, and maybe I would’ve noticed how you had a matching pair to go with mine: two lithium batteries, dead, dull and devoid of unadulterated joys. And I don’t know if anybody has ever told you, but you have this clinical sort of objective apathy about you now that you seem to have grown comfortable inhabiting, but I am unlike you in the sense that; Well if I am perfectly honest, I am still hungrier than ever and I’d swallow my own hard piano-key teeth if it meant I would be dealt a lucky tarot, because I almost sense that people can tell after taking one look at me that I have never stopped paying attention to how the candles on my birthday cake no longer burn as brightly as they once did. (I’ve known knowing [once upon a time].) Felicity Ye This story was inspired by Kathleen Ryan's sculpture, Serpentine Foam, 2019. You can see it here- click and scroll down. The image shown has a similar subject matter. Felicity Ye is an 18-year-old Chinese Australian writer based in Sydney. She has been shortlisted for the Hachette Australia Prize for Young Writers and has read her work for the National Young Writers’ Festival. She is a bonafide matcha fanatic and likes to hang out with her kleptomaniac corgi, Kiwi.
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Don't miss everything we have over the the "challenges" tab on our menu above. We publish challenges and contests there now so that you can find the latest challenges easily if you are looking for them. The bronze works of Luristan were found last century in a cache and are something of a mystery. These ancient artworks, excavated in part of Iran, show exquisite artistry in jewelry, sculpture, ritual objects, and elaborate decoration for horse harnesses, as above. We are not yet sure exactly who they came from. Click here, or on the image above, to read a selection of amazing poetry and stories inspired by this wondrous work. All Dressed Up I recall her as one of my students dashing to the shop for more turps, wearing a dirty painter’s smock and grinning at people who grumbled as she ran past. Women painters. Whatever next? Bad as actresses. They weren’t far wrong. She loved to disguise herself in fancy dress, as anything but a good Prussian girl. Best of all was the time she played the part of a half-pissed barmaid and not a single person knew her. That boldness showed in her work . Isn’t it clear in this self-portrait? Shoulders squared, she’s wearing a professor’s frock coat; one hand grasps a lapel; one eyebrow raised, she’s asking herself what next? Working from Home At one end of the dining table I made space for ink and acid, pens and copper plates, wax and needles, blocks of paper. I planned work around meals until the baby came. His needs took up so much of my day I had none left for myself so when I started this picture my ideas were a constant itch: marks I could make, to show death’s bony fingers reaching for a mother, how candlelight might shine on her thin face. I fitted the work in late at night, oil lamp radiant, baby asleep, the city’s bustle stilled to the clop of a cab-horse, a distant bark, the crack of wood in my stove. Woman with Orange I draw her face gleaming in the lamplight, mantle and shade both white in umber darkness; decide if her eyes should be unfocussed or gaze downcast; think how to show that an orange's scent is filling the room as stifling warmth engulfs her. Love Scenes i.m. Käthe Kollwitz and Hugo Heller what did you mean when you wrote about your dream of him it was lebhaft you said und schön were your bodies tautening to climax each chasing its own pleasure or were you folded into each other so quiet and close his breath stirred a lock of your hair Sharon Phillips Sharon Phillips started writing poems when she retired from her career in education. Since then, her work has appeared in many print and online journals and anthologies, including Places of Poetry, Poetry Birmingham, Raceme, About Larkin, The Poetry Society Newsletter, Atrium, The Clearing, One Hand Clapping, Ink Sweat and Tears, The High Window and previously in The Ekphrastic Review. Kalos, Meaning Beautiful and Eidos, Meaning Form The brushstrokes could be rooftops beneath a suggestion of clouds, or three simple houses facing a meadow of chartreuse patched with India green. Here, a bridge over a stream becomes a footpath that lends to a grove of trees where pink lessens the space between the gunmetal pines like blossoms urgent for spring. Otherwise, the path leads to shadows. A blue cascade down the margin. Maybe a waterfall sustaining the countless dots lining a knoll low at the center of the frame— poppies perhaps— or a gesture of hope in advance of the red heavy and