 Enter Here, by Scott Wiggerman (USA) 2025 Rorschach Test I don’t see portals, doors or archways. I see a mother elephant standing, protective, over her child. Her tree-like legs. A wizened eye looks out warily on a tomorrow that holds few promises for their survival. And yet, that blue heart, big as a medium-sized dog, beats a determined rhythm in her chest. That snake-like trunk hangs ready to wrap around her child if he should stumble. Her 12-lb. brain with those big temporal lobes remembers every watering hole she’s ever visited. So crucial for the coming heat and drought. Beneath her belly, the calf stands, waiting, surrounded by the four legs that define his world, no matter how dark. enter here what future do we imagine when we close our eyes? Janet Ruth Janet Ruth is a New Mexico ornithologist and poet. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. She has poems in a wide variety of journals and anthologies. Her sonnet, “A World That Shimmers,” won the inaugural True Concord Poetry Contest, was set to music by the 2023 winner of the Emerging Composer Contest and was performed by True Concord Voices and Orchestra in Tucson, October 2023. Her book, Feathered Dreams: celebrating birds in poems, stories & images (Mercury HeartLink, 2018) was a Finalist for the 2018 NM/AZ Book Awards. https://redstartsandravens.com/janets-poetry/
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 Landscape with Graves, by Caspar David Friedrich (Germany) 1837 Vulture on a Spade There’s nothing subtle here. The vulture perched upon the spade is craning toward the hole, its beady eyes intent. The scene is smirched with yellowish rot. There’s no sign of a soul. And who – or what – is standing, looking on? And are those graves, or signs? Nothing is clear, except that every trace of hope is gone. There’s not one single shred of comfort here.  Landscape with Grave, Coffin, Owl, by Caspar David Friedrich (Germany) 1837 Landscape with Grave, Coffin and Owl As if a sentinel or standing guard, the owl is on the coffin, staring hard ahead, the pale sun just above its crown. Before it, it would see, if looking down Two shovels and a coiled rope. But no. It’s staring fixedly ahead, as though the coffin’s occupant’s already known. As if it stares at you, and you alone. Bruce Bennett Bruce Bennett is author of ten books of poetry and more than thirty chapbooks. His most recent chapbook is Images Into Words (The Dove Block Project, 2022), a collection of ekphrastic poems co-authored with poet Jim Crenner. Bennett was a founder and editor of the journals Field and Ploughshares, and from 1973-2014 taught Literature and Creative Writing and directed the Visiting Writers Series at Wells College. In 2012 he was awarded a Pushcart Prize. He lives in Aurora, New York. His poetry website is https://justanotherdayinjustourtown.com.  Apple, NYC, by Paul Caponigro (USA) 1964. What Lies Above This cloud of stars, perhaps a nebula among them, birthplace of a cluster, coloured sky we find within a lens of time, of light that may have traveled to our iris when our tiny earth was home to living dinosaurs, an earth we have diminished, as the stars we see now may have super-novaed, may be dead, while others in this view may still be pulsing, their rich beat a dance gathering galaxies we cannot see. An ant's breath, all we are, despite the ego's great balloon. Cheney Crow Cheney Crow lives in Austin, TX, where her yard host to raptors and foxes, a mockingbird boasting loud backup beeps, echos of nearby construction. Her work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Terminus, Best of Tupelo Quarterly, International Poetry (translation). She's been a teacher, a reader for textbook recordings, poll worker, sculptor, musician, photographer, translator, traveler. Thirsty for life.  