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Story Tower
inspired by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, the music and the story Building story on story Balcony by balcony Windows through blinds-- We frame our lives Your oboe takes us forward, We heed recurring themes A river flows unwinding with currents underneath The leavings too familiar, Arpeggios gone rogue Each day a chapter lengthens, each year the epic grows We deflect, we hide in labour, Your trumpets push us on We raise the shades of mourning, a seed becomes a rose We soften as your harps wrap Around the violins Torment melts to forgiveness reprise becomes reprieve There’s a rhythm to our days now, Remorse and anguish end We know this lilting story we climb the stairs again We need one thousand stories, To fall in love so slowly A tender piccolo’s refrain-- standing on balconies, I remain Lee Woodman Lee Woodman’s essays and poems have been published in Tiferet Journal, Zócalo Public Square, Grey Sparrow Press, Ekphrastic Review, Vox Poetica and The New Guard. Lee is a longtime artist and media producer, whose radio and film awards include five CINEs, two NY International Film Blue Ribbons, and three Gracies from American Women in Radio and Television. Lee is a recent recipient of a FY19 Individual Poetry Fellowship Grant from the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities. www.poetleewoodman.com
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 Judith Beheading Holofernes, by Artemisia Gentileschi (Italy) 1620. Judith Beheading Holofernes
I went to Florence to escape his ghost that haunted me and made me claw my way deep into closet where I met a host of fears and ragged breath amid the fray. Gazing at Artemisa’s masterpiece, In the last room of my Uffizi tour Amidst low hum of panic interstice I felt fear’s hands around my throat once more. Her blood-flecked bosom steady through the strain As amber silk envelops strength of arm. Not left alone, her maid too bears the pain. I hear his dying gasp with some alarm because I hold the blade to roughly hew. Across the centuries, I know her too. Gretchen Bartels Gretchen Bartels is an associate professor with a passion for writing poetry that is matched only by her enthusiasm for dancing Lindy Hop and Balboa. She volunteers with survivors of sex trafficking at Rebirth Homes.  Untitled, by Bahman Mohassess (Iran) 1990. Image courtesy of Rooja Mohassessy and Estate of Bahman Mohassess. Click on image to visit artist website. Ekphrastic Writing Challenge
Thank you to everyone who participated in our Cagnaccio di San Pietro writing challenge, which ends today. Accepted responses will be published on November 9, 2018. The prompt this time is Untitled, by Bahman Mohassess. Deadline is November 16, 2018. Everyone can participate! Try something new if you've never written from visual art before and discover why there are so many of us devotees. Ekphrastic writing helps artists and lovers of art to look more carefully, from different angles or mindsets, at visual art. And it helps writers discover new ways of approaching their work, their experiences, and writing itself. The rules are simple. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the painting or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. 3. Have fun. 4. Send only your best results to [email protected]. 5. Include BAHMAN MOHASSESS WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line in all caps please, so that your submission doesn't get lost in the sea of emails. Mislabelled or unlabelled emails end up in with regular submissions, which are viewed in chronological order of receipt and not considered for the challenge. Submissions discovered after the deadline due to omission of subject line will be discarded. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. Do not send it after acceptance or later; it will not be added to your poem. We are sorry about these technicalities, but have found that following up, requesting, adding, and changing later takes too much time and is very confusing. 7. Deadline is November 16, 2018. 8. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 9. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 10. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! The Ekphrastic Review is pleased to present a special student showcase of ekphrastic writing! Teacher Sarah Malesh says, "This class of students is from C. Milton Wright High School in Bel Air, Maryland. This course offers young students from tenth to twelfth grade a chance to learn about different genres of writing as well as potential careers and publication opportunities for these writings. During our poetry unit, students evaluated artwork of their choosing and created a poetic interpretation of this work. These interpretations are shown throughout this showcase."  