cornered along the base. Maples or fire? This summer I explained ash to a child. I taught him to write lines with a charcoal stick, sketching letters against a metal bin. As the wood burned in the fire pit, I said the ash forms what’s yet to be, nature’s colours and shapes, like patterns in a kaleidoscope waiting to be turned. Jennifer Dorner Jennifer Dorner's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Chicago Quarterly Review, Cirque, Clackamas Literary Review, Cloudbank, New Ohio Review, San Pedro River Review, Sugar House Review, The Inflectionist Review, Timberline Review, and other journals. In 2019, Dorner's poems placed 1st in the Willamette Writer’s Kay Snow Award for Poetry as well as 1st in two of Oregon Poetry Association's spring contests. In 2020, she was longlisted for Palette Poetry's Sappho Prize. Dorner completed her MFA at Pacific University in 2020. The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia Claire’s House of Fine-Tooth Combs This story was inspired by Walking with the Dog, by Angelo Accardi (Italy) contemporary. Click here to view. The night the lights went out — out as in OUT — in Georgia Claire’s House of Fine-Tooth Combs — out in her House, out on her life, out in her world, out on her combs — Georgia Claire went out looking for answers. She found: A masked man walking a Keith Haring dog schlepping a graffiti marker kit. An ostrich talking “sultry dress trends” in a conversation pit. A barrow of see-no-evil monkeys pitching pennies made of unleavened bread. A narrow of nesting tables justifying all the shitty things they’d said. A papier-mâché advance man returning to form. A lemon-yellow bomb shelter slinking into a storm. A town cryer wailing I can’t cry wolf anymore! A cat in pigtails snarking THAT’S what you’re here for? A movie flyer plastered on the face of a clock (“My Own Private Apocalypse! starring Phoenix Lazarus and His Party of Five”) A Slim Pickens look-alike from “The Swarm” hustling back to the hive. An exaltation of loopholes looking inward, ever inward. An exclamation of finger-pointers in a post-modern vineyard. A technocracy of vacuum cleaners cutting corners, discretely. A text-fiend incarnate laying blame and feasting. A lover who said and who said and who said: Would you run? Would you run away? Would you run away with me? A lover who said without saying, and without saying, said: I don’t see a graceful way out, and grace is important to me. A banknote glider, a banner tied to its tail, squeaking: what it means to be something … or someone … or anything. A fresco on a ceiling, scatting before shrieking: what it means to be nothing … and no one … not anything. Ever. Georgia Claire found a little context, maybe. And a lot of colour. But no answers that night. What happened to the light? she asked. What’s happened to my House? My life? My world? The way you say it — “my world,” said a one-eyed lamb hawking half-full hopefulness. The world, like a word, has many different tones. See something one way, just as you might say a word a certain way, and it means one thing. See it, or say it another way, it means something else entirely. Also, words and worlds get snuffed out, just like light, the one-eyed lamb said. But it isn’t always about light, it isn’t always about the light, the lamb added. What, pray, is it about? Georgia Claire asked. Try reading the fine print between the lines with your fine-tooth combs, why don’t you, said the cat in pigtails, her eyes gleaming, her teeth flashing, her whiskers awash in the light of the syntactic night. Pat Foran Pat Foran knows very little about light, very little about anything. His stories have been published in various journals, and his work was selected for the Best Small Fictions 2021 and Best Microfiction 2021 anthologies. In June, he received the 2021 Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction. Find him at neutralspaces.co/patforan/ and on Twitter at @pdforan. This week’s Throwback Thursday gives readers and art lovers a buffet of choices, using photo, video, painting, and textile as inspiration for the imagination. Ode to Félix González-Torres, by Sophia Liu This brilliant shape poem is inspired by a video: “But love, you see, lingers past the cellophane.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/ode-to-felix-gonzalez-torres-by-sophia-liu ** Landscape/ a sort of love note to Brian Ulrich, by Jenna Gallemore Landscape, love, and nostalgia combine in this essay in ways that you will not forget. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/landscape-a-sort-of-love-note-to-brian-ulrich-by-jenna-gallemore ** The Flying Carriage, by Judith Bowles I love this painting by Marc Chagall as inspiration. