 Reading at a Table, by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1934 Reading at a Table Head bent over an open book, she sees her hands become wings, rustle through the leaves, caress her forehead in a flight in still motion while her head splits as she reads two pages at a time, frontward backwards, rehearses the plot, rewrites the story, lips half-open. Her smile brightens the pale fire rising from the flame trapped inside the lampshade; its ebb and flow casts a faint light over the man in the background draped in a tropical robe, a puppy held against his chest, both faces encased tesserae, the glow sealing them within gold leaf. Mouth agape, the woman doesn’t notice how her table shrinks, how her hand flutters faster. Her feathered fingers erase distances, write in the margins, words dance under the hollow shaft that is her wrist. She finds herself writing in the book’s blank pages: her calamus fills leaf after leaf with signs guided by the master’s brush. Her smile is a sliver of moon now lined in liquid gold like the wild flowers in her hair trapped in a mosaic of dreams. Hedy Habra This poem was first published by Pirene's Fountain and in Hedy's book, Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015). Hedy Habra is a poet, artist and essayist. She is the author of three poetry collections from Press 53, most recently, The Taste of the Earth (2019), Winner of the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award; Tea in Heliopolis Winner of the Best Book Award and Under Brushstrokes, which was a Finalist for the Best Book Award and the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A seventeen-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/
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 Weather Retort, by Karen Elias (USA) contemporary. Used with permission of the artist. Hover here where dry predictions crack open to clouds and your own sweet precipitation of hope: no weather of worry, no stormy deadline of hurry. Marjorie Maddox This poem first appeared in Poetry in Transit. Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lock Haven University and author of 14 collections of poetry, Marjorie Maddox enjoys collaborating with visual artists, most recently with Heart Speaks, Is Spoken For, an ekphrastic collaboration with photographer Karen Elias and the forthcoming In the Museum of My Daughter’s Mind, based on her daughter’s paintings (www.hafer.work) + works by other artists (both from Shanti Arts). For more info, see www.marjoriemaddox.com Veiled after Veiled, by Gwendolyn Knight (USA, b. Barbados) 1937-1961. Click here to view. The astonishing thing about the spines of your stories are that they tie loops about your waist and anchor the knots in the scarf that tames your hair. Your downcast eyes give point to the sadness hooked to your heart. Your hair might be silver, your skirt may be green, But the books that live inside you are blue, and your almond eyes can’t bear to look at them. There must be a torrent behind your closed face, your silent mouth; there must be anger recording all you want to say and do but can’t. I am sure if your shelves broke loose, your world would tumble and what would be left would be sparklers twirled in the black of night that would burn tangled images in eyes who watched. Julene Waffle Julene Waffle, a graduate of Hartwick College and Binghamton University, is a teacher in a rural NYS public school, an entrepreneur, a nature lover, a wife, a mother of three boys, two dogs, three cats, and, of course, she is a writer. She finds great pleasure in juggling all these things and managing to seem like she has it all together.. Her work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, NCTE’s English Journal, La Presa, The Non-Conformist, The Ekphrastic Review, and Mslexia, among others. She was also published in the anthologies Civilization in Crisis, American Writers Review 2021, and Seeing Things (2020), and her chapbook So I Will Remember was published in 2020. Learn more at www.wafflepoetry.com.  