La Mere Adele (Cordon Bleu), by Robert W. Vonnoh (USA). 1911. The Cloak The Woman before me The Woman with the long dark cloak. The Woman with the story written on her face. Her hands folded in her lap, showing confidence, despite her growing age. Draping over her shoulders, is a cloak. But it’s a strange cloak, it doesn’t cover her features, but enhances them. It brings out the fierceness in her eyes. The pain and agony she’s faced. The shimmer of light that brings out the hope. The mysterious shadow, that makes her seem like she’s trying to get you to figure her out. But also, the love her eyes show. The love she gave, and the love she gives. Her mouth curved in a slight smile, that can be mistaken for a smirk. Her eyebrows slightly tilted to tease me with her confidence. Her cheekbones, high enough for her head to be tilted to be looking directly at me She embodies herself. Laying enough of her story out of the table, to make you want to learn more. About this Woman in front of me. Ellie Hamilton  Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage, by Edgar Degas (France). 1874. Standing Ovation the dancers fell, they broke their toes, the scenery collapsed, but even as the curtain tore, The Audience stood, and clapped. Julia Koncurat  Evening: Landscape with an Aqueduct, by Théodore Gericault (France). 1818. Untitled In a world so vast Full of exploration This place is yours The grass, the sand, the buildings, the trees Made amongst our own The world can take you to fetching places The world can take you to ghastly places But either way this world So claim it and make it yours Joey Haggerty  The Death of Marat, by Edvard Munch (Norway). 1907. The Death of Marat for the Umpteenth Time Are those to consider The end of an era Another in the deaths of Marat? A man lay dead here And yet I stand here To show self to me as what you’ve done For you left me to be as what I’ve become I did as I am to be For what I am to do matters not As without you I am only as good as I am dead, I’ll be taken before it's off with my head. I am already naked and bare I’ll be there watching Laughing as you're washing The unladen blood Off from your revolutionary hands. Jaimie Kuhn  Sword With Scabbard. Chinese. 18th-19th century. Bequest of George C. Stone to Met Museum. The Smith As I look at the detail the blacksmith put into the forging of that piece of metal into the shape of a sword with every swing of his hammer and to be precise to make sure to get the metal to bend and form the way he wants it to. Making sure that he doesn’t forge the blade too thin so that the blade will not shatter into a million pieces with every clash. When the shaping of the blade is done, he takes a chisel to it making the deep grooves in the blade going around and round the blade. Ryan Lang  Sunset in the Rockies, by Albert Bierstadt (USA, b. Prussia). 1866. The Valley I’m standing here with the wind blowing on my cheeks. The leaves on the trees rustling as the wind blows harder I’m standing here watching the mountain reflect off the water. The fish dancing away as I skip a rock I’m standing here listing to the peaceful sound of nature The calm lullaby making me relaxed I’m standing here wishing I could share the moment with my friends The beautiful sight giving me goosebumps the more I look at it I’m standing here releasing how gorgeous this earth is not touched by man kind Jeremiah May  Mechanical Elements, by Fernand Leger (France). 1920. My Colour I used to think in red and blue Now orange and green are all I see With dashes of pink and cold grey detail Off white blocks placed as if my mind was bought at retail. Complexity. Preached until the opposing is only few. Labelling me with a single colour, but is it not clear that my being is an amalgam of colours. Unpredictable. If at all possible, attempt to understand the deep navy river that is my stream of thought. Notice my unique value as my shades of grey ever so smoothly transition. I change, I am complex, simplicity is not my definition. As if repetition of the same colour is the only way you may understand me. Falan Laguerre  Poler Playing King Ace Game, photography by gepharts3d. Creative Commons. All Along the Watchtower You watch us as we dance As your fate is decided by chance. You think that you can win So you raise the bet and go all in. You’ve just sealed your fate The chips are at their limit. You still think you've won. You hear a gunshot. You feel your hip. It was a direct hit. Your body falls on to your cold blood. In your last moments you realized we distracted you. All Along the Watchtower is your blood. Our silly little dance was predicting your future. You’d be dead after the shuffle. The secret was our dance disguised the shuffle. Ryan Baker  Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico). 