The Head of Christ, by Warner Sallman (USA) 1940 Warner Sallman’s Jesus Never changes: cached in the wallets of conventioneers or soaked in the red bubbles of a soldier’s pocket, he poses in heaven as he poses out back by the engine parts and halfway up the washroom mirror of a Smoky Mountain Texaco. His astonishment is shy as a dove in the hands of a brute. He is a bride in her underwear hearing the truth for the first time. He indulges our Christendom like a beautiful med student witnessing a variety show performed by wolf men. His eyes seem to say, That too? Well, okay. The aura of Warner Sallman’s Jesus is pale as frozen butter. It is that nightlight in the distance glossing the floorboards of a Teutonic hallway. Its mournful persistence is born of antique vanities and whelms the dark with a fragrance of cold cream and wallpaper glue. I’ve seen Warner Sallman’s Jesus running Ferris Wheels in Texas. All night long he takes tickets and delivers the happy screams, his hair gathered in a pony-tail, his sleeves fallen to show skin lapped white as milk, pasteurized, homogenized, without tattoos. His lust can never touch him. Tangled in a hedge around his heart, it stirs the briars, pricks the flirts. Women test the thorns and say tisk-tisk. Men say, What up, Little Jesus? Where can I get some? No one seems to know it’s Him. I’ve watched Warner Sallman’s Jesus fly an F16 over the hell-named hills of our diamond deserts. On aircraft carriers I’ve seen him touch our ordinance while gazing wistfully to sea. Under stars, back striped, he wanders alone above leviathan scattering breadcrumbs on the swells. Outside our empire, I’ve seen him, his staff planted in hills of lemon grass, eyes closed to breezes gentling through the tin-roofed missions where women in rags hack sugar cane; he stands near them, his back to them, and always looks this way. I’ve seen Warner Sallman’s Jesus ripped from the stronghold of megachurches and loosed in the wilderness of truths. I’ve seen him pilloried in lecture halls and parodied in the galleries. In wayward verse he leaves behind the jumbotron to kiss the mother serpent trapped beneath the virgin’s foot. Warner Sallman’s Jesus is the Pantocrator of our anachronisms. He arrives in time just as we picture him. Yet, when my heart forebears and inclines to unsettle my perspective, I sometimes see, in America’s most amenable Son of Man, the salvation we so strenuously refuse. It is as if Warner Sallman ’s Jesus, in a moment of church basement weariness, in the after-hour glow of exit lights, cannot stop hearing faraway negro spirituals rising from the mud of Delta sunsets. Jennifer Marysia Landretti Jennifer Marysia Landretti writes poetry and essays. Her themes are nature, place, and spirit–and in recent years, gender, which has served as a vector to explore the latter three. Over the years her work has appeared in various literary publications, most regularly Orion magazine.  This course ran in June, and is being offered again starting in late October. Discover the joy of juxtaposition and the awakening of creativity through collage, with Ekphrastic editor Lorette C. Luzajic. This four week course will get you started on your own collage mixed media practice. We will look at the history of collage, discover the diverse work of artists around the world, and create our own projects. The course will cover topics like colour in collage and mixed media, composition, tools, adhesives, collecting and creating collage materials, choosing themes that resonate, and finding your voice. Each week will include both discussion of the above topics and creation of your own collage mixed media pieces. You will bring your own materials to the Zoom session. You can use anything you have on hand. You will need scissors, a glue stick, acrylic gel medium, acrylic paints and brushes, and a stack of collected images and papers from magazines, books, and brochures. You can work on small canvases, canvas boards, or watercolour/mixed media/acrylic paper. You can also bring crayons, pencil crayons, pastels, and any other media you like. Dates: starting October 28, 2025 Tuesday, October 28, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Tuesday, November 4, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Tuesday, November 11, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Tuesday, November 18, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Lorette C. Luzajic, the editor of The Ekphrastic Review, is an award-winning collage and mixed media artist. She creates abstract, surreal, and urban collage paintings. Her work has been exhibited in hundreds of group and solo shows in Toronto and around the world. Venues include galleries, museums, restaurants, cafes, hotels, banks, offices, and corporate lobbies. Her work has appeared on the cover of two textbooks, several poetry books, a novel, and in countless literary journals. It has been shown on a billboard in New Orleans and used in an ad campaign for a Madrid based diamond company. She was invited to represent Canada in a symposium in North Africa, a guest of the Ministry of