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/the-flying-carriage-by-judith-bowles ** Silent Chaos, by Jayant Kashyap The painting, Reconciliations, by Vera Iliatova, leads this poet to imagine: “Sometimes things end in whispers, sometimes it's a deluge of rain.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/silent-chaos-by-jayant-kashyap ** Alouette, Au Lapin Agile, by Carole Mertz Inspired by an image of the Au Lapin Agile cabaret in Paris: “you recall events told in childhood fables.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/alouette-au-lapin-agile-by-carole-mertz ** To Possess the Desert, by Molly Nelson Regan I love the storytelling lens this writer uses in conjuring the desert. The first line had me: “The desert is an animal.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/to-possess-the-desert-by-molly-nelson-regan ** Self-Portrait (Alice Neel), by Ruth Bavetta I love this poem, inspired by a painting of a self-portrait of Alice Neel: “Pizza, pregnancies, peanut butter, whiskey, long sweet afternoons in the studio instead of in the gym.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/self-portrait-alice-neel-by-ruth-bavetta ** Lesson From Nature, by Devon Balwit An x-ray image inspires this poem, a surprising walk through a field of flowers. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/lesson-from-nature-by-devon-balwit There are over 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 to Marjorie Robertson who regularly shares some favourites. 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 theekphrasticreview@gmail.com. Let's have some fun with this- along with your picks, send a vintage photo of yourself too! The Painter is not Courageous: Madame X, by John Singer Sargent I am the painting. I know what I will be before the artist lifts his brush. He thinks it’s the other way around. I shock you with my unsheathed skin and smile at your outrage. The canvas shakes as I mock your gaze. Black satin drapes around my hips like Chopin’s finger’s caressing his Nocturnes, and you are jarred. Your complacent bourgeois lives are unhinged from the moorings, and you quiver. Yet, I am still. I am here by my own volition. My bare arms are for no one but myself. Look away if you are offended and swallow Absinthe in a dark corner to assuage your torment. Frankly, I’m bored. The way you judge me – the way you believe you know my thoughts, the way you dissect my life – provokes my contempt. The painter is not courageous. He is a rube – desperate to attain notoriety. He refuses to let my jewel encrusted strap slip down over my right shoulder. What cowards these men are. History will portray me as powerful, immovable, irreverent – everything men fear in a woman. And despite all your cowardice pressing in on me, I will prevail. Drop your paint brush and run to your mother, painter, while I fashion my own destiny. All of you, run home to your mothers while I dare to fly. You hate to be told what to do so you stay and gawk. Fools. Stare as long as you can, until your hearts stop beating. Here, let me slip this silly strap off my shoulder. Yes, I love many men. So what? You hide your infidelities behind cloaks of deceit but scrutinize me? How dare you. The strap has fallen. Leave it, painter. Deborah Johnstone Deborah’s writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has been anthologized, or is forthcoming, in several journals. Her story, “Pray for Rain” was selected as runner-up finalist for Light and Dark Magazine’s first Flash Fiction Contest and “Iris with Mermaids” was shortlisted for the Into the Void Fiction Prize. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College. https://deborahj.wordpress.com/ https://deborahjohnstone.com Dutch: Kwelwater Het grijst vandaag en hij raakt me zo, dat me dit normaalt, dat ik - zonder grond te zien - zijn armen vieren zal met zwart licht in de strikte sloten met wortels buigend naar de morgen en daar, waar het morgent, als geen wonder daar is, waar zichtbaars verdwijnt en hij, en ik, het grijs en alle schalen in één vaart, terwijl de haas schrikt van de hemel opnieuw onzichtbaars spottend in de plassen op het gras daar is, waar vlechten zicht verstoren opspattend in meren, meer trommels die oren verstommen zo, dat mijn ogen zijn gericht op de vragen in de gracht: wie was het die aan bodems dacht? En wie is het die mij omhelzen macht? Spanish: Filtración de agua Hoy grisáceo y él me toca, tanto, que me normala, que yo - sin saber el suelo - celebraré sus brazos con luz negro en caceras estrictas con raíces cediendo a la aurora y allí, donde se aurora, cómo no milagro, allí es, donde el claro se escapa y