Universal Tongue About this collection: Melinda Dewsbury grew up in rural Bruce Township, Ontario, where she lived as a farm girl and spent much of her time in contemplation. She now lives in Langley, B.C. and teaches at Trinity Western University. She is a poet and contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. ENGL 102 is an introductory course in global literature at Trinity Western University. In this course, participants examine literature as an anthropological tool to discover both universals and cultural particulars. The literary works span ancient to current contexts and communicate diverse perspectives and themes from every continent. Students learn to analyze and respond to literature but also probe their own personal, family, and cultural histories. In the summer of 2020, with the educational disruption caused by COVID 19 and the shift to online delivery, Melinda looked for creative ways to engage students. The result was this final project. Students participated in an ekphrastic workshop led by Lorette C. Luzajic. By the conclusion of the course, students applied ekphrastic writing techniques together with the literary and cultural concepts of the course to create poetry that enquires into their cultural heritage and personal identity. This collection explores nationalism and political tensions, war and conflict, religious diversity, mental health, gender, sense of place, family, and personal history. The poetry we share here represents a portion of the contributions. The first poem is by Professor Melinda Dewsbury. Those that follow are by the students. It is worth noting that these students are all first-time poets. Lilac I caught the first fragrance Upon tonight’s walk Unmistakable Both gentle and abrupt The scent of legend and folklore, Mysteries, ghost stories, and romance Nostalgia enters my pace Bringing me to early spring solitude A little wispy girl giving Fingertip to purple blossom Gently shaking the slender canes To pour their perfume into damp air. I am back there And I find that little girl inside me And smile. Melinda Dewsbury A Dangerous Illusion You didn’t ask me my name. When you put me through such Pain. As you stole my womanhood at such a young age. Burning me in the same temple in which you pray. You worship the Goddess yet rape and murder her daughters. Your own family makes you a martyr. Hiding the truth in muddy water. What kind of hypocrisy is this? Where a child’s life can be so easily dismissed? For your pleasure bound bliss...you ended my life experience. Your mothers and sisters are the same nature as mine. A woman, God’s creator on earth so divine and you little man, what do you expect? That we bow down to your physical strength? While we just brush away the Pain of giving birth again and again? Without us you would not survive... yet you get to choose whether I should be alive? A country so drowned in illusion, worshipping God and harming His creation is a dangerous delusion yet the cases are not individual. The pain is residual passed through every generation. God have mercy on such a nation. Anmolpreet Kaur My name is Anmolpreet Kaur. I am from India. I am pursuing my Bachelor’s in psychology at Trinity Western University. I am a spiritual person but I believe that religion today is only a tool for society which it exploits to suppress women which is what inspired my poem. You’ve Lost A usual fear offers strength When staring into the eyes of a thousand soldiers They take away from unending fatigue Tagged at the outset To lose A cloud of justice seething through the dark air Surrounds the umpired Like a million arrows nearing release Upon the field Swift as quicksilver Where are their lovers now Required to march on Their last thoughts What would be their last thoughts Had their inning not ended with a whizzing strike The last breaths an accord Would there be a reason Faithful crosses in hand Together no more What would be their last thoughts Myles McDowell Myles McDowell is an Irish Ukrainian Canadian from Ottawa Ontario and is currently a nursing student at Trinity Western University. August Neeb, Remembered by His Daughter Louise My face appears dour, but I wasn’t sour or too serious, neither is my reading material all that mysterious. You see, my Louise has taken up painting, so, I sit here patiently posing and waiting. What else would a loving father do? Life was not easy, I was a tailor by trade, saving every penny from the trousers I made. Two crises in the Fatherland wiped out our savings, then came the bombings and fires ignited by a madman’s ravings. Yet I stitched together a family and saw them through. Anna, my wife, I first met when she was but a baby, and in time she became mein liebchen - I so loved that lady. We would go for country walks and to the opera sometimes, but it broke my heart to see her thoughts in decline. When I died she just wouldn’t accept that it was true. Then