Oedipus and the Sphinx, by Gustave Moreau (France) 1864. Wise to Her She had a lot of gall to do it, he thought. He had solved the Sphinx's riddle after dozens of other hopeful, if less clever, men had failed and gone to death under her savage paws. He was due some respect. Didn't she say she'd honour the man who played her game and won? Well, it seemed her promise was short-lived. She had jumped down from that high post of hers where she'd quizzed him and landed smack on his waist front, one set of paws digging into his mid-torso (the quick route to his heart, did she think?), the other set lewdly planting themselves in his crotch like an amorous overture. To top it all, she gave him the you're-my-hero look, her fine, human head turned up toward his in supposed admiration. It was plain ridiculous, he told himself. As if he would let a woman who had her record with men seduce and play with him. Well, he'd show her. He would just stand there, cool and confident in his new triumph, look down in contempt, and allow the half-form creature to guess her ploy wouldn't work. He would stand there all day before he stirred an inch. And once she got the point, she could leave him nicely and die. Norbert Kovacs Norbert Kovacs lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. He loves visiting art museums, especially the Met in New York. He has published stories recently in Blink-Ink, Zephyr Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and The Write Launch. His website: www.norbertkovacs.net.  Nude Against the Light, by Pierre Bonnard (France) 1908 The Artist Lures His Model Come, my reclusive love, into the light, to the archetypal bath. Shed the darkness that haunts. You are no Suzanna spied on by lusty church elders. Only by me with the swans-down softness of pastel pinks, blues, marigolds. The mind is a faithless maze that traps your brilliant yellows and flesh in jealousy. Come, bathe for solace, to wash away such bleak thoughts. Let my brush stroke the warm, sensuous landscape of your body onto canvas. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg led a nomadic life in five different countries before arriving in Houston—where putting down roots in gumbo earth has been challenging but worthwhile. In January 2019, she discovered the biweekly challenges from The Ekphrastic Review and a passion for combining words and art. Her essay, "My Ekphrastic Odyssey," appears in New Signs for Old Symbols: Ekphrastic Poetry Anthology 2022 from the Friendswood Public Library. Her poetry has been nominated three times for a Pushcart and twice for Best of the Net. Recent publications include Panoply, The Ekphrastic Review, MockingHeart Review, San Pedro River Review, easing the edges: a collection of everyday miracles, and in Dutch in the Netherlands in Brabant Cultureel.  Various ceramics by Pablo Picasso (Spain) 1950s The Boy From Barcelona The old man in the striped shirt was unpacking the crockery from the factory when the boy from Barcelona with the indignant eyes kicked in his door and said: “What are you doing, old man?” “Trying to make money. Why are you back in my studio?” “Studio?” laughed the boy. “This is a brothel!” The boy spotted the old man’s dusty easel, broke a leg off, and used it to smash the crockery. Then he stomped the shards into powder. “Why did you destroy my art?” asked the old man. The boy from Barcelona plucked his comb out of his shirt pocket, looked at his messy reflection in the old man’s eyes, then carefully parted his black hair to the side before saying: “If you know how to make money at it, you’re doing it wrong.” Craig Proffitt Craig Proffitt is an award-winning writer and filmmaker. Speculative fiction is his first love, but he enjoys following the muse to unexpected places. He published his first novel, The Opulent Life Option, in 2021. His short story, “Devoted,” can be found in Flora Fiction Literary Magazine. Craig was born in Puerto Rico and has lived in Tucson, New Orleans, DC, Los Angeles, New York, Seattle, Philadelphia, Austin, Atlanta, Santa Fe, and he spent a summer studying Japanese law at Doshisha University in Kyoto. He now lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest. Visit him at www.craigproffitt.com. Now available- the perfect gift! Invite loved ones to explore art appreciation and writing. We have gift certificates that can be redeemed for any 2023 two-hour workshop. Or admit two with a specially priced gift certificate. We also have workshops coming up on collage artists, Frida Kahlo Wine and Art night, surrealist painter Gertrude Abercrombie, and a festive holiday grab bag. Our Zoom workshops are all about connection, conversation, and creativity. We enjoy interactive discussions, learning about art, and creative writing exercises. Thank you for supportive this journal and for being part of the Ekphrastic family!
