The Ekphrastic Review is excited to present this special showcase, featuring the ekphrastic poetry of women in recovery from addiction. Poet Valerie Bacharach facilitates poetry workshops at Power House and Cece's Place in Pittsburgh. She recently did special ekphrastic workshops, and these are the resulting poems. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers You know the picture, painted over and over. A vase or pot or ground. Flowers. Who arranged this? Someone well-to-do with nothing but time? A gardener with an eye for pretty, or just making a living? Someone poor who just likes them? Were they found along the road? Stolen from someone’s garden, grown lovingly from seed? Or just bought at a shop? Were they chosen specifically or just thrown together? Planted intentionally or a happy happenstance? Maybe it’s not about the flowers. Maybe they are irrelevant and it’s about the pot or vase or ground. Kenna Grand Canyon National Park Like rings of trees are these rings testimony? Wide white splash. What a tale that must be. Listen to the whispers of the storyteller. Grand Teton Around the bend. Around the corner. I want to go. It’s got to be better than here. Go limp, let the water and wind drop me where they will. It’s got to be better than here. Keep looking, keep dreaming. It’s got to be better than here. Jump—stumble down the path. It’s got to be better than here. I’m not looking around the bend anymore. The grass isn’t greener. Stacy The Blessed Mother When I saw the picture of the Virgin Mary I thought of my communion name, Margaret. It made me think of Aunt Margaret and her doll collection. That must be who I got my interest in dolls from. My very next thought was when I was at my sister’s college graduation and we were at church. I went in front of the Blessed Mother statue and asked for her help with my addiction. At that very moment my mom took my picture so we would always have that to look back on. My mom believes her higher power is Mary and prays to her all the time. I pray to both God and Mary and even relate my grandma Fran to the Blessed Mother. Once my grandma Fran passed away, I always felt like she was watching over and protecting me. Caleigh Reflections Eyes downcast. Just look at your hands. Don’t look up. Don’t ever look up. Don’t notice all the ones who never notice. Accept that you’re alone. Keep the thoughts at bay. Don’t see the laughter. Don’t see the conversation. You’re not part of it. You’ll never be part of it. Keep those hands moving. Keep busy. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t cry. Never cry. They won’t care and the tears won’t cleanse. Pay no mind. Pay no mind. It’s ok to be alone. It’s ok to be alone. You chose this life. You chose this life. Their world is not yours. Just keep busy. And don’t think. Vicki Inside His Heart He’s solemn and he’s weathered. His eyes are light and kind. His hair is long and white, wiry and scarce. He’s full of knowledge and wisdom. But he’s unable to impart because he’s all alone and trapped in his mind. But he’s free inside his heart. Cindy Dance Keep it moving even when you’re down. Laughter, swaying, enjoy the time. We all fall down or in a spiral. It’s how we get up and live, even if we need to learn from others. There’s always something we can learn from each other. We may look like we are doing well, but the inside may be different. Put your feet on the ground and keep it moving. It’s not going to happen by yourself, you need others to complete your team. Jennifer The Day My Savior Died Love, ultimate love. Pain and suffering and sacrifice. The long and grueling journey to the mountaintop. They nailed him to a tree. His death set His Spirit free. God’s only son. His life’s work was done. In fulfillment of the Word. He and His Father in one accord. His mother bent over in grief. Oh, her breaking heart. He took His last breath. All the angels overhead, with the last words He said, “Forgive them for they know not what they are doing.” Up to the end He loved us so. His followers hated to see Him go. They laid Him in a tomb. Three days later He returned to bring more believers to God. He walked amongst them once more. God, the Son, and Holy Spirit who I truly adore. Mary Ann This is My Room This is my room, my comfort zone, where I can talk to God alone. A place where I can meditate and pray. A place where I know my spirit is safe. A place where I can feel and protect my soul because here I’m not alone. This is my room, out of all places in this house. A place where we’re not crammed on the couch. A place where all the confusion doesn’t take place. Just for me, a quiet, little place where I can get away. This is my room. My room, it’s just big enough for God and me. A place where I can come to make peace, no he say/she say, no drama from the world. It’s just a room, but it’s a