Culture of Tunisia. Her work won first place and $5000 from Maple Leaf Sports and Entertainment Canada. Lorette has collectors in forty countries so far, including Canada, USA, France, Germany, Italy, Netherlands, Mexico, China, Estonia, UAE, England, and Saudi Arabia. Testimonials from the first class! "As an award-winning teacher at McGill University, I know a great teacher when I meet one. And Lorette Luzajic is one great teacher! Her warm welcome and in-depth knowledge puts both the beginner and advanced student at ease. She encourages questions and inspires exploration beyond the comfort zone. Students benefit from her deep understanding of collage and her worldwide reputation is testament to her astonishing artistic ability!" Donna-Lee Smith "Lorette’s Class is packed with practical hands-on cues and concrete information, and at the same time every minute of the classes is freeing, inspiring and encouraging." Kalliopy P. "This is an amazing class that packs so much into each session, including exposure to lots of different examples of collage and fun exercises to practice what you learn. Lorette is a stellar teacher who knows how to create a sense of community in class where it feels safe to experiment, play, and share your work. " Katie Hynes "Lorette C. Luzajic's Collage and Mixed Media Course was a delight to participate in: 4 weeks of 2-hour classes on Zoom with suggested assignments, and detailed instructions and examples of collages to view during class, and that are also sent to you as a PDF to continue your exploration of collage and mixed media. I already knew Lorette was a fabulous artist, as I own 7 of her artworks, but she's an inspirational teacher as well." Karen G. “Lorette's Collage and Mixed Media course was so inspiring! Through exploring history, composition, colour, and materials, I learned to translate personal creativity into visual storytelling—something I had never attempted on a canvas before. She helped me know what to stock my art room with to get started. Lorette brings a mix of depth, openness, and support that meets every artist where they are. I left the course not only with new skills, but with a spark to keep creating.” Kathi C. "Lorette’s fantastic collage and mixed media class inspired me to play with materials and techniques in more ways than I would have thought possible in a month. I learned a tremendous amount from Lorette’s lessons, doing my own projects, and seeing and discussing the work of other participants." Sharon R. Collage and Mixed Media: a four week course on creativity and creation (on zoom)
CA$200.00
This course ran in June, and is being offered again starting in late October. Discover the joy of juxtaposition and the awakening of creativity through collage, with Ekphrastic editor Lorette C. Luzajic. This four week course will get you started on your own collage mixed media practice. We will look at the history of collage, discover the diverse work of artists around the world, and create our own projects. The course will cover topics like colour in collage and mixed media, composition, tools, adhesives, collecting and creating collage materials, choosing themes that resonate, and finding your voice. Each week will include both discussion of the above topics and creation of your own collage mixed media pieces. You will bring your own materials to the Zoom session. You can use anything you have on hand. You will need scissors, a glue stick, acrylic gel medium, acrylic paints and brushes, and a stack of collected images and papers from magazines, books, and brochures. You can work on small canvases, canvas boards, or watercolour/mixed media/acrylic paper. You can also bring crayons, pencil crayons, pastels, and any other media you like. Dates: starting October 28, 2025 Tuesday, October 28, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Tuesday, November 4, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Tuesday, November 11, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Tuesday, November 18, 2025 from 6 to 8 PM eastern time Lorette C. Luzajic, the editor of The Ekphrastic Review, is an award-winning collage and mixed media artist. She creates abstract, surreal, and urban collage paintings. Her work has been exhibited in hundreds of group and solo shows in Toronto and around the world. Venues include galleries, museums, restaurants, cafes, hotels, banks, offices, and corporate lobbies. Her work has appeared on the cover of two