Virginia Creeper

Five-fingered ivy, born in an neighbour’s
garden, mounts a brick wall, climbs up
the side of the terrace house next door.
Along its stem, tendrils emerge 
to penetrate and fasten in tiny fissures.  
           
Alluring parasite — so green in summer, 
blood-red in fall — crawls on to our balcony, 
aiming for down spouts and roof tiles. At night,
beneath Orion, a solitary bine
has poked through our transom window. Soon,
we’ll lie entwined as in a Briar Wood.

Norbert Hirschhorn

Norbert Hirschhorn is a public health physician, commended by President Bill Clinton as an “American Health Hero.” He lives in London  He has published four collections of poetry; a fifth is in press. His poems have appeared in numerous US/UK publications, several as prize-winning. See his website, www.bertzpoet.com.

Today we have something a little different to present!

Students in an Introduction to Creative Writing class at C. Milton Wright High School in Maryland recently tried their hand at ekphrastic writing. 

Teacher Sarah Malesh asked her students to "take inspiration from a painting or photograph," and to examine that visual work with attention to what could be seen, as well as what could be imagined.

​It was also a lesson in publishing, with students learning about how to prepare submissions for a journal, and writing letters of introduction to the editor.

The Ekphrastic Review is delighted to be part of this unique and inspiring teaching model, and has decided to feature all of the received submissions in a special showcase.

We are presenting the poems to you unedited save for typos and obvious grammatical or spelling errors, and sharing the letters of introduction/bios as well.

Please note:  The Ekphrastic Review always pairs ekphrastic writing with its visual inspiration, but in this case obtaining permission for each image proved difficult and time consuming. In some cases, students didn't submit a title or artist name! So that no one was left out and we could still proceed with this showcase, alternate images are used with a note and a link to the original source when possible. If permissions come in along the way for the original image prompts, the alternates will be replaced.
​
All students have parental permission to have their work published online. 

-The Ekphrastic Review

Untitled

10,243 Kilometers away from her love
Walks a narrow path, in her parents words
her umbrella is her only shield
because he himself can’t be around
Stress
Depression
Loneliness
she stands strong
Continues on her path
Brave
Hopeful
Smart
Trusts the process
places her future on God’s hands
Wishes that in the end she’s with him

Jasurbek Rakhimjonov

Note: Hi! The name is Jasurbek Rakhimjonov, I go by the name Jazz. I'm a senior in high school, C. Milton Wright high school. I'm originally from Uzbekistan. This is my poem. Enjoy and hope I can publish it.

Image: The original prompt for this ekphrastic poem was Rain Princess by Leonid Afremov (Israel, b. Belarus, contemporary.) Click here to view.

Untitled

I stood from Dominguez Hills looking towards the LA skyline
One year is how far I’d be away from the city
Looking at it for the last time it stuck out to me
I started to see stuff I never saw before
The range of colour
The range of brightness and darkness
The sophisticated building for miles and miles
The stars lighting up the sky
This night more than ever it seemed as though the moon was larger
Almost as if LA was trying to give me an image to remember
There was difference with unity
Darkness with Brightness
And even though there was so much to take in
There was a simplicity of it all

Eugene Pettiford

Note: Hello, I'm Eugene Pettiford. I'm a high school student studying Ekphrastic poetry and how to publish such poems. Here is a poem for your consideration. Bio possibility: Eugene Pettiford is a high school student who plans to study engineering next year at Cal State Fullerton.

​Image: The original prompt for this poem was L.A. Skyline by Anthony Caruso (USA). Contemporary. Click here to see image.
​

The Painter
​
The road I strolled was gray
A tiny, drab town with familiar faces
Someway she painted the city
Everywhere she walked
With colours and shapes
That at one point looked so regular
Now look so captivating
The road I used to walk alone
Was gloomy, gray, dreary, and lifeless
Until she warmed the once long, grim road
And made it seem as if we were rambling on a canvas

Madison Folino
​
Note: Dear Lorette,  We have not corresponded before, my name is Madison, I'm from Bel Air, Maryland. I have three horses and a dog and enjoy writing very much.   Here is a poem for your consideration.

Image: The original prompt for this poem is Fog in the Park 3 by Leonid Afremov (Israel, b. Belarus, contemporary.) Click here to view.

