Waiting and Waiting He was late, Venus thought rather burnt. You'd think Mars would show on time when he had asked for the midday tryst. She had gotten nicely prepared for him, undressed fully. She had lain herself out in bed, her idea to amaze him first thing on his arrival; he did love to see her soft, flowing contours and unblemished skin, and she relished how he praised them in that deep, war-god voice of his: "Oh, Venus!" By her pillow, Cupid, her little cutie, sat ready to crown her in a spring garland when the god showed, so he would think her not just beautiful but happy to be plucked as the phrase goes. But where was he? She hoped he had not gone on another bloody rampage. She remembered he had said he was keen on joining the Greeks as they headed out to attack some city Troy. "Great business prospect," he had said, eyes fired with blood lust. She tried to believe that was not why he hadn't come. But as she lay amid her silken sheets, waiting and waiting, she braced her unopened fan, feeling she could snap it in two. She turned from the rolling landscape outside the bay window, the vigorous blue river and rugged mountain no longer to her interest. Her ear went deaf to the lute player practicing the music he might have played while she enjoyed her bed that day. What use for any of it now?, she thought on the verge of tears. 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.
0 Comments
This month, readers in North America might expect a Throwback Thursday to highlight Halloween or the Day of the Dead, but all I see and hear in my head these days is music. So, ekphrastic lovers, this week you are invited to dive into the archives to feel the heartbeat rhythm in these fantastic writings and the art that inspired them. Enjoy! For the Artist I Call Moth, by Kyle Laws For lovers of place names and landscape, this poem combines them in satisfying ways: “crosses in Tucson named after Saint Augustine” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/for-the-artist-i-call-moth-by-kyle-laws ** The Snail, by Amie E. Reilly So much meaning packed into a flash fiction piece. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/the-snail-by-amie-e-reilly ** In the Dead Grass of November, by Judy Kaber Step back in time with this poem inspired by the 1952 painting, Faraway, by Andrew Wyeth. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/in-the-dead-grass-of-november-by-judy-kaber ** One Viewer’s Response to Antoni Tapies’ Blue with Four Red Bars, by Bill Waters A poem by Bill Waters with the great line: “The bars have been red for a decade.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/one-viewers-response-to-antoni-tapies-blue-with-four-red-bars-by-bill-waters ** Next Door to the Depot, by Alarie Tennille Inspired by the painting, Evening Limited to Memphis, by Romare Bearden, this poem could be set to music. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/next-door-to-the-depot-by-alarie-tennille ** Itinerary of a Traveler Through Darkness, by William Schmidtkunz As someone who likes to travel, I loved reading and re-reading this piece: “once you get accustomed to the darkness there is just so much light.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/itinerary-of-a-traveler-through-darkness-by-william-schmidtkunz ** Portrait of a Little Girl, Painted by Elizabeth Chant, by Veronica Lupinacci This flash fiction piece grabbed me at the first line, “The living mask hangs above her— scans the room with white eyes,” and held me to the surprising end. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/portrait-of-a-little-girl-painted-by-elizabeth-chant-by-veronica-lupinacci ** La Casa Azul, by Jane Frank After photographs of Frida Kahlo in her garden from a video, every line of this piece sings. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/la-casa-azul-by-jane-frank There are more than seven years worth of writing at The Ekphrastic Review. With daily or more posts of poetry, fiction, and prose for most of that history, we have a wealth of talent to show off. We encourage readers to explore our archives by month and year in the sidebar. Click on a random selection and read through our history. Our occasional Throwback Thursday feature highlights writing from our past, chosen on purpose or chosen randomly. We are grateful that moving forward, Marjorie Robertson wants to share some favourites with us on a regular basis, monthly. With her help, you'll get the chance to discover past contributors, work you missed, or responses to older ekphrastic challenges. Would you like to be a guest editor for a Throwback Thursday? Pick 10 or so favourite or random posts from the archives of The Ekphrastic Review. Use the format you see above: title, name of author, a sentence or two about your choice, or a pull quote line from the poem and story, and the link. Include a bio and if you wish, a note to readers about the Review, your relationship to the journal, ekphrastic writing in general, or any other relevant subject. Put THROWBACK THURSDAYS in the subject line and send to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com. Let's have some fun with this- along with