1940. WOMAN THICK HAIR GROWS ABOVE MY LIPS AND BETWEEN MY EYES I AM A WOMAN I DRAW THE ATTENTION OF ANIMALS NOT MEN THEIR EYES PEER INTO MY SOUL AND I KNOW WE ARE ONE THEY SAY I'M FOOLISH FOR SPENDING ALL MY TIME IN THE FOREST AND I SHOULD BE OUT LOOKING FOR A HUSBAND BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN BUT I REFUSE TO BE HELD DOWN BY ANYTHING BUT MOTHER NATURE HERSELF I AM NOT IDEAL THICK HAIR GROWS ABOVE MY LIPS AND BETWEEN MY EYES I AM A WOMAN Ivyance Byers  Mount Wellington and Hobart Town from Kangaroo Point, by John Glover (UK). 1834. Mount Wellmington - Kangaroo Point I've been on this land since I was born I grew up with a huge family They helped me hunt Hunting was so exhilarating The feel of the fish when it touches my hand The way the arrow shoots off into the trees Hitting through brushes to the animal The wonderful feeling of the sun rays hitting my back While I carry the prize animal on my shoulder Smiling cause, I did something great The long uncut grass grazes across my legs As I'm walking to the fire The warm rays of burning flames The ashes shifting through the air As we approach, the tribe witnesses my find They start to celebrate Jumping up and down waving their arms in the air We feast on the animal All the flavor going through our bodies give us joy As days pass by we notice changes White people start to arrive to our lands They call themselves soldiers They start to build homes Ships of people arrive More and more things get crowded into our beautiful open lands We were fine until they came to our side With weapons in hand they told us to move That this was their land and we were no longer needed We didn’t want to leave They were wrong to move us What did we do? Now I'm in another area But I will always remember my home land Cause it was the land to which I am from And they stole it So, I hope that they are happy Living in a place I called my own Kendra Collins  Inner Child, photograph by Davidlohr Bueso (California). Contemporary. (CC BY 2.0) Stressed Stressed, Worried about getting to work, Worried about how you’re going to pay the bills, Worried about how you’ll be able to get over this depression and act like you’re all right, Worried about finding the right one and getting married, Worried about making him happy so he doesn’t mention the word divorce, Worried about what the doctor will say when you go to your next appointment, Worried about taking care of your family, And scared to think about what will happen if you can’t take care of your own children one day, Constant thinking, Constant headaches, Constant frustration, So much of it that you lost yourself. You let yourself go because you’re so caught up in stress, It swallowed you completely. It’s sad that people let themselves get to that point, If you’re in constant stress I want you to stop and ask yourself, Can your inner child come out and play? Chloe Selander  Guardian Angel, by Wilhelm von Kaulbach (Germany). Exact date not known- mid 19th century. Guardian Angel It was a beautiful night The brilliant crescent moon casted her glow onto the calm ocean waters The sky was dotted with millions of magnificent little stars I could see the flicker of candles from many open windows The soft breeze catching the light silk curtains, causing them to dance... It was a shame I had to carry out my job on this evening I drifted downward from where the stars shone so brightly I floated towards one of the only houses in sight without candle light The open window granted me entrance into the dark, cool room There in the corner was a child, on a small bed fit for her size My feet touched the soft but chill wooden floors and I watched over her A cat who so silently slept, suddenly perked his ears He lifted his gentle, small head and opened his eyes to stare He stared with an unfazed gaze, and went back to his nighttime nap The bedroom door opened, a woman peered in with a gentle gaze A gaze that met mine then looked away to see the child The woman planted a kiss on the child’s forehead and left I then took the sleeping child gently into my arms I could hear her soft breathing, it broke my heart to take her away I slipped from the window