Generations

The years I’ve seen never seize to amaze me
Every cub, every fawn, pup, and child
When the lands awaken, birds resurrect the lost and forgotten
When the grass breaks under pressure and the ponds give off steam
When the skyscraper sides crawl with life
The generations visit me 

The withered bring the rejuvenated 
The settled bring the dying
The grieving bring flowers
The devastated bring tears

Strong standing, gazing at the accomplished
Knowing it’s time to go
To plant anew 
A life is brought, an end nears

Respect can be sensed in the silence
The dew grazed air 
The light watching through closed doors

The thanks for protection
Stability
Comfort 
Friendship

A memory will be imprinted
A feeling will be left
A smile forever shining in the red flower’s glow 

Generations will follow 
Stories will be told
Reality and fantasy 
Of the Weeping Willow
And the Mountain Path in Spring

Piper Grada

Note: Dear Lorette, My name is Piper Grada and I am a Sophomore at C. Milton Wright High school in Bel Air, Maryland. I have written an ekphrasis poem that I would love to submit to your publication website. Thank you so much for taking to time to consider me!

​Healed

She noticed me
Every single one of my
Subtle movements.
She recognized I was in pain
And healed me.

She healed me because
She was hurt too
And then one day she was gone.

Najji Carek

Note: Dear Lorette, Najji is a senior in high school who dabbles in writing poetry from time to time. Though he may not be the greatest he tries his best especially since he is in a literary arts path way.

Street Performers

I am rested gently on my owner’s lap on a cold winter’s night   
Vibrations are sent through me from my strings, my owner shaking from the cold
My owner is poor, he is a street performer, with no true home which is his plight
As he sits here hunched over me, his hands on me, such a light and gentle hold
People pass by, some drop their money in his can, as the sky begins to snow white
My owner can’t bring himself to smile at those who give, he is too weak and old

I too feel old, feel worn out, but no one would know. I don’t have a voice
The only voice I have is the vibrations that emit from my core
My owner controls my voice, What I say is not my choice
The song he plays is light, almost sad, some stop to adore

Those who come are more privileged, happier, filled with joy
We have never felt this privilege, we have lived in strife
When I was first found, when my owner was a boy
                                                        Poor street performers, all our life.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Katie Monaghan

Note: Dear Ekphrastic Review, Hello, my name is Katie Monaghan. I’m currently in high school and writing is one of my strong passions, I was never interested in it till this year when I realized I was a bit talented and it was something I enjoyed. I also enjoy art, especially water colour paintings and drawings. I’d like you to consider my poem, "Street Performers”, it is inspired by a painting called The Old Guitarist by the very famous Pablo Picasso. It would be an honour to have this work published, it would show me I actually have some potential in the writing field. Thank you in advance for your consideration.

Dans La Prairie
 
An endless sea of flowers
Patches of violet, yellow, and lacy white specks
Sway in the cool afternoon breeze
I set down my parasol
And myself
Right where I was yesterday
And each day before
clutching the day’s read.
My white dress is enveloped by colour
Leaving only my bonnet to float above the surface of green
Like a large white waterlily
I turn to page 142
Where the darkness of yesterday evening
Commanded I stop
Soon I am no longer in this prairie
There are no blossoms, no birdsong, no bloom-scented breeze
But ocean spray and miles of deep blue
I am no longer a French girl of nineteen
But a sailor with a thirst for adventure,
A crew of one hundred,
And a creaky wooden deck below my feet
I can traverse the world, go where I choose
The only thing stopping me
Is the setting sun
Soon I must abandon ship.
Gradually my pages have dimmed to navy blue
And squinting ceases to reveal more words,
More adventures.
I’m again in the prairie
I lift my parasol
From where I will return to tomorrow,
Where I will return to sea.

Christina Capozzoli

Note: Hello Lorette, This is my Ekphrasis Poetry Submission! Bio: Christina Capozzoli, age 17, is a current senior at C Milton Wright High School in Bel Air, Maryland. She enjoys many forms of creative expression, including drawing, crafting, music, and writing. Passionate about saving the environment, Christina hopes to apply her skills to one day make a difference.

Her Beauty

She is aspiring in the world 
And while she is aspiring I will be there.
I will be there supporting her 
 And making sure her beauty does not get tainted.
I will be there making sure that she does not get corrupted 
By the awful people in the world. 
 Her beauty will rule the world while not being tainted
And I will be there supporting her.

Madison Mandrgoc

Note: Dear Lorette, Madison is a senior in high school at C. Milton Wright High School in Maryland. 
Madison is 17 years old and is trying to get her work done. Madison is just trying to get her stuff out in the world.

Image: The original image that prompted this poem is by Anna Gogoleva. Click here to view.