place. This is my room. Kennedy Madonna In her arms she feels the weight of new life, gift of grace. The child now holds her gaze, she stares, scared, amazed. Precious life she will raise, awake at night, the dreams the freight. And now she’s sure of nothing more. No higher love in this world. Caitlyn When I Was a Very Young Girl When I was a very young girl I can remember my great-uncle having a horse farm. He would invite our family out there to Mercer county, PA, to have lunch and ride horses. My brother and I would have so much fun under the large trees in his yard. My mother worked a lot, so usually my grandmother and grandfather would take us, and we would spend the whole day. On the way home in the car, my brother and I fell asleep. The horse I seemed to always pick was all white with brown spots all over. He was very gentle. I can remember him being so big to me, when I was a very young girl. Cynthia No One Can Find Us Based on the painting The Monkeys by Henri Rousseau The jungle of wild animals hides in our den. The green trees hide our eyes as we smile, as the birds sing. Oh what a beautiful day to be in the jungle, safe and warm. No one can find us. We have another day to enjoy the rays. As the green leaves of the trees turn colours of red and yellow. The smell of the jungle is free and relaxing to the wild animals that hide deep in the den. Another day of relaxation comes our way, as we lay deep in the den, safely in a dark hole that no one can see in, with crisp leaves of yellow and red that hide the entrance of our bed. Sandy Comfort Is there anything more comforting than a summer night? The sky so clear, every star in our sight. Is there anything more comforting than talking with those we love? Speaking of days gone past and the meaning of the sky above. Is there anything more comforting than taking a long, quiet walk? No need to say a thing, no reason to talk. Is there anything more comforting than the night breeze lifting your hair? It wraps around your body, leaving you bare. Is there anything more comforting than a summer night? It calms the soul, helping life seem more light. Bekki Valerie Bacharach is a volunteer at two halfway houses in Pittsburgh, PA, for women in recovery from drug and alcohol addiction; Power House and Cece’s Place. She runs weekly poetry workshops for the women that include both reading and writing poetry. Valerie began writing poetry several years ago, after her son died from opioid addiction. Writing became a way to cope with grief, regret, anger.
In the poetry workshops, the groups read and discuss poetry written by women, and then write their own poetry with a prompt provided, or using any inspiration they choose. The women decide whether or not they'd like to share their words with the group, and they almost always do. Valerie says that it is vital for them to know they have a voice, that their words matter, and that what they write may help someone else. For this special presentation of ekphrastic writing from the women in recovery, Valerie Bacharach planned workshops using visual art prompts. The Ekphrastic Review is privileged to showcase the results of the workshop for our readers.
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Persistence
Monster memory, saddled with time’s burden, folds out of the dark plain. Pain twists into horse, eyelash, dolphin, tongue. Watches melt oblivious down the left foreground, slipping off rigid planes and brittle branches. Ants, silly creatures, gather casually on the closed face of one watch, guard this stillbirth of meaning. A slab of rock rises out of water and fog from the background to the right, nailing down what wants to slip. The numbers are all in order – a perfect exercise: plane, object, plane, object, plane. Something jars into disbelief. Diane Wahto Diane Wahto received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University in 1985. She has co-edited two editions of the anthology, 365 Poems. Her book of poetry, The Sad Joy of Leaving, published by Blue Cedar Press, will come out in September 2018. Her blog may be found at Poet of a Certain Age (https://poetofacertainage.wordpress.com/.) Her latest publications in include “Empty Corners,” in Same, and “The Yellow Dress,” in Gimme Your Lunch Money. She and her husband Patrick Roche live in Wichita, Kansas, with their dog Annie, a waif she found running loose on the Kansas Turnpike. 