 Jane Avril, by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (France) 1893 Jane Avril She is like many abused women who have found their way to the Montmartre. Can-can dancers with scandalous histories are as common as black stockings. Aren’t good names anyway fake constructions, like the papier-mache elephant at the Moulon Rouge? Aren’t we all a mix of good and bad, like the clubs’ customers brokers and bankers rubbing elbows with criminals? Jane is no different; yet a dignity clings to her as she walks the streets after shows with that midget Lautrec. A “beauty” while she dances, on the street she strides by without a glance, her gaunt long face like a horse’s —with the same skinny legs of one bred for the track. How Lautrec, with his jockey sized body, dreams of riding her! Does he drink more to screw up his courage, or to give excuse for doing what he does best —observing? Still, we rarely see her talking to anyone except Lautrec. We love how she dances-- in a frenzy, her dress and petticoats leaping up like waves hitting breakers again and again. Yet her face no longer matches her dance; there is no expression-- her dark eyes like coals that can’t light. Her left leg kicks high, her right arm lifting it mid-air, holding it in that position far longer than she can maybe lift her spirits these days. Jane goes home to a small room, a celebrity —but without money to save her from old age and the streets. What does an aging woman turn to in desperation for a job? Sewing or prostitution. Will Lautrec help? His posters bring her fame but he’ll soon turn to other subjects-- and her posters will vanish like the aging dancers of the Montmartre. Bob Bradshaw Bob Bradshaw is recently retired. He is a fan of the Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. He is searching for the perfect hammock to spend retirement in. Recent work of his can be found at Autumn Sky Poetry Daily and Sea to Sky Review.
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 Gelmeroda, by Lyonel Feininger (USA) 1936 One-Eyed Church How does its head stay on its vanished neck? And that green eye touching the witch’s hat: Does it look up or out? Great panes of lake- Blue sky hold up its shadow, each one slit, Envelope-fashion. Funny how its rock- White skirt dissolves in front, thin as a net, While on its left, the hazel-coloured stack Of roof over the barn-shape seems to float. The sides are pressing in. It must be late; A squarish star’s dotting the hat tip, look; The green-eyed witch-tower stands there, jaw stuck out, Not noticing at all that tiny dark Spidery whooshing thing low on its right, Plucked out of space: my secret satellite. Julia Griffin Author's note: "One Eyed Church" is how Lyonel Feininger's Gelmeroda Church seemed to me in my childhood: a wedding gift to my parents from my dead Uncle Geoffrey, always on some room’s wall. Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She has published in several online poetry magazines, including Light, Classical Outlook, Snakeskin Poetry, and The Ekphrastic Review.  A generative session on Zoom for ghost story ideas. We'll look at some ghostly and ghastly paintings from art history to get inspired. You will consider what it means to be haunted, brainstorm possibilities for horrifying poems and stories that go bump in the night, and generate some drafts. You can write poetry or short fiction. Sunday October 20, 2024 2 to 4 pm eastern standard time $35Canadian dollars is approximately $25USD  Hero Holding the Beacon for Leander, by Evelyn de Morgan (England) 1885 Hero on the Shore I’ll light the light for you, but what is this thread pulling loose, coming through? The red ribbon wound round hair I don’t know what to do with? Or parallel thoughts that unravel before they can finish? Barefoot with the beacon, feeling foolish, as the spray creeps close and crashes, lending cracked gems to the shore - can I do this any more? My eyes are on the sea, and yet I feel all eyes on me. The longer I wait, knees aching, as clouds are scudding, blurs in uncertain skies, the more I think you must have been a dream. I cannot accept that I cannot love you back to life. Caitlin Prouatt Caitlin Prouatt is a Brisbane-born Latin and Greek teacher living in Oxford, UK. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, currently unpublished. Much of this centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes.  Achilles among the Daughters of Lycomedes, by Pietro Paolini (Italy) 1625-30 The Daughters of Lycomedes Dream of Achilles Our children - Little Richard, Alan Turing, David Bowie, all the Sainted Girls Who Chose Gruesome Death Over a Husband, Natalie Wynn and the dancing sailors in every movie your grandparents knew the songs to in high waisted wide legged swaggering trousers, the Scarecrow and Tin Man June Jordan and Kim Petras and Meredith Monk and bell hooks and JVN - and we sing together as we slowly revolve, a floating waltz in the air above the sparkly stage in the deep space of sleep, we all dream of you, Achilles, specifically of your golden sandal left on the plain: five smooth saucers worn in by each vital toe each toe, known and beloved by Patroclus. Strongly strapped, bound around your ankle Straps nor shield - not the shield from the gods and more bitter, not the shield you chose not from manly bellicose attraction but because it exactly matched perfectly complemented your beautiful red wrap, it’s lush fringes the same vivid beating red the fringe that caressed like the wingtips of a waiting war bird your sweet bare shoulder, waiting to wake up the white feather of your headdress, you