Beauty and the Bulk  
 
The hair, the makeup, the dress 
All pretty and perfect 
The musky stench of damp hay hanging in the air 
With the slightest hint of sweet perfume 
The elephants won't quit stamping their feet and happily making their trumpet-like noises 
Posing, changing, rearranging 
"Touch up the makeup and smooth the crease in Dovima's dress!" 
Perfect, the perfect shot 
"Wonderful job my elephant whisperer." ​

McKenna Renoult

Note: Dear Lorette,  I am so excited to be working with you on publishing my first Ekphrastic poem! I'm also looking forward to submitting more pieces in the future. Right now in my creative writing class, we are in our poetry unit, and learning about ekphrastic poetry. McKenna Renoult is a high school sophomore living in Bel Air, Maryland with her three sisters, parents, and adorable chorkie named Bowtie.  

Am I Pretty Now? 

Mommy is unaware of what her little girl is up to. 
The little girl who isn’t playing with her doll.
The girl, she’s in her mommy’s bedroom.
Pulling her stool up to the large mirror. 
Opening up the magazine. She snagged from her big sisters room.
She opens it to the page with the beautiful women.
She compares her own face to the face on paper.
The little girl does not believe she is pretty.
Her petite face clouded with insecurities.
Grabbing her mommy’s brush and lip gloss.
She applies to her face.
It had been days before
When she watched her sister do the same thing
Just before she had gone out with a boy
“Why do you put that on your face?” the little girl asked,
“It makes me pretty”
Now the girl looks at herself in the mirror.
Now she thinks she is pretty.

Christine Wolf

Note: Christine Wolf is a high school sophomore in Maryland. Who likes to write in her free time. This is her first poem she has submitted. 

Drifting

There I sat, drifting away,
But the memories were bright and clear,
Flashing back to me,
Like the rays of the setting 
Fiery sun across the water.

There I sat, drifting away,
Still staring at the horizon,
Longing, reaching out for
Those moments to come back to me.

There I sat, hopelessly drifting away,
Aching for you to stay.

Kendall Anderson

Note:  Dear Lorraine, Kendall is lacklustre high school student with a passion for writing poetry and short stories. Her inspiration stems from her emotions and past experiences. Her writing has a touch of realism and brings much more life to the piece for the reader.

​Image: The original photograph that prompted this poem could not be sourced.

Tech Panic
​
The fields I once leaped across,
Were now infected with coding
The mountains I’ve worked years to climb,
Are nothing but ones and zeroes
The dirt I once got on my clothes,
Were polluted with electricity
The bright blue skies which held the stars,
Were swallowed by downloaded fog
What to take from this modified world?
Is this truly the future?
What can I see, how do I react?
Is this freedom?
Or just a bigger trap?
The road less traveled by,
Isn’t always the brightest one
Humanity chose a road of technology,
And there left our god, our sun
Nobody can hear you screaming,
In a world that’s lacking life
A place so deserted,
Even your echoes abandon you
No matter how fresh or rotten the air,
I wasn’t familiar with it
The truth is my cure, in here I’m sick,
Perhaps this is what it means to truly panic

Nnamdi Olushola

​Image: Click here to see the image that originally inspired this poem.

An Autumn Walk

All wrapped up in our cozy sweaters
We prepare ourselves for the fall time weather.

The crisp orange and red leaves fell from the trees
We walked slowly, enjoying the morning breeze.

The leaves were wet from rain drops
Falling onto the ground, "Plop!"

The ground was wet and mushy due to rain from the night before
But we walked in our tall boots, in which we wore.

The smell of the dewy leaves which have fallen from the beautiful trees

Reflect on fall.

This is our autumn walk.

Abby Cundiff
 
Note: Dear Lorette, My name is Abby Cundiff. I am a senior in high school and this is my first time contacting you and ever writing an ekphrasis poem. Below is a copy of my poem. Bio: Abby Cundiff is a first time writer who is a senior in high school. 

Image: The original image that inspired this ekphrasis is Romantic Moment by Leonid Afremov. Click here to view.

Moving On

We live behind the large plateau
It's the only place we know

We've never been away from here
The rivers, lakes, and the deer

The sky sets in a beautiful way
But I realize that I can no longer stay

Australia will forever be a part of me
But it's just not meant to be.

Emily DeNardi

Note: Dear Lorette, My name is Emily DeNardi and I am a senior in high school. This is my firm time contacting you to publish my work.  Here is one poem for your consideration. Bio: Emily DeNardi, a writer and senior in high school. 

Untitled

A ghoulish fog,
It lingers in my breath. 
I want to be myself.
But a coexistence of stillness 
Hides within the trees. 
I will not allow myself to be 
Someone I am not.
An eerie mist sits
About my feet. 
I rather not to be fake as the rest.
A silence waves around in the
Thickening air. 
Everything feels to be in slow motion.
I am not alone in this dense world.
The fog shifts in an unsettling motion. 
 I’ll keep evolving, into something bigger.
Even if it means leaving you behind.

