Let's gather tomorrow night for some wine, art history, and creative writing.

Our Ghost Stories workshop will take a peek at a selection of apparitions in art history, with creative prompts and time to write your own ghostly poems or stories.

Our online writing sessions, started this summer, have been amazing opportunities to gather with other writers, talk about art, generate new work, and share our writing.

This one is a wine and art write night, so bring some Chardonnay if you like!

All participants will receive a copy of the Ghost Stories prompt ebook after the workshop! There are forty artworks on the theme of ghosts, curated to inspire your writing practice.

6 pm to 8 pm EST
Saturday October 23, 2021
​$30 CAD (approx $24 USD)

The responses to the Java Shadow Puppet ekphrastic writing challenge are up!

Click on image above, or here, to read a dazzling array of selected responses.
​

​First Step
 
There are three types of meaning in the world:
what we can know, what we could think to know,
and what we cannot fathom. This is how
a painted eland, brown and white, might loom
out of the flood of history to fill
a cave wall, or a drinking cup be stored
beneath the glass. You can’t expect to trace
a universal pattern here. A stem
or leaf or branch will form and dissipate,
their tilt is not for meaning. But each word
we fashion and each structure we create
speaks in our language. I’ve been pondering
the way this kouros steps up into art 
from the brute life of matter. At his sides, 
 
his two clenched fists. The man whose grave he graced,
the man who spoke and walked beneath the stars,
has done with talking, and the kouros too 
says not a word. And yet, a web of sense 
descends around him. Every inch a king,
says Lear, and every inch of marble here 
maps out the artist’s language. It is not
entirely mine – this kouros is unknown 
to my brain, he’s too far – yet he provides
a freedom, an intent that summon up
their echo in my soul. Cut from the stone
into what we might call reality,
in this now-silent room the kouros strides:
a stride forever taken, a first step.

John Claiborne Isbell
​
Since 2016, various MSS of John’s have placed as finalist or semifinalist for The Washington Prize (three times), The Brittingham & Felix Pollak Prizes (twice), the Elixir Press 19th Annual Poetry Award, The Gival Press Poetry Award, the 2020 Able Muse Book Award (twice) and the 2020 Richard Snyder Publication Prize. John published his first book of poetry, Allegro, in 2018, and has published in Poetry Durham, threecandles.org, the Jewish Post & Opinion, and The Ekphrastic Review. He has published books with Oxford and with Cambridge University Press and appeared in Who’s Who in the World. He also once represented France in the European Ultimate Frisbee Championships. He retired this summer from The University of Texas – Rio Grande Valley, where he taught French and German and coached men’s and women’s ultimate. His wife continues to teach languages there.

Catching the Train to Czestochowa

for Monika Pisniak

1. Warsaw Fredric Chopin International Airport

I land at the Warsaw Fredric Chopin International Airport on a Summer afternoon. The hour hand on my wristwatch says 2 and the minute hand, 35—on the 7th day of June, 2017 C.E. "It’s really hot today," the immigration officer whinges to me. "But it’s only 22 C," I point her to the digital meteorometer. "Where I come from, the average temperatures are 40 C during this time of the year across the Southern region of the country," I part the news to her. "You’ll enjoy this weather then," she wishes me a pleasant stay. Of course, this is not my virgin trip to Europe, but only to Poland. But of course, I’ve brought my wardrobe of warm clothes, too.

You don’t come to give me a reception at the airport, ‘cause I told you not to. Because I wanted us to save the 35 – 40 Euros for the visits to other cities and towns that we had been planning for months—especially, The Tatras and The Jasna Gora Monastery. "Hello, I’m here. The train to Czestochowa will depart in 50 minutes. I’ll see you soon," I keep the phone call deliberately short. "OK," you answer the mobile phone even before the first ring completes its course. "They’ve increased the toll tax again on making calls via public telephone booths here," I take a mental note, "or is this how it is here in Poland?" My dark-brown suitcase appears on the conveyer belt, at last. Next stop: tend to my addictions of caffeine and nicotine. "Now, THIS IS HOW THE CAPPUCCINO IS MEANT TO TASTE LIKE," as I take the first few sips from my (large) first cup of coffee, I draw comparisons between the quality of life in Pakistan and Europe, and remind myself of the life that I once had had the privilege of living only nine odd years ago or so. The first few puffs of a cigarette (Marlboro Gold) make me feel guilty, "… but it was the first puff in the Summer of ’08 C.E. that was the culprit … ." And I make a resolution, "I WILL QUIT SMOKING THIS YEAR, COME WHAT MAY!"

2. The Train

I, rather prudently, place my (medium) second cup of coffee (Latte, this time) on the table, and take a window seat in a booth with a seating arrangement for four people—reliving my preferences for the mode of commuting (i.e. train), beverage and seat from when I used to make journeys during my (almost a) decade long stay in the UK. After two and a half hours, I am still the only person occupying the booth. "Should I be surprised though," I think to myself? Anyway, I take the liberty of putting my black Fedora hat and dark-grey corduroy jacket on the adjacent seat. "‘Czestochowa’ means a place with a mountain on one side and river on the other side," you told me during our etymology related discussions some time ago. As I pull out 'Love Poems from God' by D. Ladinsky from my tan leather postman bag to keep me company for the next hour or so, I take another look at the souvenir (mosaic—assorted colourful glass pieces) to reassure myself that it’s still in one piece.

By now, it has been > three and a half hours since my last cigarette. To my relief, the announcement is made: "the service will make a short stop of three minutes at the next station." "Do they allow smoking on the platforms here though?" This is the only thought that carries any value for me at this stage.