your picks, send a vintage photo of yourself too! Hans Maler’s Christ Carrying the Cross The man in the codpiece yanks you to your feet with a leash of rope noosed to your neck. A thin fellow in a yellow tunic lifts a stick to smack you on the back of the head beneath that crown of thorns. He shouts, “Up faggot!” as the crowd gawks, jeers, and laughs at you. Jesus, you’re as vulnerable as a tongue, as two tied thumbs. In this painting I almost forget that many worship you as God or Savior; to me you’re nothing but a man fallen into the hands of liars, torturers, assassins. You’re looking around, desperate for help: two or three weep for you for what that’s worth. God knows it’s not their hour, their day, their earth. Matthew Murrey Matthew Murrey’s poems have appeared widely, recently in Rust + Moth, The Inflectionist Review, and Topical Poetry. He’s an NEA Fellowship recipient, and his debut collection, Bulletproof, was published in 2019 by Jacar Press. He’s a recently retired public school librarian and lives in Urbana, Illinois with his partner; they have two grown sons. His website is at https://www.matthewmurrey.net/ and he is on Twitter @mytwords. Sir Galahad At night, the painting haunts him. He sees the crimson sword, the shade of crushed roses, and the glint of silver armor. Remembers the way the knight’s shield rests on his back like furled wings. Three angels at his side, leading him forward, dressed in snowy white. The angels’ bodies bleed into luminescence beneath their torsos, blossoming into the gleaming, gold van-Gogh-halos that radiate off of them. Sir Galahad bows his head in a show of either submission or reverence. Maybe both. His long locks of hair, like melting amber, do not fall in his face as he looks down. His calling is cosmic. A divine purpose that’s etched into the serenity washed over his pretty, oil-paint face and the mysterious light that gleams across the lake at the foot of the hill. The light blinks and flickers and beckons, like a will-o-wisp in the woods. Silver dances, like spilled mercury, across the glassy waters. Something greater calls to Sir Galahad. He can’t push the painting from mind. If he could slip into his subconscious and paint over the portrait with snowdrop-white paint to erase it from memory completely, he would. For he could never be Sir Galahad. The otherworldly choir that sings to the knight will never sing for him. He believes that there is only this, then nothing more. Just dust and dirt and decay. Bits of bottle-glass that glitter, like jewels, on the sand, then wear and weather, eaten alive by the salt of the sea. If there were another world, he imagines it would be beautiful. Pure and midnight-blue and stitched with silver-twine constellations. White and violet wisps of spun-sugar clouds. But, though he’s afraid to die, afraid to have his eyes sewn shut in forever-sleep, he simply can’t believe. Wish fulfillment, he decides, is all that is. Wishes and stories, myths and tall tales that got out of hand. So no magic bark will carry him to his own holy grail. No heavenly vision will visit him as he rides past a solemn shrine at night. He will never be splashed across a canvas, his features immortalized by paint and pigment. He will never trace the face of time. Susie Altintas Susie Altintas is a beginning writer and bicultural individual from the United States and Turkey. She was the undergraduate winner of the 2018 Ann W. and Emanuel D. Rudolph Student Book Collecting Awards for her essay "Identity Crisis" at the Ohio State University and, more recently, the undergraduate winner of the Marian H. Smith Short Story Prize at the University of Akron. Her favorite genres are science-fiction and fantasy. Dismantled The figure is saying, enough. Arms crossed, she sees not herself in the mirror but more of the same power. The elk is grounded inside the arches, safe in a cathedral where outside there is a war in the streets silent as tear gas and floodlights. The figure is guarded by horses, winged like angels, and her average frame casts a shadow the elk will not cross as the city holds everyone’s dream. Jennifer Dorner Jennifer Dorner's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Chicago Quarterly Review, Cirque, Clackamas Literary Review, Cloudbank, New Ohio Review, San Pedro River Review, Sugar House Review, The Inflectionist Review, Timberline Review, and other journals. In 2019, Dorner's poems placed 1st in the Willamette Writer’s Kay Snow Award for Poetry as well as 1st in two of Oregon Poetry Association's spring contests. In 2020, she was longlisted for Palette Poetry's Sappho Prize. Dorner completed her MFA at Pacific University in 2020. Looking at Paintings with Animals 1 Jan Brueghel the Elder paints them two by two playing flying, lounging, and rough-housing before they enter Noah’s Ark-- elephants and turtles, bats and birds, lions and dogs, camels and turkeys-- no sense of foreboding or doom in 1613, no sense of the coming days as the world turns and floods and mankind and other animals stand ill prepared to perish. What nourishes us before we finally sleep? What ark are we waiting for? 2 Hans Holbein the Younger paints a lady with a squirrel and a starling—the blackish dark of bird, woman, and squirrel merging. The lady looks away, the starling intersects. The year: 1526. I like the animals she claims for her time, the meeting of the tame and wild, the face harboring secrets. The lady’s fur hat a trapezoid rime hemmed to fit her head, the whitish shawl on shoulders, her body cloaked in a black dress. She in communion with squirrel and starling, all similar and different, all relevant. 