Rozlyn Lovelace

Note: Dear Lorette, My name is Rozlyn Lovelace, I am 16 and go to C. Milton Wright in Maryland, USA. I am a lover of writing, photography and music. I am a shy and to myself kind of person. I only have my one poem as of now and I do hope you like it.

Image: The original photograph that prompted this ekphrasis is by Gabby Minkiewicz. Click here to see it.

Alabama Tenant Farmers –Walker Evans (1936) Frank Tingle Family, Mills Hill, AL

They are not smiling this
Alabama family photographed 
in sepia.
There are five shabbily
dressed figures on a shabbily
built porch.
Rocks hold up one section slats
are jagged and gap holed dust
everywhere heat 
everywhere a dog
on its side mouth
open to catch the closed air.
The father is absent
from the picture. Only
his arm resting on a tenuous
wooden support shows,
yet he is the focal
point for four of his 
children who gaze
at him off to their right.
They are all shaped by the dirt
drained by this life.
The eldest daughter dark
haired like her siblings, tilts her head as 
she prettifies herself by running 
fingers through her hair. There’s an essence 
of sensuality.  She
peers at the photographer. 
She is marked by
her part in this history.

Amy Phimister
​
After a long corporate career, Amy Phimister has returned to writing full time. She graduated
from St. Mary's College in Notre Dame, IN with a B.A. in Creative Writing.  She also has an MBA
and an MA in Education. A member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, she is currently
working on a chapbook of her poems.

“Untitled, 1985,” by Agnes Martin: A Misreading

Not nothing, though close to it.
Nor wood, exactly, though wood
Is evoked (but evocation is not

The point). The knots not knots.
Exactitude, not rectitude. 
(That connection severed.) Nothingness

Measured & partitioned. Severed
First from the exacting hand,
Since act is not & also is the point. 

The actor finds her mark & stands
On nonexistent boards, exactly  
As the script requires. A severity

Scripted, yet also unscripted—eight
Boards, also not boards, as 
Ink & watercolour find their— But wait:

She’s inked these wooden blinds
Shut. These blinds not blinds, instead 
Are yet & also, but & though.

Jon Davis
​
Jon Davis is the author of four full-length poetry collections--Improbable Creatures (Grid Books, 2017), Preliminary Report (Copper Canyon Press, 2010), Scrimmage of Appetite (University of Akron, 1995), and Dangerous Amusements (Ontario Review Press, 1987); five chapbooks; and Heteronymy: An Anthology (LaNana Creek Press, 2016), a limited-edition letterpress book in collaboration with the artist Jamison Chas Banks. Davis also co-translated Iraqi poet Naseer Hassan’s Dayplaces (Tebot Bach Press, 2017). He has received a Lannan Literary Award in Poetry, the Lavan Prize from the Academy of American Poets, the Off the Grid Poetry Prize, and two NEA Fellowships. He directs the MFA in Creative Writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts, where he has taught since 1990.

Habituated Union

The longer they stand side by side,
​the more they become mirrors,
 
learn to love a duplicate life, warm
to the idea of never being alone.
 
Their cadmium bodies untouched
by the yellows and blues,
 
never seep, never bleed, never feel
the beauty of purples and greens.​

Mary Panke

Mary Panke is a late blooming art lover from Connecticut. She writes poetry everyday.

The Flood of Noah and His Friends

You tell yourself you would pick up any you saw,
lowering lifeboats, hauling up. You would wrap 

the shivering in blankets, divvy provisions 
to the last crumb. A good soul, you would sleep 

the sleep of the righteous. Really, though, you 
would pass on by, willing the panic-slung arms 

nothing more than a wave, the piercing pleas, 
seagull-mimicry. You would note latitude 

and longitude, promising to forward coordinates 
to the next boat, knowing yours the last and only. 

You would fix in your mind’s eye, the odd 
conjunction of predator and prey, threat neutralized 

by misery. Something for a fine poem, you 
would think, when, at last, you reached harbour.

Devon Balwit

This poem was written as part of the ekphrastic Halloween poetry challenge.

Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements(Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). More of her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Inflectionist; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.