and slowly took off toward the sky As we hovered over the village I couldn’t help but smile This exchange was sad but beautiful But what a wonderful job it is to be a guardian angel Katie Monaghan  Never Trust the Living, photograph by Rozlyn Lovelace (USA). Contemporary. Never Trust the Living A faint scent of lavender fills the air, The sound of a video game and reloading guns filled my ear drums. The air had been silenced of any voices for a good moment, His chocolate brown eyes focused onto the screen. I faced his back starred at the white lettering. Never Trust the Living, The room slowly fell more silent as the sound of his game being finished. I wrapped my short arms around his dense chest Allowing the massive amount of body heat to consume my every touch. A soft hand fell upon mine as I shoved my face farther into him. A sweet deep chuckle left his dark lips. The words of "You Dork” left my blush pink lips as I was suddenly met with his face. His soft lips soon meet mine. Rozlyn Lovelace  Annabel Gray, by Theodora W. Thayer (USA). 1904. The Mind of Annabel Gray Chaotic Beyond the isles of conscious thought Is Annabel Gray Possessed With the ability to poise herself so clearly Her thoughts unknown to the undivine Shakes my mortal being. Energy Her gaze electric with pre-processed fire Held tame For precious moments to burn the bridge Like a crouched beast She waits for her moment An evenhanded alignment Of spirit And instinct She’s silent So silent Quiet as my god Is Annabel Gray Bethany Schilling  The Starry Shades, photograph by J.E.M. (USA). 2018. The Starry Shades Soft silver gleam upon old aging Wood, Upon old natural carved posts it Stood, The light once grey refracted as royal Blue, As if Starry Night was based off this image Drew, Surrounded by the morning Dew. The tree once black as night stood warped and Black, An ashen colour upon their mirrors Plaque. A carving sat unaging within the Planks, An eternal scripture and title of Name, A sample of which never to be found Blank, Lest it falls to time's immortal Game. J.E.M.  Silhouette Landscape Castle, by Matahari22. Contemporary. Creative Commons. Dark Dragon Boy Dark Dragon Boy eyes glistening upon the sky Swirling and flying along in Avalon Free as ever was Knowing the world finally set you free To your actual form White dragon boy With eyes as yellow as the midnight harvest moon The scales telling a story For many lifetimes to learn Soar high white dragon boy As your feet transform back to talons May you release the fangs And rip yourself from death's claws Dark dragon boy fly high And let those brilliant scales Glisten your form on all Who love you Saying to them your melody of roars Dark dragon boy Your life take by another But your mind always yours As the symphony you sing transforms It's sings the song of relief Flying free from denoted titles Of the human vessel To form into the roars of who you are Dark Dragon Boy Soar high in the night And roar your symphonies loud across the land Raiven Everett  Billowing Clouds, photograph by Carl Wycoff. (CC BY 2.0) Untitled The man in the clouds Ponders away with his own thoughts Thoughts of love, fear, dreams, and nightmares He continues to think In a world with millions of people He thinks alone Back against the world Head down to the ground Alone in a sky full of thoughts The only question that now wonders his thoughts Is why is he still alone The man in the clouds Katrina Ngo  The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt (Austria). 1908. The Danger of a Wish The clouds swarm above my head. Dark and heavy, ready to rain Still I run, never stopping, never slowing. Through the woods into the dark I pick the path where the most dandelions lay Kicking and stomping on them The woods cave in And only then do I fall Tumbling down like little Alice Just as I struggle to get up The dark clouds rumble like a battle cry Then the rain, not the soft droplets but stinging rain a thousand needles in my skin, falling for heaven. Looking up, there’s one perfect dandelion Staring at me, judging me for the dreams I let go. Blood washes away from my slit knee and my trembling lip. The rain runs down my cheek, wiping it away. I reach for the dandelion snapping the stem, separating it from the ground. I hold it watching as if it has all the secrets in the world. Deciding whether I should crush it like my dreams or make a wish. I made a wish and as all the seeds blow away I watch all my dreams fly away left with only the hope of a wish to come true. Christine Wolf Editor's Note: The Klimt painting shown is a placeholder. Christine Wolf's poem was inspired by Body Language 2, by Romanian artist Dorina Costras. As we were unable to get permission to show the image, please visit artist site at www. dorinacostras.com/paintings/ and scroll down to see the work.  