él, y yo, el gris y todas las cáscaras en una onda mientras la liebre tiembla del cielo otro tiempo cogiendo oscuro en lagunas del césped allí es, donde trenzas perturban la vista chorreos en lagos, largos tambores que cierran las orejas o sea, que dejan mis ojos centrados en las preguntas del canal: ¿quién pensaba en suelos? Y ¿quién me da sus abrazos? English: Seepage It greys today and he moves me so, that it normals me, that I - without looking for land - will celebrate his arms with black lights in strict ditches with roots curtsying to morning and there, where it mornings, as if no wonder there is, where perceptibles disappear and he, and me, the grey and all shells in one speed, whilst the hare's startled by the sky spotting imperceptibles afresh in pools on the grass there is, where plaits disrupt sight splashing up in lakes, large drums that stop the ears so, that my eyes aim at the questions in the seepage: who was it thinking of clay? And who is it powering me his embrace? Kate Copeland Kate Copeland started absorbing stories ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching & translating some sweet languages; her love for art, lyrics & water led her to poetry ... with readings & publications sealed alright! Find her words @ The Ekphrastic Review (& Podcast), First Lit Review-East, GrandLittleThings, Hedgehog Press, LAPB 2021, The Metaworker, New Feathers Anthology, Poetry Barn, Poetry Distillery, Poetry Soup Anthology plus Spirit Fire Review. Over the years she volunteered at several literary festivals; in 2021 she started assisting Lisa Freedman with her Breathe-Read-Write workshops. Kate was born in Rotterdam 52 ages ago & adores housesitting in the UK, USA and Spain. Frida Kahlo and Me my sister Frida your bed is my bed and your paintings wash over me the veins of vines envelop your paintings the reds of the pigments speak to pain you and I are bound by this pain and no one can pronounce it valid or in-valid you are the body on the page of history I am the body on the altar of my life chronic problems getting out of bed? Taking a shower? Going to the grocery? Reaching for a dish off the kitchen shelf? be a Frida lie in you bed paint your world switch to the couch read on your tiny altar am I lamb to be slaughtered or fattened in pain for a future meal of the universe? my sister Frida no one likes a malingerer did you know that? did you fit their stereotype of the sick one? or were you too vocal to insistant on having the reds on the page? you had a mustache you were an androgynous figure in that bed except you painted your breasts with nails riddling your flesh pain a crucifixion to bad taste I paint too Frida but my pictures are peaceful scenes of warm blues and comforting greens the sea is my favorite place its tide promising to take away all debris once I painted a fibromyalgia fog and scared myself into amnesia my brush now paints little flowers indolent with colours avoiding red or the lightning flash of firing neurons my pain ting Diane Driedger This poem was previously published in Diane Driedger's Red with Living: Poems and Art (Inanna, 2016). Ghosts and Witches Ekphrastic Microfiction Workshop with Meg Pokrass and Lorette C. Luzajic9/5/2022 Up ahead, a wonderful opportunity to haul out your cauldron of secrets and intentions and your magic wand pen. Write microfiction with the incredible Meg Pokrass, founder of the Best Microfiction Award Anthologies, and Lorette C. Luzajic, editor of The Ekphrastic Review. We've been teaming up to bring our creative chemistry to you for a year now, with various ekphrastic themes. These workshops are at your own pace from your own time zone, connecting in a Facebook forum online with peers. We'll be looking at various fascinating depictions of ghosts and witches in art history, and letting the images and prompt ideas inspire our stories. We work with experienced micro writers as well as offering supportive space for those trying microfiction for the first time. It's an amazing alchemy!
Just a few spots left for this one! Click on image above, or here, to sign up, or for more information about our collaborative workshops. “The pairing of Meg Pokrass and Lorette Luzajic as workshop facilitators is unbeatable. Their workshops are well plotted, easy to access, and their prompts never fail to light a fire. One not only reaps the benefit of feedback from the participants, but personalized useful comments and kind direction from Meg and Lorette as well. The benefits are exponential. It never hurts to have a good time while expanding your writing horizons, so I recommend their workshops highly.” Mikki Aronoff |
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