Anna shorty followed me too. Father, how I mourned your passing. For five days straight I cried and cried. I laid upon my bed, and tears welled up from the deepest sorrow inside. With your blessing I sailed across an ocean. You let me go. Still, I am your little Louise. Your love I still know. I had my own life to live and you understood. Thank you. Now I see your image there, fixed and seemingly looking down. Upon the pages of my life. You are full of lines, yet you show no frown. This bed is my place, for I am old now and I cannot rise, so, I just lie here looking at your loving eyes. As my own mind struggles to remember, but my thoughts are of you. John Krneta My name is a John Krneta. I have German and Serbian heritage and I am a Religious Studies student at Trinity Western University in Langley, B.C. My beloved mother passed away last year (in 2019) and her clearest last thoughts were of her father August, whom I never met. I composed this poem to honour his place in her life and to connect three generations of our family. To see the artwork that inspired the following poem, please follow link below. A Play of Colours. Artist unknown. Date unknown. A painting on display at the “Yemeni Art Caravan” exhibition in Giza, Egypt. (Al Arab) https://thearabweekly.com/artists-paint-many-faces-yemen Buried Peace Red flames hurt you my beautiful Yemen It destroys you until you become elderly Lengthy buildings shorten your breath your people asking for help still you are not answering They say you were the first to have a skyscraper though you can not prove it waking in the street full of dead bullets seeing these colourful clothes as portrait that is robed Still people show their white side smiles, hospitality, and caring an old guy suffers still he smiles peacefully fires burn villages still my Beautiful Yemen Abdullah Al-Wahaishi My name is Abdullah Al-Wahaishi. I am from Yemen, but I grew up in Saudi Arabia where I spent most of my life. I am currently a Kinesiology student at Trinity Western University in Canada. This is my first poem that I have written in my life that represents my foreign perspective of my country. Regardless the crises in Yemen, I write this poem to my beautiful Yemen that hopefully one day becomes a dream country in people’s eyes. To see the artwork that inspired the following poem, please follow link below. Photography by Laura Varon (Colombia) contemporary https://www.lensculture.com/search/projects?fallback=not-found&q=colombia%2B&modal=project-521508-colombia-dream Cartagena De Indias Colombia is like a living dream. Often the sun is in his high point. Sometimes water falls in a rhythmic scream. Tin, tin, ton! If its song is too long, Don’t be disappointed. Monday to Sunday the human alarm sound Coco, Coco, ¡a cinco mil el Coco! Aja, venga hermano que donde usted quiera yo se lo pongo. The strong song that not always make you feel belonging, It makes shine the street and breath. It makes me, and you count one to three. Every day is a colorful day. The houses wear their best dress. Yellow, purple orange, green, blue and grey Are part of a battle of midway. In the heart of Cartagena, the noise is always present. The sun rises and sets in a Carnaval, Drums, trumpets and sax buzz in your ear like a cobra dance. The smooth singing of the conga drums makes your hips move side to side. Demonstrating the Colombian essence. La música se volvió un canto ancestral That always makes you fell like an adolescent Oh, Cartagena de India, how beautiful you are! Although all the suffering that you have been passed through, the people still love you for who you are. Ay! Cartagena how lovely you are with your ripped dresses Perhaps, it is the part of the time that passes like flu, But every night and morning, your happiness hits us in our faces. Although everything is imperfect and we need to work hard with the feet in the present, We step forward with a Cóndor's presence Always being a king in essence and flying the sky of heaven, Whispering in every ear a valuable lesson. Estefania Salazar Muñoz Estefania Salazar Muñoz, who is from Medellin, Colombia, is a biology student at Trinity Western University in Langley, BC. She inherited her artistic talents from her parents and close relatives. Some of her abilities are music, dance and manual arts. I Miss You Under The Moonlight Drink a cup of moon It’s full of bitterness Miss the frogs’ songs Beckoning me home The southwest wind brings melancholy. Busy with worldly affairs A touch of silvery light Facing the difficulties world-wide They are burning inside my heart. A cup of sadness The sky is drunk Can't see the surrounding scenery. Gingko trees from green to yellow. Mottled in an old pond The cicadas on the trees disappeared Mei My name is Mei and I am from China. I am very interested in baking. Lemon soft cookies are my favorite cookies. Ignorance, the Unceasing Tragedy Part one The day of