Promenade, by Frederick Childe Hassam (USA). 1883. The Top Hat Man The light shimmered off the crimson, coating my palms. The sticky substance was still warm. Still fresh. In each ripple of the puddle now accumulating around him, were memories of the final moments. Light twisted. Pain enveloped my skull. And I screamed. The path to fresh air was slippery. Still warm. Still fresh. The salty air stung my eyes first. Followed by the alarming of gulls. And the unmistakable smell of already rotting flesh. Watchmen could not see me. The endangered could not hear me. Perilous was the path before me. Still warm. Still fresh. Vocal chords were ripped like the body. Sweat dripped off my brow, like the tears that had stained his cheeks. My hands soaked in the evidence. Still warm. Still fresh. I resembled the one in the top hat. Who hobbled away, unnoticed. Down the crowded streets. Forever the concealed culprit, of the promenade tragedy. Piper Grada  Wicked Pony, by Frederic Remington (USA). 1898. Horse's Perspective We were just walking Like we did every day Then out of nowhere it sprang out I was so scared and lost control Of course, my master did not notice He was too busy singing He noticed that I was spooked But could not imagine what would happen next He was flung from my bridle and could not get back up He lost full control of me, his trustworthy horse But he did not know the fear in me He held on for his life, but I was so spoked that I was not paying attention to him at all He fell and then out of blindness I stomped on my master Again, and again until there was no movement Once I realized that I was stomping on my master I stopped For I feared that he was dead but luckily, he was alive People say that horses are dumb but that was all out of pure terror not out of spite. Tempest Ariah Akins  from Ten Thousand Li of the Yangzi River, by Zhao Fu (China). 1100s. Pain From Pleasure As I sit here, looking out over this land, the walls that divide the two halves of my brain finally break, rushing every thought from either side in to all forbidden places, just as the clear edges of these city buildings blur in to the maze of jagged rocks lining the ancient mountains that cradle them with a perfect stillness. It appears from here, as if no one but me lives here. As if I could ever discover such an exaggerated serene place on my own. Or is it serene? My mind began to speak back at me. But of course, can you not see the seldom shattering in the smooth mist blanketing the water? Do you not pay attention to the divine silhouette of this impossible mass of land? Why will you not look at this world the way I want to? The way everyone else wants to? If you believe you should only view this tide as beautiful, you are a disgrace to everything that the balance of life holds, I say to myself. Look closer, you can always see that horrid city you are here to abandon, you know it is there, so why do you ignore it? I prefer to watch it as if there are no problems haunting me there. Of course, you do, look at yourself, too human for your own good, I say. Then again, you still think of human as a description for the good of your existence. What am I saying? Of course, it is! I am part of man, and as such I survive for the peak of my own survival! You as a man, strives for what is convenient! You as a man, strives for what is comfortable for the now! You justify your eradication of this world with gracefulness in your methods of survival! You as man disgrace the means to be called alive! No, no you’re wrong, stop. You squish them under your feet with pride, but you are locust yourself, at the start of your cosmic feast! Stop talking. You can not bury these truths, they are a part of you. There are bad things in this world, why won't you embrace them? I won’t listen to you anymore. You can not truly experience pleasure until you’ve felt the touch of pain! You can not truly feel the touch of pain until you have sat contently among pleasure! NO! You’re wrong! Wrong I say! If I’m am truly wrong, then ask yourself why you have come to this hillside? You’ve convinced yourself that you are here to escape from your life in that horrid city, but I know the truth! You came here to escape from the shadows lining those cliffs, hanging over you, swallowing you, as you ignorantly accept it. I-I am here to, escape? But what of my family and friends, and their families? They will die wallowing in the darkness, blissfully looking only for the light. I must go back then, right? Because I know how to help them. I know how to save them, right? No response. And for that moment, I had forgotten I was alone with my thoughts. My very, aware, thoughts. Willing to suffer, in exchange to know. Billy Rayboen Editor's Note: Billy Rayboen's poem was written in response to the painting Viewing the Tide, by Chinese artist Yang Yongliang (2008.) We were unable to find permission to show the image and used a placeholder artwork instead. We invite you to view the original prompt for the poem by clicking here.  