Admit One- Ekphrastic Workshop Gift Certificate
CA$30.00
Give the gift of ekphrasis. This gift card admits one to any two hour single session ekphrastic zoom workshop in 2023. Our workshops are forums where we discuss various artists or themes and use them to inspire our poetry and prose. We contemplate artworks, learn more about them, and do various brainstorming and writing exercises. Recipient can present gift card with order number or name to [email protected] to redeem for any workshop through 2023. Admit Two- ekphrastic workshop gift certificate
CA$50.00
Give the gift of ekphrasis. This gift card admits two friends or colleagues to any two hour single session ekphrastic zoom workshop in 2023. Our workshops are forums where we discuss various artists or themes and use them to inspire our poetry and prose. We contemplate artworks, learn more about them, and do various brainstorming and writing exercises. Recipient can present gift card with order number or name to [email protected] to redeem for any workshop through 2023. Cut and Paste- an ekphrastic workshop on collage
CA$30.00
Tuesday, November 15, 2022 4 to 6 pm eastern standard time doors open at 3.45 for optional meet and mingle Join us on Zoom for a journey into collage. We will look at different collage artists, discuss their works, and use collages for writing exercises. Poetry, fiction and CNF welcome! Frida Kahlo- wine and art write night
CA$30.00
Mexican painter Frida Kahlo was a larger than life character and epic talent. She is known for her epic love affair with Diego Rivera, for her heroic struggle with numerous illnesses, and for her fascinating paintings. Join us online for a night of lively discussion, writing exercises, and wine sipping. Sunday November 27 2022 on Zoom 6 to 8 pm eastern time Doors open at 5.45 for optional meet and mingle. If you wish, bring your own wine, or tea, and snacks. Ekphrastic Holiday Workshop- wine and art write night
CA$30.00
Join us on Zoom to celebrate the winter holidays with wine, art, and writing exercises! We will look at some interesting works from art history on winter and holiday themes, and use them to inspire discussion and writing ideas. Thursday, December 8, 2022, from 6 to 8 pm eastern standard time Doors open at 5.45 for optional meet and mingle If you wish, bring wine, tea, or snacks. Jazz Witch- Gertrude Abercrombie ekphrastic workshop online
CA$30.00
Writers find endless inspiration in the curious artworks of Gertrude Abercrombie. Gertrude Abercrombie was a Chicago area surrealist artist. Her intriguing works were filled with recurring personal and universal symbols, such as owls, cats, doors, and moons. Learn more about the artist whose world was jazz and art. We will discuss her themes, paintings, and use her art in several writing exercises. Saturday, February 11, 2023 2 to 4 pm eastern standard time doors open at 1.45 for optional chat and mingle All welcome- poetry, fiction, CNF writers, or just the art curious! The Narcissists 1. We cover our scars in scarlet, all of us. We are lean and long and carmine, like flamingos. One swipe of the lippy, smear like a gash. We are all wound. We are haute couture stick figure skeletons. Red devils. We are all eyes, holes. 2. Teeter totter Gaga spikes. Rose red kid soft leather from Italy. Thigh high. I command the room. I was playing Truth or Dare like Madonna and her dancers in these same boots. Someone asked about the meanest thing you ever did. I said nothing, but my mind went instantly back, to an earlier place wielding this same power. My little brother is blue, and trembling, from too long in the ice-cold lake. I wrap him in a warm towel and press him against my big new breasts. He is twelve. Want to see them? I whispered it so softly that no one else has ever heard me. 3. You drive past the gallery wearing a PVC harness dress. Then swoop back. You can’t stand him in the limelight, or anyone else, really. You storm inside, disrupting the artist’s story over Chenin Blanc and Brie because it’s all about you. It’s only ever been about you. You wanted so desperately to be famous, but now it’s happening to somebody else. Someone you once called a friend. You want him to stop everything when he sees you, to tremble, to acquiesce his platform to its rightful owner. He laughs. He knows what you are. He remembers everything. You hate to be mocked. You are seething. He is still laughing. Lord, he says. Out loud, in front of everyone. You haven’t changed a bit. 4. In a fugue, the young woman marched to the rooftop. See me, she said, to anyone watching on Instagram. Stepped off, fell down, sundown, long gone. Without the camera, she doesn’t even exist. She is varnish, shell, shellac. All surface, all illusion. She hasn’t eaten for days, maybe weeks. She wants to watch herself bleed. Witness them fussing around her beautiful corpse on the ground. Her last thought is not, oh, God, what have I done, but OMG, how will I see myself disappearing? 