1. Woman in Café, Michelle Valois, 2018, Words on screen, 286 An American is talking to three Brits in a museum café. I am not eavesdropping. I am looking down at my copy of the museum’s floor plan and thinking about the masterpieces I have yet to see: portraits, landscapes, interior scenes, still lives. The Brits get up. Nice to meet you. Enjoy your stay. When they leave, the American lifts a cell phone, dials. I am still not eavesdropping. Why did you write what you wrote today? Pause. When are you coming back? You asked if I was done, what were you trying to tell me? On the table in front of the American is her copy of the floor plan, where she has carefully checked off each masterpiece she has seen. The woman stands, pats down her pretty dress. The way I’d dress if I didn’t dress the way I do: men’s pants, men’s sweater, comfortable shoes. Will she see the all masterpieces on her list? Will I? London is a busy city, made more crowded by the company I keep: in-laws, my partner, my almost-grown children. My sister messages me updates on our mother, who roams the halls of the nursing home searching for her son, my brother, dead since two years back. I search the shops for a souvenir for her. Find a tin of short bread cookies with a picture of the Queen. Hope she remembers the Queen. The American woman in the nice dress has left the café. I want to run after her, take her hand in mine, say, Come. Let us look together. We still have time. Which masterpieces have you yet to see? But I do not follow. I finish my coffee and head to the temporary exhibits. 2. Hélène Rouart in her Father's Study, Edgar Degas, about 1886, Oil on canvas, 162.5 x 121 cm My father did not have a study, but he had his own desk. This in a house where people did not have many things of their own. A Conant Ball, which probably doesn’t mean much to most people, made in a town very close to the town where I grew up, towns that once made things like desks and chairs. Post-WWII American functionalism, walnut, square, seven drawers, three on each side, one in the middle, and it smelled of tobacco and old leather. My sisters and I would take turns hiding under the desk, stow away with orange slices and a book, catch a quiet moment in a house not known for its still life. Hélène in the painting is dwarfed by her father’s things: an Egyptian coffin, a large desk, a painting by Corot. The chair she stands behind so large it makes her look like a monstrous child. Her face reveals not happiness but not the lack of joy. My father did not possess the treasures of a 19th century industrialist. In his desk after he died: pipes, a silver metal lighter, a discarded wallet containing an expired license, a gold-plated pocket watch. I stopped for the girl, not for her father’s treasures. 3. Interior, Vilhelm Hammershøi, 1899, Oil on canvas, 64.5 x 58.1 cm She stands with her back to us in a small, Northern room. There are two doors, a stove, a table, a chair. The walls are white; there are no windows. The room looks cold but inviting. I want to climb through the canvas, take the woman by the shoulders, turn her around, say, I am here, looking at you, see me. She is the artist’s wife, added much later, added after the artist had finished painting the room. The curators know this from close analysis. Her head is slightly bent, shoulders hunched. Is she reading? Her hair is pulled into a soft bun, I can see the back of her neck, which is white, like the walls. If I kissed the back of her neck… but I wouldn’t. My own wife doesn’t like to be startled in such a manner. If I painted my wife it would be like this: quiet, domestic, unseen. 4. Saint Sebastian, Gerrit van Honthorst, 1623, Oil on canvas, 101 x 117 cm I look for him in every museum. The arrows. The stake. The tree. I recognize this one as soon as I walk into Room 25, though it is on the far wall. The Italians rendered him more ornate, with long flowing hair, a boyish face, flamboyant soft hips. There are some of those here, too – Ortolano and the Pollaiuolo brothers – and I will see them later. But this one, this one is Dutch. And it’s almost a portrait – no executioners with their bows, no onlookers. He is shown only from the knees up. The tree from which he hangs – in a sitting position, slumped over, head down – is almost unnoticeable. This is northern austerity, like the cancer patient who refuses the crown of decorative henna to cover her bald skull. But there are the usual leather straps that bind him and the arrows that impale his innocent flesh. Saint Sebastian. Roman centurion. Secret Christian until he wasn’t. Principal protector against the plague. Tied to a tree and shot with arrows. I think radiation, pinpoints of light burning my disease, and the mask that covered my face bolted to the table to keep me still. I think sainthood and martyrdom and remember those who did not survive: my father; my brother; three aunts, two uncles; Hedwig, whom we called Tulla; and Charlotte; and Rose. 5. Vanitas Still Life, Jan Jansz, 1648, Oil on Oak, 90.5 x 78.4 cm In this, we are reminded of death – vibrant colours notwithstanding, the object label states. But the scarf is the only colourful object in the painting and it’s really not vibrant at all, a muted salmon pink, like the colours of the houses in a medieval city centre, preserved for the 21st century. In another century, I wandered such an old town. Years later, guiding my children down those same streets, I led them into a café with a cellar from the 15th century. 