The Lake of Zug, by J.M.W. Turner (UK). 1843. Cold Memories My legs grew tired as we walked down the endless dirt path My father looking at me with a smile Knowing what’s to come He held my hand as I looked ahead I heard people laughing The sound of water splashing As we took our final steps on the dirt path I looked down at my feet My feet and toes digging into the soft sand Surrounding the beautiful water’s edge My father keeps his gentle grip On my small delicate hand As he beckons me over to a small boat He lifts me up as I let out a small giggle Taking a seat obediently as I watch him get in as well The cold water hitting the side of our small boat Some even splashing onto me My father grabs onto each of the oars Pulling them back before pushing them forward Pushing us out in the deep crystal water The cold wind was blowing through my hair While singing in my ears My father stayed quiet with a soft smile on his face As he rowed the boat down the river As we entered the thick fog, I questioned him But he did not answer He kept his smile After a few moments passed the fog was lifting My father pulled the oars into the boat Letting the beautiful water splash around in the boat He pointed up to his right I followed the way his hand moved with my eyes Looking up to where he pointed And all at once I felt my heart beat get faster Before me was a large gorgeous mountain Standing tall and old Knowing so many secrets I turned to my father with a large smile Telling him with my excited and lovable voice One day father I'll climb that mountain Chandler Crouse  A Rose, by Thomas Anshutz (USA). 1907. Rose Capturing her beauty in all its glory, am I capable? For she is so captivating like a rose, perfect from day one, infatuated with beautiful I am, In her leisure for she is still so beautiful with intellect and emotions, pleasing pure aesthetic, I want to love, So deeply in complete admiration she has made me, so deeply in desire to love and care for her, Beauty beyond description, your warm brown eyes dazzle in the golden hour, your skin glows a heavenly bright, and I beg of you if this is a sweet dream for please don’t wake me up. Jade McFadden  ''Untitled Blue Monochrome'' in RGB[58,117,196]. Drawing in the style of Yves Klein's paintings of the the late 1950s. --Andrew Dunn, 25 June 2005 {{PD-self}} Colour my favorite colour. in the spot where it all began. where we had our first kiss. the butterflies trapped in my stomach. i thought we were perfect… the weight on top of aching shoulders. where we had our last fight. in the spot where it all ended. my favourite colour. Kaitlyn Valenza
Editor's Note: This poem was written in response to Blue Blanket, by Catherine Murphy (USA, 1990.) The painting is not in the public domain so we used a placeholder image, but invite you to view the work that inspired Kaitlyn Valenza's poem, by clicking here.  The Agony in the Garden, by Eugene Delacroix (France). 1851. Art History
Morning class, pajamas under raincoats lights go down, anticipation up, slides make a carriage ride from rural Virginia to the Met, the Jeu de Paume, Picasso’s aerie, Rodin’s atelier, Monet’s garden, the Louvre, to Paris, London and Bruges. Dreams of being a painters’ muse obsess classmates who study art in Paris, come back wild and worldly, loving Gauloises and red wine. With the slide library for comfort I whiled hours learning artists’ styles brush strokes, subjects, light. Fifty years on, a gift of such abundance seems rare, yet here I am in the Met with my old friend, Delacroix. Near tears I view his restored The Agony in the Garden, luminous white skin, invisible brush strokes, lustrous light from above. Perfection. Betsy Holleman Burke Betsy Holleman Burke is a poet and floral designer living in the Washington, DC area. Her poetry has appeared in Front Porch Review, Searching for Hummingbirds (a collection of her work) and the Surrey Street Poetry Anthology, 2018. |
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