5. We drape ourselves in red velvet, claw scattered stars with lacquered talons. We accuse those we used to love of unspeakable crimes, just to watch their lives crumble under the force of our lies. We crisscross our cuts, ram our fingers down our throat, drown our babies in bathtubs. We like it when you watch. Lorette C. Luzajic This small fiction is from the author's book, Winter in June (Mixed Up Media Books, 2021).  After Lamia, by John William Waterhouse (England) 1905 Afterthought If she weren’t stilled by the painter’s gaze, cast by John William Waterhouse in the role of Lamia kneeling in front of an unidentified knight posing as young Lycius, she would tell him how he once lit a candle within her that resisted melting, a magical trick or a spell, since the flame grew even when he’d look at her sideways unknowing what step to take, waiting for her to take the reins as at a crossroads. He didn’t love her, he said, but when alone in the coupé, weren’t his knees shaking, shaking the seat, shaking her heart? Weren’t his lips thinking this is not happening, while her lips tasted their unraveled silkiness? And was he responsible for the spurned flame that still burns on an invisible wick, stretches and shrinks in a ritual dance? Was he ever aware that under her eyelids a shadow show lit keeps growing stronger day by day? Hedy Habra This poem was first published by Danse Macabre and in Hedy's book, Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015). Hedy Habra is a poet, artist and essayist. She is the author of three poetry collections from Press 53, most recently, The Taste of the Earth (2019), Winner of the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award; Tea in Heliopolis Winner of the Best Book Award and Under Brushstrokes, which was a Finalist for the Best Book Award and the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A seventeen-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/  Queen of Cups, Rider-Waite Tarot deck, by Pamela Colman Smith (UK) 1909 Love is Make-Believe My daughter Evol asks me if a flat line in a mirror can ever get splashed. I tell her flat lines in a mirror are a rarity but straight lines can curl after the slightest swivel. Her caramel eyes carve their disapproval at my current state of affairs, but not before inviting me to her invented Umbria--something like other children’s Narnia but this one actually sounding like an actual place—of frothy waves and sand dunes hand molded into castles. She curses the sun for having hurt her mama; she says it has a sour mouth the same color as ketchup. She lathers my back with soothing crème and asks me to sing along. Her song’s about an Eskimo girl living in an iceless hut with a heart the size of an iceberg. My two-piece swimsuit reminds me of those prison bars that held back the girl from one of Evol’s favourite anime series she used to watch with her father. I think about how sea-glass, sea-shells and grand sand castles look good on a postcard. *** When he sailed down south, she knew it was her fault and that she should have been like a sunflower looking dutifully towards the sun, following it, adoring it, worshiping it, but she didn’t. She let the whip of its rays slash at her skin. So, he left, but not before smearing her forehead with the illusion of a kiss. “I’ll be back.” They both knew the truth. They both pretended not to look at their mirror with all its flat-lines and straight lines spelled backwards. *** My daughter loves to play make-believe. “Momma, imagine you were a fairy, then you’re a fairy.” “Momma, imagine the sandcastle has a king and you be its queen.” “Momma, imagine the water in the hole is my favourite letter soup.” “Momma, imagine if I were an Eskimo with whales for friends.” “Imagine Daddy loving whales and those oranges you called mandarins. Imagine if I could not swim but then I can. Imagine the sun giving ketchup mouth to mouth kisses that are not so gross.” I look at her all grown up in the mirror, fiery braids the colour of sunflowers, and wonder why I spelled her name in reverse. I imagined her shrinking to the size of a fist ball, finding her way back inside my belly, exploring haunted beginnings, and that one true story I won’t read her at bedtime.  