600 years, I say, impressing upon them the passing of time. Vanitas – still-life painting, 17th century, Dutch. The transience of life. The futility of pleasure. The certainty of death. The scarf in the painting, though not vibrant, is brighter than the skull, true, and more colorful than the knight’s visor and even the earthenware pitcher. Did the pitcher once hold wine? And what about the book of music? The drawing? The broken flute? Worldly ambitions that come to an end, the hourglass tells us. In my still life, I would put a baseball with the seams unraveled, a discarded doll whose name I still remember, the worshipful gazes of my children when they were still young, my father’s pocket watch. The title page of an opened book tucked between the pitcher and a vase tells us, evil is its own reward. Is it a sin to look back? Death, ambition, time. Time, how it moves ever forward, even if these images tell us otherwise. Tell us otherwise. I am listening, I am eavesdropping. Why did you write what you wrote today? When are you coming back? You asked if I was done, what were you trying to tell me? I am not done. But I cannot stop looking back. Is this what I am trying to tell you? It’s all right if you are eavesdropping. Michelle Valois Michelle Valois lives in Florence, Massachusetts with her partner, their three children, and a cat named Moxie. Her writing has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Baltimore Review, Brevity, TriQuarterly, Pank, The Florida Review, among others. She teaches writing and literature at a community college. One Too Many Each night I lay awake, Pulse rattling In this moment I can feel Your kiss fasten to my lips. An acquired taste. I feel a gentle tug of war When you pull me close. The sweet ambrosia sinks in. Hidden trysts. This weightlessness of desire Consumes me. The room feels cold. I reach out for my shawl To put my flames to sleep. Jurveen Kaur
Jurveen Kaur, from Singapore, loves the company of books more than anything else. An enthusiast for learning, she spends her days teaching elementary students English Language and inculcating the habit of reading to all her pupils. During her free time, she indulges in poetry writing workshops, watches films and bonds over coffee and food with her family and loved ones. Jurveen believes one should lead a life full of zest! Annunciation
I was reading on the verandah; the day was pleasant, the air warm. Then the birdsong fell silent and the sky went dark as though a squall were coming in off the sea. I sensed a shimmering of gold, a rustling as of draped silk, a flutter of wings: a figure was bending toward me, words streaming toward me. They, too, seemed golden. I was to bear the child of the heavenly father, this figure said unto me, though whether I heard the words or felt them or read them in the air I really couldn’t say. I felt a sharpness in my temples. My shoulders carried some weight beyond bearing. And as sure as I have ever known anything, I knew that this service would cost me all I had to give. And then I heard whispered supplications in a hundred tongues I didn’t know yet understood. Ave, ave, ave, pray for us now and at the hour of our death. I remembered how we danced for my grandmother beneath the cedars as the evening cool came in. And, hands splayed on my chest, my red dress exposed within my fallen-open blue robe, I submitted to the charge. Hannah Mahoney Hannah Mahoney's work has appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including One Sentence Poems and Modern Haiku, and she was the featured poet for September 2018 at the Mann Library Daily Haiku website. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Still Life
Along the curving beak of its shadow the eye of the flame tracks light on the muzzle, sockets that gleam, mosaic front teeth, the goat’s skull is rapt, in mesmerised interest; by the empty tilt of its skull the skull is akin to the bottle, both calcified down, like the skin of the wall nothing is brittle. The bottle, half full or empty, in the glass of its heart holds a vertical drill, an ink-blotted pupil, the goat flame. All things conform to these hinges and horns, shards of a brain, the empty-headedness of the thing, this animal sense of a skull, lit by a candle in a bottle on a table otherwise dark: still life where there is none at all. Dominic James Dominic James lives in SW England with his partner, Helen. He joins poetry meetings along the Thames Valley and is a member of Richmond's Bright Scarf group. His collection Pilgrim Station is available through SPM Publications and his blog has a hungry look at: http://djamespoetic.blogspot.com/ Silence