textbooks, several poetry books, a novel, and in countless literary journals. It has been shown on a billboard in New Orleans and used in an ad campaign for a Madrid based diamond company. She was invited to represent Canada in a symposium in North Africa, a guest of the Ministry of Culture of Tunisia. Her work won first place and $5000 from Maple Leaf Sports and Entertainment Canada. Lorette has collectors in forty countries so far, including Canada, USA, France, Germany, Italy, Netherlands, Mexico, China, Estonia, UAE, England, and Saudi Arabia. Testimonials from the first class! "As an award-winning teacher at McGill University, I know a great teacher when I meet one. And Lorette Luzajic is one great teacher! Her warm welcome and in-depth knowledge puts both the beginner and advanced student at ease. She encourages questions and inspires exploration beyond the comfort zone. Students benefit from her deep understanding of collage and her worldwide reputation is testament to her astonishing artistic ability!" Donna-Lee Smith "Lorette’s Class is packed with practical hands-on cues and concrete information, and at the same time every minute of the classes is freeing, inspiring and encouraging." Kalliopy P. "This is an amazing class that packs so much into each session, including exposure to lots of different examples of collage and fun exercises to practice what you learn. Lorette is a stellar teacher who knows how to create a sense of community in class where it feels safe to experiment, play, and share your work. " Katie Hynes "Lorette C. Luzajic's Collage and Mixed Media Course was a delight to participate in: 4 weeks of 2-hour classes on Zoom with suggested assignments, and detailed instructions and examples of collages to view during class, and that are also sent to you as a PDF to continue your exploration of collage and mixed media. I already knew Lorette was a fabulous artist, as I own 7 of her artworks, but she's an inspirational teacher as well." Karen G. “Lorette's Collage and Mixed Media course was so inspiring! Through exploring history, composition, colour, and materials, I learned to translate personal creativity into visual storytelling—something I had never attempted on a canvas before. She helped me know what to stock my art room with to get started. Lorette brings a mix of depth, openness, and support that meets every artist where they are. I left the course not only with new skills, but with a spark to keep creating.” Kathi C. "Lorette’s fantastic collage and mixed media class inspired me to play with materials and techniques in more ways than I would have thought possible in a month. I learned a tremendous amount from Lorette’s lessons, doing my own projects, and seeing and discussing the work of other participants." Sharon R.  Vase with Zinnias and Geraniums, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands) 1886 Two Zinnias, by Albert York (USA) 1965 I stash a pair of zinnias in the closet, quarantined on the order of reasonable authorities. They fester, having wilted in the insurgent sun breaking through the slider in the kitchen where I had arranged them in an orthogonal pirouette with the wild-eyed hope a vortex would condense into Being at their intersection that I could crawl in to recover my sloven muse. D. Beveridge This poem was inspired by Two Zinnias, by Albert York (USA) 1965. https://matthewmarks.com/exhibitions/albert-york-11-2014/lightbox/works/two-zinnias-c-1965 D. Beveridge writes in Los Angeles where everything is concrete. In the Global War on Terrorism he served aboard a fast-attack submarine in the Pacific Fleet.  Coyotes Came Out of the Desert, by Matsusaburo George Hibi (Japan) 1945 [Coyotes Came Out of the Desert, Matsusaburo George Hibi (USA, b. Japan) 1945] What brand of courage did it take to remain silent when the animals came out of the desert, hunger drawing them to the lit windows of man? How much fear can one body contain, wind whistling down the mouth of the camps as the coyotes stalked their prey? Because let’s face it: by 1945, every Japanese man, woman, and child understood what it meant to be a ghost. Stalked and stripped, silent with grief & wondering: what separates a man from an animal? Jennifer Pappas Yennie Jennifer Pappas Yennie is a California-based poet and teacher. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of literary journals and magazines including ZYZZYVA; The Ana; and Hole in the Head Review. She lives in Laguna Hills with her husband, two sons, and panther chameleon, Buster Scruggs.  