A group of locals (of four lads and two girls) have gathered that I’m not from around the town. The skin tone, colour of hair, attire—it’s the whole package that has given my foreign presence away, obviously. They are intrigued and want to make an acquaintance as they approach me with "broken English” (as we put in colloquial terminology in Pakistan). But they are mostly interested in showing off their English (language) skills, I know. "I’m here to visit my girlfriend," I unreluctantly disclose the purpose of my visit. And immediately, I’m offered the Cytrynowka (lemon Polish vodka) and we all raise a toast. "This (Polish Vodka), I ought to have more of," I make a serious mental note.

In the middle of reading ‘The Moment’s Depth’ by Rabia of Basra from the anthology, I can see you blushing madly, when we hug and kiss in < 30 minutes.

And I give birth to this prose poem on the milky-white plain pages of my black leather (hardback) journal—with < half a dozen sips left in my third (small) cup of coffee (Mocha, this time).

3. The Premonition
​
That was the dream, I saw the other night—two weeks prior to the intended trip, to be precise. And it stayed a dream. But perhaps, the events would’ve unfolded in the same sequence, too, had the premonition been granted a chance to materialise.

Saad Ali

Click here to read an interview with Saad Ali about his book, Owl of Pines.

Click here to hear the ekphrastic podcast with Brian A. Salmons, featuring Saad Ali.

Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an (existential) philosopher, poet, and translator. Ali has authored five collections of poetry. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Management Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com, or his Facebook Author Page at www.facebook.com/owlofpines.

Anorexia Mirabilis: Mary Magdalene de’ Pazzi

In the lower choir where my sisters kneel 
on this rough wood, restless, black-beaded, 

lost in reveries of glowing oven stones, 
the coarse seed bread and churned butter

that will soon break the long night of their fast,
I wait on nothing but you, Lord, unsteady as I am, 

slow-pulsed and languorous beneath the weight
of my patched woolen mantle. Still young, 

my monthly blood has halted like all hope
of the damned. I am mother solely to desire

ravenous as a coliseum beast and I will rise
only when the gold-throated bells have beckoned

You and I brush my lips against the priest’s 
warm fingers, swallow You who deigns to enter me 

white as a winding sheet before its terrible commission.
You stagger me like plaited thorns pressed

to my crown where this white wimple bends
its nimbus arc. You have inscribed the reliquary

of my heart with a secret to be read only when
I am laid open on the surgeon’s cold stone table. 

The Word Was Made Flesh and dwelt within me. 
O, Love who descends in a garland of fire,

bloodied robe spilling­ off the shoulder,
off the scourged hip, I am damp as a new bride

to behold the smooth cursive that arrows 
from your muscled waist to the rag they hung

above your sex for the sake of modesty. 
Unworthy though I am, a virgin with a harlot’s name,

I beseech You not for death, but agony, not light, 
but doubt’s brute darkness. Render me desolate

and hollow as a midnight nave. Countenance 
the cloister cupboards demon-gaped to illumine

glittering jars of late summer preserves. 
Conjure a years-long ache in my belly,

wolf sister to the bone whip that flays me.
no matter this starved-drunk equilibrium,

the yellowed vellum of my skin, these bones
gone brittle as pendant ice. I remain renunciate

for Your name’s sake. I consent to nothing
but the unleavened moon that conceals

Your broken glory. O Lord, I beg You, shatter me
with promises of the feast that is to come.

Frank Paino

Frank Paino’s poems have appeared in a variety of literary publications, including: Crab Orchard Review, Catamaran, North American Review, World Literature Today, Gettysburg Review, Prairie Schooner, The Briar Cliff Review, Lake Effect and a number of anthologies. Frank’s third book, Obscura, was published by Orison Books in 2020. His first two volumes of poetry, The Rapture of Matter and Out of Eden were published by Cleveland State University Press. Frank has received a Pushcart Prize, The Cleveland Arts Prize in Literature, and an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council. His website is: https://www.frankpaino.net

The Salamander

English:

So formed by love am I, I live in
flame, a salamander in this world
new-born, 
like to that other beast, as strange, forlorn, who in
one place both lives and breathes the same. 

All these are my delights, these joys my aim, to
live alight, all sense of pain forsworn, nor seek
from him who’s made my state so worn, his
grant of pity, great or small to claim. 

Scarce were the fires of that first passion
done when love another lit, which only went
to prove itself the larger livelier one – 

and of such ardent love I’ll not repent 
as long as he, who my heart’s lately won, will
with my unquenched furnace rest content. 

Italian:
​
Amor m’ha fatto tal ch’io vivo in foco,
qual nova salamandra al mondo, e
quale l’altro di lei non men stranio
animale, 
che vive e spira nel medesmo loco. 

Le mie delizie son tutte e ’l mio gioco 
viver ardendo e non sentire il male, 
e non curar ch’ei che m’induce a tale 
abbia di me pietà molto né poco. 

A pena era anche estinto il primo ardore,
che accese l’altro Amore, a quel ch’io sento
fin qui per prova, più vivo e Maggiore. 

Ed io d’arder amando non mi pento, 
pur che chi m’ha di novo tolto il core 
resti de l’arder mio pago e contento

​Gaspara Stampa, translated by Nigel Stuart

Rime d’Amore No. 206/208* Gaspara Stampa (* depending on edition) 16th century

Nigel Stuart is a retired professor of 20th century history and a translator of epic poetry, with a secondary professional interest in renaissance Europe, in artistic practice and in film; who also writes poetry in English and in Scots.