grasped a sword to balance the shining black shield to hold your place to keep your beauty your gown your sisters your sisterself and with a sigh, unbound your glowing hair, carefully folded your red wrap slipped out of your lush gown and said goodbye to your sisters, Daughter, the nursemaid cried, come back and you thought you would. Keep my dresses ready you said - not that shield either - could save your violent loving violence loving heart nor your bursting tendon blown out with rage for your lost beloved your lost heart bursting, your beloved tendon hooked, first by your mother and now by this arrow your excellent foot just a mortal fish In your sandal the tiniest crease under the ball of your right foot caught one grain of sand, growing a tiny pearl of sweat salt to lay on the tongue of Patroclus when you buried him Dana McCormick Author's note: This poem also references the song "Hot Topic," by Le Tigre and the poem "A Kentucky of Mothers," by Dana Ward. Dana McCormick is a writer, pianist, and composer in Wisconsin.  Posthumous Portrait of Thales of Miletus, by Wilhelm Meyer (Sweden) 1875 Water Alchemy Shrapnel-shot nocturnal heavens, earth-felled marveling man, Greek stargazer, Thales of Miletus. Anonymous admired author, words winnowed by famed philosophical pundits, frequently first: solstice suppositions, geometry’s angler, Egyptian explorer, measurer of pyramidic peaks, Aristotle’s antecedent. Trampler of traditions: all is water, moist metamorphosis, origin of opals, oleander, oxen, myriad matter. Supremacy of seas, springs, straits, sounds, and soggy swamplands, symphony of splash, swoosh, and splutter, soundtrack to sentience. Susan J. Wurtzburg Susan J. Wurtzburg, a former academic, received first place in the Land of Enchantment Award (National Federation of State Poetry Societies), and the Save Our Earth Award (NFSPS), 2024, and was a semi-finalist in the Crab Creek Review’s Poetry Competition, 2022, and the Naugatuck River Review's Narrative Poetry Contest, 2022. Wurtzburg is an Associate Poetry Editor: Poets Reading the News. Her poetry book, Ravenous Words, with Lisa Lucas will appear in spring, 2025.  She Believed in the Magic of it All, by Clare Rojas (USA) 2022. © The Artist. Courtesy of the artist and Jessica Silverman, San Francisco. Photo: Phillip Maisel. to be that Witches on brooms skimming the road where the entreating woman in the polka dot dress looks up and waves–an acknowledgement of her liberated sisters flying above the Earth while she is limited to the grounded, where her dusty brown boots can touch the dirt. As nature watches–the small cow, scattered water fowl, and deeply bent rooted tree– she can only arch her heart up to the liberated sister witch who returns her gesture of greeting, acknowledging her desperate desire. Though earthbound, she longs to be that free. Annette Petrusso Annette Petrusso is a poet and writer/editor based in Austin, Texas. Her poetry is inspired by such things as art, music, popular culture, loss, the small details of everyday life, and the energy of spaces. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Pomona Valley Review, Thimble Literary Review, Concision Poetry Journal, and Door Is Ajar Literary Magazine.  Eugenia Martinez Vallejo Clothed by Juan Carreño de Miranda, c. 1680 La Monstrua 1674-1699 I. The Father My wife’s water broke in church, and the priest just kept going. Maybe I should not have made love to her right before Mass. Our baby girl—Eugenia-- came fast. People were muttering Latin responses between contractions, receiving communion while Antonia pushed. The priest even came down from the altar so the midwife could receive. She was not a real midwife. We have no such luxuries in Bárcena. The baby suckled well. People were pleased at first-- her birth in the church a good omen for wealth, the vigor of her feeding a sign of good health. Dios te conserve el apetito, they would say, smiling into her chubby face, cariñosos. But soon it was clear. She grew and grew and became almost spherical. The villagers’ smiles dissolved into mean monikers over time. Chicharrón. Jamoncito. Bola de grasa. Like Adam and Eve aware of their nakedness, children know well the sensation of shame. After a few years, we hid her inside the house. But we had to tie the cupboards and food stores shut. II. The Emissary His Majesty wanted a girl with the head of a cat for his retinue of court jesters, like the one in the court of Parma painted by Fontana a century ago. He has a particular fondness for hermaphrodites, conjoined twins, hunchbacks, necromancers, men with impossible joints or skin blacker than tar. No more dwarves, however. We have over a hundred of those already. We shall see what he thinks of a six-year-old girl with the heft of a man. People from neighboring towns travel to her house just to mock her. If one is born to be ridiculed why not endure it in style and entertain the worthy, meanwhile? III. The Mother I’m sleepless. It’s been hours. The insects outside have gone quiet. A man appeared in the village this week. We’d never seen such an entourage. Members of the royal guard, horses, banners. The king wants to bring Eugenia to court (or so this Emissary claims). He promises they’ll care for her, feed her, clothe her in their finest. She’ll want for nothing. I’ve heard of their bichos raros-- their “gente de placer” -- playthings for rich children whose parents, too, will point and laugh. Hurting her will satisfy -- like mutton gnawed from bone, the taste of char from the grill delicious. But the pleasure won’t last, so they’ll continue. If she goes, I