3 Diego Valázquez paints the head of a stag up-close and direct in 1634, no noble portrait of ruminant but one that allows the young stag to be no one but his youthful silly self, as naked as a human counterpart. His look frank and without flattery. Sky half green with storm and half in cloud frames his head, no body or land in sight to anchor. Two in relationship-- subject and viewer, animal to animal. By accretion and comparison we come to know something. Sharon Tracey Sharon Tracey is the author of three poetry collections – Land Marks (forthcoming, Shanti Arts), Chroma: Five Centuries of Women Artists (Shanti Arts), and What I Remember Most is Everything (All Caps Publishing). Her poems have appeared in Radar Poetry, Lily Poetry Review, Terrain.org, The Ekphrastic Review, SWWIM, and elsewhere. sharontracey.com At the Museo Nacional Por las velas, el pan y el chocolate Yo combato, tú combates, él combate --José Manuel Marroquín When we found Garay’s painting, it was In a glass display, not quite obscured By antique implements to brew hot Chocolate. The young round-faced servant Was dressed to go shopping. She had a Black shawl across her shoulders. Her skirt Was clean and embroidered, and she might Have passed for a lady, except for Her bare foot stepping into the street. Behind her, a gentleman in black With a top hat turned to examine Her figure, while a woman (his wife?) Also dressed in black, half-hidden in Shadow, politely looked at the door. This, that poem tells us, is what we All fight for: the candles, the bread, and Chocolate. The land had already Been distributed to wealthy men, Who would make best use of it and pay Garay to paint their portraits holding Black canes with silver handles. Outside, We were introduced to a poet And a well-known actress—not known to Us—and we squeezed into a van with Your sisters and the poet to find A good place to get broth or coffee. La Candalaria was bulging With tourists and vendors selling them Souvenirs and arepas. A man Dressed in a wool poncho circled the Block, holding the reins of a llama. It was getting cold. You shivered and Wrapped your new shawl across your shoulders. At one end of the street, Plaza de Bolívar. At the other, mountains, Green above powerlines and low clouds. George Franklin *Ironically or not, the painting by Epifanio Julián Garay Caicedo, Por las velas, el pan y el chocolate, (c. 1870) takes its title from these lines. Their author, Marroquín, later went into politics, as a conservative, and twice became president of Colombia. George Franklin practices law in Miami and teaches poetry workshops in Florida prisons. He has a new collection of poems, Remote Cities, coming out later this year from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, and he and Ximena Gómez have a new jointly written and translated dual-language collection, Conversaciones / Conversations, also scheduled for later this year from Katakana Editores. His website is https://gsfranklin.com/. Tethered The bride fled through the dark forest, and her dead husband followed. She didn’t need to look back to know he was there just beyond the bend, calmly collecting the distance between them. When the wind whipped the trees, she could smell him. Sea and rot, like burst fish afloat on foam. He was coming for her. Oh, yes. She’d held a yellowed pillow over his face until his feeble hand gave up trying to claw it away, then used the sheets from their marriage bed as a funeral shroud, wrapped him tight, and sunk him deep beneath the surf. As her tiny rowboat bobbed in the water, she’d felt free for the first time since hearing his diagnosis. She was no longer bound to this broke man who had once been her husband—the roguish professor who had charmed her with Byron and Keats when she was barely more than a child and far too naive to appreciate the awful weight of for better or worse. She kept her vow for three years—one for each year of their marriage. Nothing more was owed. Buoyed by youth and money, she gave up the ocean for the forest and started over. White chocolate and amber replaced ointment and sick as the perfume of her daily existence. She indulged in rainbow-coloured cocktails with a fashionable crowd. She delighted in a string of lovers — men and women alike with exotic carnal appetites. She did all the wonderfully frivolous things she’d ached to do during the many months her husband had withered, and soon, the memory of what she had done was no more than an old wound, often felt, never examined. Eventually, she met a man from a well-to-do family and fell in love. He was guileless and kind, and nearly a decade her junior. She accepted when he asked for her hand, and they set a date. The night before they were to wed, she went to sleep with a headful of champagne and dreamed of a sopping figure with a fish-eaten face emerging from beneath lapping waves. She awoke and shot bolt upright in bed, clutching her soft sheets to her chest. In the morning, she put on a cheerful face and her satin and lace white gown but couldn’t loosen the fear that gripped her heart. As the minutes ticked by, the air seemed to swell with the odor of brine and salt. She felt him out there, approaching. Finally, she could stand it no more and took off running from the chapel through the trees. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs shook. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how fast she ran, he was still there, still coming, still tethered to her. He would never tire, never change course, and eventually, he would have her again. With the certainty of the damned, she knew it was only a matter of time before bony fingers gloved in decayed flesh wrapped around her slender throat and squeezed. Keith J. Powell Keith J. Powell writes fiction, CNF, reviews, and plays. He is a founding editor of Your Impossible Voice and occasionally tweets @KeithJ_Powell. He has recent or forthcoming work in Rejection Letters, Cloves Literary, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Bending Genres, and New World Writing. www.keithjpowell.com Jasper Johns Was Here Things the mind already knows Jasper Johns What moved you to remove our precious furnishings from the room, to set the chair within this dancing air just so that the wrinkled unfamiliar smile of things, the explicit typeface of our mundanity, just sits there, smug as Schrödinger’s dream, that each silent object, each brash intrusion of every ubiquitous, reticent integer calmly grooms its paws in a solitude that knows no bounds, where almost gone, it cannot adequately leave, but leaves behind the lingering Cheshire purr of isolation, each lonely thing that sovereign identity seems never able to contain, each familiar self that sends its own relentless absence streaming shyly through our amply furnished world, unnoticed by the grim determined passersby? What was it moved you to position in the mind our own dear Plato on his uncategorical chair, to situate them both precisely in this spangled light that we might think we’re here to see each one of them, this infinitely replicated man upon his sturdy immaterial chair, vanished in the neutral daylight we’ve assumed to lie between our firm observing place, let’s say, and your airless crumpled pulsing scenes, their razored edges leaving our indifference always free to leave, and always free to stay? What is it, once we turn away from you, that finds the old familiar world we thought we knew had come unhinged to languish in a flattened, mottled, haptic state, where all our streaming standards bled and bleached, where all our ample breathing distances collapsed, we find our domesticity’s been rearranged in such a way that we, against the trembling edges and occlusions seem to always trip, though all the gentle furniture’s removed, upon an inconvenience passing strange? Jasper Johns DB Jonas is an orchardist living in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of northern New Mexico. Born in California in 1951, he was raised in Japan and Mexico. After several Wanderjahre in Spain, France and Italy, he studied philosophy and literature at the Universities of California and Padova, and earned postgraduate degrees at Princeton and Yale. Following his retirement from a long career in business and the sciences, he returned to the practice of poetry. His work has recently appeared in Tar River, Blue Unicorn, Whistling Shade, Neologism, Consilience Journal, Poetica Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Jerry Jazz Journal, The Decadent Review, The Amphibian, Willows Wept, Sequoia Speaks; Revue {R}évolution and others. Woman Muses I can’t understand your attraction to the Cedar Tavern, Billy. It’s a giant lizard shedding its skin with that awful green paint scrolling from its warped and water-damaged walls, dilapidated tables rocking on broken legs you all ignore while the whole damn place stinks of smoke, last week’s burgers, and a torrent of Abstract Expressionist testosterone. Any minute now that drunk Pollock is going to bash in someone’s head with an unhinged bathroom door or that unhinged Kerouac might pee in a sink or ashtray or worse. I wonder if this disorder is what you call abstract expression. Your radiant wife Elaine is the only woman at the table and the only true bohemian in the place, painting men - always men - and arguing for open marriage. And there you are quiet and brooding and beautiful amidst the mayhem while I stand at the bar, the plain one in the blue patent heels sipping a Coke, the blank canvas waiting to be drawn by you. Catherine Chiarella Domonkos Catherine Chiarella Domonkos is writer from Greenwich Village, NYC whose recent fiction appears in X-R-A-Y, The Citron Review, Litro and other literary places. It has been selected for Best Small Fictions. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
April 2024
|