(for my uncle, Bahman Mohassess) Your mouth was not always song. It was the living room cracked open into a tilted ravine, where you flew and I sat in the deep and nodded as needed in our near conversations, or it was the taxi cab or the museum, twisted during one of our long visits into a sudden maze irreparable, when inspired by a naked sculpture, you were reminded of the time Poseidon punished Odysseus and I silently wondered if they may both drop by for cardamom tea and sweets in the afternoon and how nice that would be. With no points of reference, I created my own. You planted no solicitous sign posts, nor painted them pretty for a girl child. I hung on your every word, especially the Italian ones and the French ones, but you scattered no bread crumbs for me to collect and arrive safely at you. Bird omniscient! When you soared over our ravine, you cast no shade and I was old enough to make you coffee, old enough for you to buy me my first bra, old enough to be beautiful, but when you told me stories, no, not bedtime stories, I was too old for that, you omitted the determiners, the demonstrative pronouns went missing and I rummaged and rummaged through your words but without them I could not fit your gorgeous adjectives and adverbs into my jigsaw puzzle, and they sat in my inept hands like wasted opportunities to love. I wanted to love Poseidon at the fountain, and Odysseus and Picasso entertaining the Parisians at Montparnasse. I was too shy for hyperbole but before we met I had already memorized love and the morning star. Before we met, I used to be enough, just a short while ago, back home where everyone spoke my language and allowed me to forget my name, before we met to sit together in your living room, live together in museums, taxi cabs, hotel rooms where fresh-cut flowers never died and I prayed that no one would ask my name. But I was in it for the long haul, I ate at your splendid table, and adorned it daily with a rose from your garden, and over the years I memorized the undulations of your love. The often whip and the always caress of it censored and modeled my becoming. And I was to your liking. Master sculptor, when you pressed upon me, I fed you spoonfuls of silence, the salve for the lacerations in your mouth. Rooja Mohassessy Rooja Mohassessy is an Iranian-American living in California. She is currently pursuing an MFA in poetry at Pacific University. Editor's note: Iranian Artist Bahman Mohasses was a prolific artist working in sculpture, assemblage, and painting, as well as theatre and literary translation. He studied, worked and lived between Italy and Iran. He is known as the "Persian Picasso" and is considered by many to be most prominent Iranian artist of the past century. Many of his works were destroyed by the Iranian authorities during the Islamic Revolution, and the artist later destroyed many works himself. Remaining works are rare and in high demand by collectors. The Iranian-American poet Rooja Mohassessy is his niece. Keepsake Not even souvenirs these scraps and fragments gathered like the pieces of a broken plate saved for a mosaic you might never make but can't stop dreaming of. Something beautiful to tell a story of memory and loss beyond comprehension- a few strands of white hair not neatly woven like those Victorian badges of grief, but loosely coiled in a tangle as though waiting for a gentle comb, a few scraps of cloth, delicate and faded, once worn close to your skin- all fastened with bright exclamations in red and yellow tape, enough to catch and hold these fragments safe. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy: "I have always been a writer but spent most of my working life as a Registered Nurse. Ekphrastic writing is relatively new to me, I find the process rich and rewarding, and especially enjoy these challenges. I have had work published in many on line and print journals, and have a digital chapbook, "Things I Was Told Not to Think About" available as a free download from Praxix magazine online." Message In The Mail Box Deep inside my mail box perched proud like a stork on one leg amongst IRS demands, reminders from utilities that last quarter remains unpaid, offers of 5% unsecured bonds, junk from retailers in premier fall malls and letters from Mom (she still chastises me each week) is a package of mystique - unfranked, unstamped with no return address but Cat#306 labelled on top of a montaged overcoat. Another came last week. One the week before. And one before that. All returned to the mail drop unopened for I’m dutiful I guess. But could it be the same package? Can this be a metaphor … for the circle of life? Alun Robert Born in Scotland of Irish lineage, Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical verse achieving success in poetry competitions in Europe and America. He has featured in