may never sleep again. But if she doesn’t go, how on earth will we feed her? I can’t swat away these murcielagos alone. I shake Pepe and prod him till he’s awake too. What if this “Emissary” is an impostor? What if they bind her to a post and throw shit at her for sport? What if he takes her away and sells her to horrible men who’ll do horrible things? We’ll go with her for a time, Pepe mumbles. We were invited. We’ll make sure. She’ll be paraded around, I object. She’ll have no love. She’ll cry. As I say it, I’m crying. But, says Pepe, she’ll be alive. Te quiero mucho, mi amorcito. You will never be hungry again. IV. The Chronicler The courtiers mock her openly, imitating her wide and sluggish gait, chortling in her presence, teasing her when she eats. Why shouldn’t they have another toy? Why have to put up with boredom, or melancholy? The prettiest and thinnest are cruelest, though also (I’ve noticed) most unhappy in their unions, unlike this girl’s parents, who grew up on the same street and married for love, a blessing their child is unlikely to enjoy. At least she suffers in finery, well-fed, warm in winter. Her sweet disposition has earned her some friends. The dogs adore her; and the dwarves, comedic and sometimes rough with the adults, are less brusque in her company. I wonder what will happen when her height surpasses theirs. I chronicled her arrival at court and called her una niña giganta. I might have written, Gargantúa. Gran garganta. Gorda. Gruesa. The “curioso lector” I addressed on the first page is concerned only with the sensational: the difficulty with which she moves her weight about (cinco arrobas y veinte y una libras, heavier than the adolescents who call her La Monstrua); the hunger she can neither hide nor control; the way rolls of flesh on her thighs completely obscure the private area between them. Our illustrious Juan Carreño de Miranda painted her portrait — twice. One with her in a dress of red brocade, ribbons in her hair, an apple in one hand and a pear in the other. Another with her undressed, a little Bacchus, in which tiny white brush strokes captured the tears welling up in her eyes. V. The Child, Eugenia Martínez Vallejo I had to hold still for such a long time. I was afraid to say my feet were hurting. I was hungry but wasn’t alllowed to eat the fruit I was holding. The dress was itchy on my arms, and heavy, and I felt silly with those red ribbons in my hair. Then they made me take the dress off. So many layers. Not even a screen. I felt cold even though it wasn’t cold that day. The painter looked at me, brushed the canvas, looked and brushed, looked and brushed. The corners of my mouth started shaking. Salty water stung my eyes. I felt a worm crawling inside my chest. I wanted to cover the writhing the way they put out tapers at Mass, but it kept slithering around, and I couldn’t move. ¿Mami? ¡Mami! ¡Sácame de aquí! I think I might be dying, and the worms are here to eat. Isabel Cristina Legarda Isabel Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to the U.S. She is currently a practicing physician in Boston. Her work has appeared in the New York Quarterly, The Dewdrop, The Lowestoft Chronicle, and others. Her chapbook Beyond the Galleons was published in April 2024 by Yellow Arrow Publishing. She can be visited at www.ilegarda.com or on Instagram (@poetintheOR).  Eugenia Martinez Vallejo Naked by Juan Carreño de Miranda, c. 1680  Blue Jay, by Philip Reinagle (UK) before 1833 Lakeside Bird Feeder, First Day It should’ve taken only that scouting, squawking jay to get the word out. Framed in a pane, on a perch, he was posed, a postcard, puffed against the brittle cold. His stylish scarf feathers flicked an impatient face, and his scruffy topknot signaled who knew who in the neighbourhood: “Easy Supreme and SunflowerMélange swinging free off this deck!” See, he’d need some wirier guys to stir it up, to urge the tiny silo to flowing so he could swoop in, scoop out the run-off: “Anyone game enough to give it a go?” But, no. And now, not a single soul for supper. D. R. James D. R. James, retired from 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections is Mobius Trip (Dos Madres Press, 2021). https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage  St. Germain Near Tunis, by Paul Klee (Switzerland) 1914 Klee at Carthage Colour possesses me. I don’t have to pursue it. Paul Klee, Notebooks That April in the sea-lit town, under fractal skies, awakened to the sparkling syntax of the waves, he followed shadow down the narrow alleyways and climbed through olive-shouldered hillside groves to seek out new complexions for the mind to wander in, new towns where solids seemed to hang reflected in the shimmering air, as though he’d found – as wave collapsed in particle, and promptly fluidized as wave again – Creation in an older state than in that garden where our naming voices claimed their firm possession of the light. The Barbary sun enrobed him in its startling hues, and wove an unnamed music in his sight, and all at once, among these fragrant oleanders on the road, demanded he apply to light the quanta of a finer scale, the haunting microtones he’d heard in Persian song, the countless words for sand among the Bedouin, for ice among the Inuit. DB Jonas DB Jonas is an American poet living in the mountains of New Mexico. His collection, Tarantula Season and Other Poems, is available on Amazon. His second collection, Flight Risk, Poems and Translations, is forthcoming. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
August 2026
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