Corner From Ocean, by Herman J. Garfinkel (USA, b. Ukraine) before 1979 Garage Painting The Cape Islander’s hull is white on starboard and blue on port, but in water its reflection is moss green, there, hung on my mint green wall in a frame that’s faded seventy years from sea-blue to yellow-beige, which would have angered Uncle Herman, the painter, the barely 5-foot wizened man who married my Nana’s sister Blanche, Blanche who didn’t like me, so brash I was, not to care for cooking, cleaning, sewing, and serving a man—in a house, outside a house, in a car, office, drive-in, diner-- any abode of servants, which role ensnared Blanche in their compressed saltbox a few hundred feet up the curved slope of Town Street from Nana, sunk below street level, hollowed primly tight in the province of fisher cat, deer, coyote, and salamander in the Hadlyme woods, loud enough for Mr. and Mrs. Garfinkel—not the original name, we suspect, as Herman’s small family fled Kovno or Minsk or Dvinsk, or a village that was one day in one country and another the next—to staunchly avoid other sounds days brazenly resonate. We made visits infrequent, as their shrouded-quiet marriage seemed more specter-like than ghosts shuffling dirt floors in Pale of Settlement shacks. No fisherman abound in caps on the wharf where the still-lifed boat moors, tucked in wood in a time with reverence for what was made from wood that livens the brown strokes shaping the meeting-house, the cannery, the broad smoke- house scenting a blue scene gray in the cramped foreground. The river seems an oddity in narrow- ness for industry, but I still know as little of angle, ground, line, perspective, grid, or geometries of points vanished as I did when young, watching the swipe, dab, and swirl of his brush, swept by waves of finished oils lapping the sides of the garage where he painted, stunned at three dimensions full-wrought on two. Herman co- owned a hardware store in a satellite burb of raw New York City with Ed, Nana’s brother (an odd choice of partner instead of the convenience of his own brother, but too late to back out of married family ties), but when banks called in their loans in the steel, serrated teeth of the Great Depression, he’d retired sans savings, shame-mired in needs to rehome himself on rural land owned by his wife’s family. Sand- pit exchanges with the state not- withstanding (the era of frenzied street and highway construction sucked most sand from the provinces), their home budget personified frugal the way Blanche’s housekeeping vivified servitude; the stench of wood oil that drenched the perfect banisters terrified me out of touching things, so I sat with hands suffocated under my ass at their kitchen table, feigning life. The fishing boat, the woven wooden crab pots, the pilings, the nets hung to dry, build a red- roofed era of everything from hands, even the iron bascule bridge, its decks in the position of prayer, (risen to let schooners dock after the rich return from Connecticut River cruises) built to prod circulation of trout, shad, perch, bass, and catfish, ferried to mom-and-pop groceries in our childhoods of food without PCBs. My life repainted, I’d try toil as a deck-hand on this peeling, fogged-glass craft, fortunate in wise use of muscle and eye, confident that collective labor would be seen a gift, like this scene, inscribed to my mom and dad (strangers among their own families), For my good pals, Ann and Boris, without leaving his name. It is a name must stand for all that was made, all that spreads over us uncreased, not knowing a hand had touched it. Outside the frame, in the northwest distance, the antique Hadlyme ferry diagonals the river, hushed, perfect for the plein air painters. Alexandra Burack Note: This poem is also after Information Desk, by Robyn Schiff (Penguin Books, 2023.) Alexandra Burack, author of the chapbook, On the Verge, has published ekphrastic and other poems recently in Metphrastics, ucity review, The Sewanee Review, and Bulb Culture Collective, among other venues. She is the founder of Ekphrastica, a creative writing pedagogy for poets/writers and visual/performing artists, and enjoyed a 45-year career as a college creative writing professor. She serves as a Poetry Editor for Iron Oak Editions, and a Poetry Reader for The Los Angeles Review, The Adroit Journal, and $ Poetry is Currency. She currently works as a freelance editor, writing coach, and tutor. Her website is: https://www.alexandraburack.com.  