international literary magazines, anthologies and on the web. His ekphrastic poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and Nine Muses Poetry. Triangle of Hope a shred of gauze exuding a faintly medical smell, the torn-off stub of an event beyond recall something that looks like a catalogue # aimed at posterity, and a small yellow triangle all have been carelessly ripped off their moorings, and are about to be swept up by broom and pan when her hands stall – the black rectangle could be a base, faded epaulette stripes call out to her as does that layer of gauze covering a quivering mess of string bending down she picks up the first piece – the yellow triangle of hope. Eventually, she will call her work: #7 and date it, 1948. Barbara Ponomareff Barbara Ponomareff has been a child psychotherapist by profession. Since her retirement she has been able to pursue her life-long interest in literature, psychology and art. She has published a novella on the painter J.S. Chardin, and her short stories and poems have appeared in various literary magazines and anthologies. Number 7 Weightless, this interior-- this structure of bones, this old house a whisper away from falling down-- a feather bed a quilted sky a shadow in the air-- Where are the birds to mend the spirit? the circle of hands to untie the knots and release the years, the days? The cold is hungry. The silence is breaking into ice. The Chariot awaits. Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig: "My daughter and I, wandering lost in the Metropolitan Museum in NYC, turned a corner and chanced upon a room full of tiny exquisite jewels of texture, colour, form, and light. This was my first encounter with Anne Ryan. Her collages reflect my love of the serendipitous juxtaposition of elements. And Number 7 is perfect for my present state of mind--a journey, a transformation--'The Chariot awaits.' You can see my art and poetry on my website http://kerferoig.com/, or on the blog I do with my friend Nina, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ ." Number Seven A fine string attached at centre of the collage like what could have been used for tatting, an old word, an old use of hands at night when settling down after dinner under a lamp where the glow is only enough for what is in lap, but this string has the shape of a loose infinity, so the woman’s world gets bigger. She packs a trunk big and black with brass hinges, wooden hangers on a rod, drawers opposite so slim they fall when pulled as she is afraid she will fall as she boards a steamer for what is called the continent, that place across the sea where she wants to walk down a gangplank and disappear into a pension on a narrow street, melt into walls that descend at angles where she leans her head out the window when she hears the deliveries before dawn and waves to the teamster, his horses, and does this every morning until he becomes her friend as do the horses she feeds what she calls crumpets, the rest of each day hers. She hasn’t gotten lost, the teamster would come looking if she disappeared into that infinity, that seven, a prime number. Kyle Laws Kyle Laws is based out of the Arts Alliance Studios Community in Pueblo, CO. Her collections include Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press), and Wildwood (Lummox Press). With six nominations for a Pushcart Prize, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., and Canada. She is the editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. The Hodge Podge Prayer I don’t know how to get there. I am always lost. Suite 10. The therapist waiting. I will have to pay, not enough time to cancel effectively. I hurry and my purse catches on the gate. Contents spill, concrete at my feet. It must’ve been the angle. Or an angel at a precipitous tilt. A message I can see. I can understand. Follow the steam boat along the river path until I come to the silhouette of the man wearing the detective’s hat - think - what is it called? Fedora! Indented Crown. Crown Towers. Halfway there. Cross three streets until I come to the yellow square. Caution. Look. Look. I see it now, the Cajun Café. Blackened. Stop at the counter on the lower level and trade my library card for two pieces of bacon before I climb to the second floor. My kind of money is good here. I am not late. I did not forget. I carry gratefulness in my purse at all times. Thank you. Amen. Julie Eger A three-time winner of the Wisconsin Regional Writer’s Jade Ring, Eger’s stories appear in Fictive Dream, Flash Fiction for Flash Memory, Runcible Spoon, Fifty Word Stories and the Cadence Poetry Anthology. She is working on an apocalyptic novella under the name Copper Rose. Connect at https://julieceger.wordpress.com/. Who Put the Sass in S.A.S.E. It used to be a well-known phrase; S.A.S.E. in olden days meant your submission must provide