Fake Sun (On Edward Hopper’s Summer Evening 1947)
 
It’s that serious moment when the party’s
over. A man and woman end up alone
under a porch with its garish lightbulb
like a fake sun. The night frames the scene
with a black smirk as if it knows
it cannot be lit. The woman too
has withdrawn her view from the man
turned towards her, offering words
to her she does not need or favour
even though his hand has reached
for his heart. She’s not convinced -
it’s his left hand, and she’s heard it
before if not from him, from others
who have eyeballed her up and down.
She knows words like light don’t reveal all.
​
Anthony DiMatteo

Anthony DiMatteo's recent poems and reviews have sprouted in the Cortland Review, Hunger Mountain, Los Angeles Review, Verse Daily, and Waccamaw. His current book of poems In Defense of Puppets has been hailed as, "a rare collection, establishing a stunningly new poetic and challenging the traditions that DiMatteo (as Renaissance scholar) claims give the poet 'the last word."(Cider Press Review).

Mauvais Sujet, by Ford Madox Brown (England), 1863:
If, before He spun off on His own to create Heaven and Earth,
He had taken art classes offered by Pre-Raphaelites in some
other Universe, things here might have gone a little differently

In the beginning, there wasn’t much to do – what
with not yet having to attend to fish tanks, litter
boxes or warfare – so He spent most of his free time
in the Garden. There he often attempted to engage
his companion in intelligent conversation about
mimesis, thermodynamics and composting. But
after a few weeks, He thought to Himself, 
You know, this Adam is kind of a dope.

So He created her (not out of a rib, but from one of
those white-hot bolides, which were beyond His
control, and which sometimes came crashing down
to scorch the tomatoes and the pumpkins) as a
diversion of sorts, a way to keep the man
entertained and – 

Who knows? Perhaps, in the best of all possible
Worlds, and with a little inspiration, Adam 
might invent something wonderful like – 
guacamole or iambic pentameter. 

After the blinding radiance of her being had
sufficiently cooled, He took one look at her,
invoked His Own Name and said, Ain’t she
something. 

He set up a schoolroom next to the stockyard and
tried to teach them some stuff, but they didn’t have
much use for it. Most days, Adam galloped around
the yard with a toy horse he’d made out of twigs,
palm fronds and clumps of his beard. And when she
wasn’t using projectile points to carve her name into
the blackboard and other furnishings, she just ate
figs and glared at Him. The sun, moon and stars
wheeled across the firmament; after a couple
decades had passed, Adam still hadn’t shown the
slightest interest in her.

So, He thought, I’ll make her my Consort. But first,
He said, let’s see how she does taking orders. That
didn’t go so well. She liked to wander in the
evenings. Over by the trees. After she finished the
first pear, she said to her host, Not bad. What else
you got? Before He even knew what was
happening, she had forced the serpent to choke on
his own tail and started roasting the creature alive.

He watched this in a state of abject horror and
muttered under his breath, Jesus! The snake was
lightly charred but still wriggling when He rescued
it from the flames. He cried, I shall put enmity
between the two of you! She said, Go right ahead.
Think I wanted to bring him home to cuddle in bed?
The whole time this was going on, Adam pretended
to be busy eating slugs and pulling the weeds
around the eggplant bushes. 

Well, now what? He hadn’t yet thought of process
servers, so next morning He Himself had to hand-
deliver the decree to her. She crumpled it up, fed it
to one of her goats, and laughed. Eviction! she said.
You and whose army? 

Ken Mitchell

Ken Mitchell is a former private investigator and business owner. He is a student at the Bread Loaf School of English, and writes occasionally for Dirt magazine. He volunteers with the Petey Greene Program, tutoring students enrolled in college courses at a New York State correctional facility.

Grey Days
        after Helen Levitt’s Seven Young Boys

It’s black and white, this snapshot 
I can’t shake off. Young boys, 
ranging five to eight, I would guess 
not from height but seriousness, 
wafer-thin, in smudged shirts
ragged as the crumbling curb
they idle near. One tyke stands 
in the garbage-strewn gutter as
a neighbor boy pedals a dented   
tricycle into what seems a mirror
at the centre of the grimy sidewalk. 
What sorcerer props up this 
illusion? A frame minus its mirror, 
no reflection, unadorned life itself, 
the kid leaving behind one reality
for another. At his back, Walter Quay
Hand Laundry. In his sights, a cohort
out on the street. This is 1940, post-
Depression and before the ensuing
war. Mere boys, too young for
the draft, caught between causes.

Margo Davis

Margo’s poems have appeared in Light: A Journal of Photography & Poetry, Wisconsin Review, Midwest Quarterly, Slipstream, Agave Magazine, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. Forthcoming poems are to appear in Misfit Magazine, Civilized Beasts, Vine Leaves Literary, Burgers and Barrooms Anthology, and Echoes Off a Canyon Wall, an ekphrastic photo / poetry exhibit.