The Tragedy, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1903 Keeping Pace with King Lear Mid jog, King Lear dips his toes in shallow waves, sprinting past Picasso & my atrophied legs. “Lend me a looking glass,” Lear says. Clutching his dead daughter, Lear buckles at the knees. In the last spoonfuls of daylight, I pause to tap your tattered sleeve. Curious how you veered from hopscotch skipper with your mouth rimmed in raspberry jam to this Shakespearean tragedy between your parents & you. Night cuts itself in loose brushstrokes, blue worrying to grey. Lear pats Picasso’s arm, bargains with him to pour you more absence like an empty pitcher around the huddle of your rationed bodies. Picasso won’t permit us to make you baloney sandwiches or even a Sprite. Lear halts beside me & we stare to make a study of your sad triangle, a ventriloquist moving with its own iron will. Brimming with loss, you evade my eyes. How you flinch at Picasso’s slightest touch. I place a palm between your blades to straighten your hunch. You’re too young for scoliosis, for poverty, for the space between parents to mean anything other than open fields of evergreen. Lear nudges me, night winds digesting his howls. “What’s he done at such a tender age to arrive at this desolate place awash in sharp elbows & faint palettes of melancholy?” Picasso only offers Lear a short shrug. Stopped in our tracks, I forget the places we were meant to go, wanting to throttle whoever educated you in cementing grief in the soft features of your face, hiding you in denuded sight. Rubbing traces of sleep out of the corners of my eyes, I feel your bones cave to contain strokes that seep, secrets bodies bow to keep. How you’ve gone from child to vault, from rainbow sprinkles to Lear’s vanquished life & Picasso’s Blue Period. “You’re too young to be slashed by tragedy,” I tell you as if your weakness has a say. You stay silent, absorbing the acerbity of ionically charged air, letting me know suffering does not idle for us to tell it now’s the time to ravage us clad in all its savage rage.  Three Women at the Spring, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1921 Sorority of Stone Welcome to our sorority wrapping a water’s spring. Walk carefully on the gravel terrain. We can’t disclose if we’re Greek or Roman, where our skin gives way to statue. Here is the last graying white tunic we saved for you. It’s a tripping hazard, falling to the ankles. Our seamstress says her ETA is 10 minutes. While you wait, we would offer you Snickers or caviar, but alas, our delta airline miles have expired & we chose to get stoned. Lot’s wife lent us her excess supply of weed. A makeup artist is en route too, adept at heavy-lidded eyes, fun-sizing mouths & nose jobs as colour washes your blonde brown. Picasso pays well for inside-out weight watchers, rounding us into heavyset monuments. In the mean- time, I’ll take you on a tour. I don’t know my name enough to say it, so call me your escort on the faraway right. You seem to envy my Margaux Hemingway brows, my wavy hair tugged back like a loaded gun or the unhinged strap of my gown mocking a museum exhibit of my chest. Picasso Play- boy billboards our private parts. What about my bent knee, my hanging hand & crudely defined toes? My gaze slanting off into a vast unpainted place. You reply it’s my neighbour’s style you chase in her felled sheets of twilight hair & blocked off bottom half reminding you to turn off your TikTok notifications. Sorry, we don’t have cell service here. Our zip-code is automatic airplane mode. Beside me, the girl you look at looks down at how Picasso cropped her hand. She’s got a severe case of selective mutism, embarrassed at how your eyes rest on her breast. Picasso’s seamstress excels at slackening our straps so we’re always showcasing our nipples. It takes time to adjust this timeless time zone. You might’ve veered off the highway at the wrong exit, unless the third of us piques your interest, losing definition in her overstretched fabric or the sketched blocks of her peach- polished feet Picasso preserved unfinished. Beware, he tends to do that with us, slipping out of bed before dawn to trade us in like shades of eyeshadow for brand new lovers with nothing but the incomplete cross- sections of ourselves as ours to keep.  