an envelope, where its outside is S.elf A.ddressed and must be S.tamped, the E.nvelope then licked and tamped. Submitting is committing to your cause. The stamp is lovely, strong and thick, and so it’s sure to play the trick, to carry your submission’s entry past each doleful, bleary sentry till it lands upon a page to carry you, from age to age. Preserving you, unswerving from your cause. Then fear sets it, the fading grin becomes tight-lipped without, within; the forehead beads, for many needs depend upon these planted seeds and yet, there’s hope: the stamp assures great eminence will soon be yours. Fortuitous? No—you’ve become your cause. Then comes the day, so far away from when the verse began to play within your head, that fertile bed where it would grow until it’s read. But now, S.A.S.E returned, you fear defeat and want it burned. Take courage. Don’t give in, but trust your cause. Acceptance! But the cure is worse-- it not a blessing, but a curse. You tremble and now fear your muse, because you hear its voice accuse: You don’t belong. Your poem’s wrong. It’s just a jingle, not a song. Your confidence betrayed. Your cause has flaws. Imposture Syndrome sets in deep-- submission’s promises won’t keep your hopes and heart and dreams awake, for all that’s good, it’s sure to take. That stamp, so beautiful before, you wish had never left your door. And for a while, you’re crying, just because … Ken Gosse Ken Gosse uses simple language, traditional metre, rhyme, whimsy, and humour in much his poetry. Initially published in The First Literary Review–East in November, 2016, his poems are also in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News, and other publications. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, he and his wife have lived in Arizona over twenty years, always with a herd of cats and dogs underfoot. Anne Ryan, Poet and Artist, As Seen in "# 7" At first, it troubled me to find collage as art of poet's mind so seeming in such disarray as if all hope had given way... ...to remnants of evoked despair as litter scattered here and there that seemed as though perhaps employed to camouflage artistic void... ...until I saw her soul released in layers she together pieced as pattern random fate could find befitting space to which confined... ...and I confirmed a poet's heart was simply drawn to freer art. Portly Bard Portly Bard: "Old man. Ekphrasis fan." /R/ (for Anne Ryan) Remove me from representation to a place of pure geometry, imagined intersection, a hazard of texture, numbers shaken loose as in baccarat, single letters limning bark or granite. Burlap scraps and scissors- snicks jag edges. I’m tired of bodies, their more of the same. Watch as colours blur, and fade, as the disposable becomes high art. Sure my images weren’t made to last. Edges brown and curl, glue unsticks. Yet the archival photographs endure, intention preserved, like footsteps in mud-slurry, like my sonnets with their fourteen lines, their rhyme-snagged chaos, the fury of their birth-- the world made bigger to contain my pleasure. Devon Balwit Devon Balwit teaches in Portland, OR. She has seven chapbooks and three collections out or forthcoming, among them: We are Procession, Seismograph (Nixes Mate Books), Risk Being/Complicated (A collaboration with Canadian artist Lorette C. Luzajic); Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders); and Motes at Play in the Halls of Light (Kelsay Books). Her individual poems can be found in The Cincinnati Review, The Carolina Quarterly, The Aeolian Harp Folio, The Free State Review, Rattle, and more. Southern Heat It was summer and the wheat stood high. The old VW beetle full of gear and cases, canvas bags; school far away, sign posts ambling by telling us how slow we’d come. And I'm reminded of blue to deep blue skies, occasional clouds threatening but not unloading. Do you remember skylarks? The South of France, or Almería, North Africa… how long is a piece of string? Time stood still. The tent ripped in a short summer storm, then the sun baked the earth dry again. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of ‘Tangents’, a poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the Goodreads monthly competition, a new poetry collection (‘From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949 : A Child’s Journey’) has been published by Aldrich Press in May 2016, and a new collection (‘Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back’) has been published (January 2018) by Kelsay Books. Ode to Collage #7 Paper sings like bow on cello, torn by hands and scissor skill, adheres where number 10 arises, where CAT appears in cornered fill. Form and color, surface rhythm, pieces placed in artful still, strips of blue touch string in tangle, translucence floats in softened twill. Black and gray join rust and yellow, meet where cloud-like mass distills. Shears of pink cut peaks of texture, edge with cuts where ravel frills, trim of cloth and burlap added, a crop of shapes, a drawer, a till. Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts lives in an inspiring setting near Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, where she writes, draws and paints, and often photographs her natural surroundings. She has authored four poetry collections including the most recent The Wingspan of Things(Dancing Girl Press, 2017). She is Poetry Editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. Naming Names I was pleased when they examined my collage from every angle. It seemed some of them were more than willing to stand on their heads for a better view. The whispering tipped me off-- “But why seven?” she said “It’s there if you look hard enough,” he said. “Ah, now I’ve got it,” they said as one. If you paint your Uncle Arthur at the shore, you might well name it Uncle Arthur at the Shore. But abstracts? Bob Rauschenberg named one of his “Bruised Knee,” because he hurt himself carrying it down the stairs-- his knee was purpled for weeks. A little secret. I named this seven because it was after six-- which I tore to shreds just yesterday and before eight-- a piece I will work on through the teens-- I suspect. Some have the knack and have the critics oooh and aaahing pontificating over the importance and perfection of the name. “It makes the piece,” you’d hear them say of a blue dab on white background the artist named “Blue on White.” I will name one 8 ½ (Perhaps I”ll put 1/2 before the 8). the first critic to find Fellini in abstraction will be lauded with generous spreads in the Times of London and New York and l will be declared a modern marvel-- “She merges art and film,” they’ll crow-- “See the movie, see the exhibit,” “Prepare to be blown away.” In my ingenious plan, ½ 8 will be just after eight, And just before 9. I plan to start on Wednesday. Steve Deutsch Steve Deutsch in State College, PA. His recent publications have or will appear in Thimble Magazine, The Muddy River Poetry Review, Ghost City Review, Borfski Press, Streetlight Press, Gravel, Literary Heist, Nixes Mate Review, Third Wednesday, Misfit Magazine, Word Fountain, Eclectica Magazine, The Drabble, and The Ekphrastic Review. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His chapbook, Perhaps You Can, will be published next year by Kelsay Press. The Alchemists
Owen’s alchemy never produced the fool’s gold of glory on battlefield but from the mud-burdened trudge of men moving beyond exhaustion as they passed a bare, pock-marked, death-filled, barbed-wire strung world he wrenched a pure and shocking gold of truth. Ancient Persian artisans performed a different kind of alchemy. Gone are sièges of noise, blood, death, broken walls and burning cities, bodies impaled outside the walls, boastful Kings commissioning bas-reliefs, walled cities and palaces, courts, officials, culture and conquest. What remains is alchemist’s gold, exquisite bricks glazed in brown, bone, ochre and aqua, depictions of warriors, archers with coiffed beards, abundant quivers and resplendent garments standing erect with their straight spears, now on display in La Musée du Louvre millennia after he who commissioned them has faded to forgotten dust and everything else he gloried in has long lain covered by the relentless detritus of time. Neil Creighton Neil Creighton is an Australian poet with a passion for social justice and a love of the natural world. Recent publications include Poetry Quarterly, Silver Birch Press, Praxis Online, South Florida Poetry Journal, and Verse-Virtual, where he is a contributing editor. His poetry blog is windofflowers.blogspot.com.au. Leap of Faith We reach out barren armed in our aloneness probe with one long bony finger the void the stuff of our dreamless days firmly rooted in nothing on the edge of nothing thrust up naked hallelujahs beseeching the sky oh the sky will bless us if we can but see it take that first step into other, which is of course just more of us out there somewhere everywhere coming home to where we never left. Robert L. Dean, Jr. Robert L. Dean, Jr.'s work has appeared in Flint Hills Review, I-70 Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Illya’s Honey, Red River Review, River City Poetry, Heartland!, and the Wichita Broadsides Project. He read at the 13th Annual Scissortail Creative Writing Festival in April 2018 at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma. His haibun placed first at Poetry Rendezvous 2017. He was a quarter-finalist in the 2018 Nimrod Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry contest. He has been a professional musician and worked at The Dallas Morning News. He lives in Augusta, Kansas. |
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