Queen of Swords, Ride Waite Tarot Deck, by Pamela Colman Smith (UK) 1909 Love is Spelled Backwards Because My Mama Was no Saint “My mind is a cloud cut in half with a sword, the sword is a thought and the thought is a roll of moving pictures where my defeat and retreat, your un-assembling and demolishing and all encumbering poetry that follows goes on repeat. I so want to punish you and provoke you and tell you all the vile things that slither through my mind during those soul-sucking shock sessions. Oh Mama, if only, you can taste the bitterness of my un-forgiveness, if only, you can feel, Mama. If only you ever had.” I read the opening of my poem to the deck of cards that used to be hers. The Queen of Swords card falls in my lap. “Mama doesn’t like my poetry. Mama doesn’t want her ashes in my urn next to the window.” I tell the void inside me or maybe the lady sitting on the cherubs’ throne with the sword in the card. Nurse Madeline knocks on my door again. She wants to keep my madness quiet. “Evol, honey, is everything alright? Now girl, I don’t believe in them shock punishments, aye punishments, electric and all, but if you don’t keep it down, I’ll let them fry your brain. Dear, you don’t want me to call Warden Mark and bring the straps?” Nurse Madeline locks me inside, bolts slide into their sockets. The room shakes under my feet, but it is really me who is shaking, dancing, swaying. I curse the hair that gets into my eyes. Her damn cards fall and trickle one after the other until The Fool card falls right next to its Queen. “You think I am a fool, Mama? You think I trust easy with that rose in his hand and the sun in his wake? Oh Mama, if only I can hold that sun in my grasp, close my fist around its mouth before hurling it at the wall and watching it break into a thousand little smithereens of golden shrapnel.” I hold the urn of her ashes and stand on tiptoe. “Mama, remember when I stood in my own little pool of blood in the yard in front of your idols and drunken boyfriends? Remember the alphabet soup you so laboriously filled with L’s and O’s and S’s and E’s and R’s? Remember the night you doused my loaf of bread with vodka before setting it on fire? But what was your life but misspelled confusion? What is my name, but love spelled backwards?” The sound of its smashing becomes manic static that transmutes my mosaic of pain. “Let’s forge a bond with what was in reserve and what should have not.” “My heart is a cup filled with your lost sea, my arms a wand that fails to bring forth your absent wishes. You were never a demon and I am no saint. MAMA and EVOL should have always been the AM AM of a heartbeat singing LOVE.” Riham Adly These stories originally appeared in Riham's book of flash fiction, Love is Make-Believe, Clarendon House, 2021. The first was also published by Cafe Lit and People Holding. The second appeared in Mercurial Stories. Riham Adly is an award-winning flash fiction writer from Giza, Egypt. In 2013 her story “The Darker Side of the Moon” won the MAKAN award. In 2022 she won second prize in the Strands International Flash Fiction Competition. She is a Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work is included in the Best Micro-fiction 2020 anthology. Her fiction has appeared in over 50 online journals such as Litro Magazine, Lost Balloon, The Flash Flood, Bending Genres, The Citron Review, The Sunlight Press, Flash Fiction Magazine, Menacing Hedge, Flash Frontier, Flash Back, Ellipsis Zine, Okay Donkey, and New Flash Fiction Review among others. Riham has worked as an assistant editor in 101 Words and as a first reader in Vestal Review. Riham is the founder of the “Let’s Write Short Stories” and “Let’s Write That Novel” in Egypt. She has taught creative writing all over Cairo for years with the goal of mentoring and empowering aspiring writers in her region. Riham’s flash fiction collection Love is Make-Believe was released and published in November 2021 by Clarendon House in the UK. She is the first African, Arab woman to have a flash fiction collection published in English. Riham shares her craft articles about writing flash fiction through her blog “Riham Writes” and reviews a new flash fiction collection every month on her FB group “Riham Reads Flash.” |
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October 2024
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