Portrait of Picasso, by Salvador Dali (Spain) 1947  Portrait of Gertrude Stein, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1906 My Darling Demon, Picasso I lose my way in twisted kaleidoscopes of my eyes. Turned one direction into unrequited veneration a hundred postcards deep. Turned the opposite way, my hatred has its sway. I cannot cease imagining him, flash forward fifty years. 21st century Picasso renders tender in my oven heated by a thousand suns. His two-dimensional bust sags into ideal decay. Baked on high, his masculinity emulsifies like ricotta into dangling breasts. His cleavage becomes a vase for a lonely daffodil. His tongue lolls from wrinkled lips. His metallic nose loops like earrings through empty eye sockets. I play a Van Gogh on his ear to make room for a spiraling ram’s horn. Understand, I tend to lose my way when I step forward or backward from the sensations I receive. He is Schrödinger’s cat with four lives in blue, rose, African and cubist in one lifetime. I must offset the ram horn’s vitality with a skein of grey hair extending finger-like from his mouth, metamorphosing into a spoon to carry a lute. See how I punctuate his hideous distortion with the sound I love most. But I build myself in golden geometries on his crown to shape my revolving door of feelings into a revolver of me, surreal slayer of his grotesque majesty. Grace Lynn Grace Lynn is an emerging queer painter who lives with a chronic illness. Her work, forthcoming in Sky Island, Thimble Lit and Sheila-Na-Gig,explores the intersections between faith, the natural world, art and the body. In her spare time, Grace enjoys listening to Bob Dylan, reading suspense novels and exploring absurd angles of art history. La Vie En Cubist Rose Here await Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Pound and Matisse for you to complete the pyramid of my body. I am gravity-boned, a flesh mix- tape of Einstein, Pythagoras and Newton’s cradle pitched towards you. It was never about how I look but how you look “for me, it is I, and it is the only reproduction of me which is always I, for me.” You see, I visited his studio ninety times, but Picasso bumped up against his short fuse: “I can't see you any longer when I look.” He found primitive African and Iberian Peninsulas of my face in its absence. He hangs out on Tuesday afternoons at the Louvre with ancient Spanish sculptures to make me something new on Earth. I am geometry gazing into the Cubist distance pastel-ing past Renoir Renaissance docile femininity. Find nondisjunction between the chromosomes of my eyes, heavy-lidded edging into sleep or wrinkled in musings about what rosé to serve at my upcoming soirée. My arms are dumbbells on my knees. I dress in burnt sienna and red wine subdued tones. Picasso put his protractor in the acute angles of my lips and nose, so sharp in the round hillside of my torso. See me trouble continuums of time and space, cracking as I cement Picasso’s Rose Period. I am leaving you my legacy that bears no resemblance to me.  Like Waking Up From a Dream to a Dream, by Michal Perry (USA, b. Israel) 2021 The Breath of Green Misty gray veils the awakening morning. Hibiscus shrub flowers red, rest among its leaves. Each leaf illuminates in a different shade. A lone black bee hovers between the leaves, lingers and stands in the center of the red petals, sips nectar and moves to the next flower. From time to time sparks of fire scatter from the darkened skies. The breath of green intensifies with the blowing wind. The scent of death, closer than ever, grips me, never has it been so close. It is the scent clinging to the garments; I inhale it even though I placed a bouquet of white lilies on the table. Michal Perry Michal Perry is a poet, painter, and multidisciplinary artist. She was born in Jerusalem and graduated from the Avni Art Institute in Tel Aviv. She completed her master's studies at Bar-Ilan University in comparative literature. Her poems have appeared in leading journals and she has published three full-length poetry collections in Israel. Between 1990-2004, Michal Perry lived and worked in New York City as manager and curator of the Klarfeld Perry Gallery. In addition, she presented solo exhibitions and participated in international group exhibitions in the US and Europe. Michal lives and works in New York City and Tel Aviv. www.michalperry.com |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
January 2026
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