spring, the festival of Qingming. Rivers flowing, bridges crossing, Trees swinging, petals dropping, Islands emerging. Red, yellow and green, The festival of Qingming, The day of revelry. Stepping on that boat, the rising masts. Lying on this skiff, the orchid floats. Sitting by the lake, the vanilla sprouts. Buildings grow, houses appear, By the mountain, on the water. Pouring a bowl of wine, drowning in the jasper. Stepping on that boat, partying in the chamber. Walking down the street, Waiting for the twilight. Dancing actors, and contemplative poets, Working craftsmen, and clever merchants. Horses wandering, heels are circling, Crowds flocking, like ants trooping. Brides and grooms, Like flower blooms. Walking down the street, Honey on the tongue. Celebrating, celebrating and celebrating, The everlasting joy. Part two Those who live in glory, Have never known annihilation. Arrogance and ignorance, The encounters of colonialism. Drugs, genocides and robberies, They collapsed and changed. Spear fights bullet, Boats sank, cities burnt, Fire jumped on the street. Stagnation against innovation, The king has lost his crown. Thousands of years, Failure of the prosperous nation, Hundreds of invasions, New world is reborn. Standing by the windows, Hearing the melody of sorrows, Tears have infiltrated my skin, The anger and pain. Seeing arrogance and ignorance, Feeling stupidities and injustice. Despair has corroded my wellness, The lowliness and loneliness. It is so cold of my chest, As needles penetrate through. I hope that my day will be reborn, We run, but we have never been faster than time. We changed, but do we? Oliver Liu My preferred name is Oliver Liu, I used to live in China, and I have inherited many of its cultures. Because of travelling, education and personal interests, I also have many western cultures inside, and it is still growing. I have to identify myself as a person who has mixed culture, neither normal Asian culture nor complete western culture. I always think differently from both westerners and Asians, which I think is one of the reason that has troubled me for years thinking “what’s wrong with me?” and I slightly became a sociopath for a very long time; it was torture to at once hate the world and myself. I strongly believe that humanity, different cultures, and different races should study each other to absorb the good things that other cultures can benefit from. It’s never a good thing to isolate oneself. I believe learning history is extremely significant to development of human to help with avoiding ignorance. Besides, there are no countries and nations that are perfect (well, so far), the problem is (I think) how we can understand and accept the uniqueness of certain culture sometimes. Please follow link below to view artwork that inspired this poem. Photography by Katie Joy Crawford (USA) contemporary https://www.designindaba.com/articles/creative-work/one-photographers-surrealist-impression-mental-illness Invisible Reality Trapped, paralyzed In false fears, racing thoughts --all lies Heart beats faster than it can Muscles squeeze tight Am I going to faint? Mind is playing tricks Stomach turning & tossing like the waves of the sea during a storm Nausea alone makes you sick The nightmare continues – Body frozen Unable to move curled under a blanket Fighting the thoughts --- all lies Body shivering unsure of the danger switches Now a burning fire unable to escape the unprotective shell The nightmare continues --- No sound lips move Why am I muted? Alone Tears roll down my cheek unable to communicate Nights turn into days Invisible reality Trapped Kayla Wilson I am Kayla Wilson located in the Vancouver region of British Columbia, Canada. I wrote this from the feelings I personally experience from having a generalized anxiety disorder as well as a mood disorder. I see such importance in being connected not only in the amazing moments, but also the trials and tribulations we all go through. To view the art that inspired this poem, please follow link below. Artist Not Known. https://webneel.com/daily/3-indian-paintings Hindi version: कविता: - एक नए सफर पर चलते है लेखक : - शिवांगी शर्मा एक दुल्हन …………… बाबुल की दुनिया छोड़ चले एक नए मोड़ की ओर चले | कुछ अनकही बाते मेरी थी जो करनी है बस तुमसे ही कुछ कही ये मैंने बातें हैं, कुछ रखी उमीदे भी मन के इस ताले की बस है एक चाबी तू ही | लाल गुलाब के फूलों को, अब जीवन में भरते है एक नए सफर पर चलते है | कुछ रिश्ते पीछे छोड़े है, कुछ रिश्ते नए बनाने है, कुछ को अलविदा और कुछ को नमस्ते करते है, एक नए सफर पर चलते है | इस रस्मों से परे कुछ वादे बनाए, उन वादों को पूरी शिद्दत से निभाए | उनके लिए इक फिक्स्ड डिपोसिट भरते है, एक नए सफर पर चलते है | कुछ वादे तेरे लिए अजीब होंगे, कुछ वादे मेरे लिए अजीब होंगे | सात फैरो के वादो को निभाने की कोशिश करते है, एक नए सफर पर चलते है | सदा साथ निभाने का एक वादा तुमसे करती हु, पर बदले में मैं तुमसे भी कुछ ऐसी ही उम्मीद करती हु | चलोअब इस रिश्ते को बराबरी से पूरा करते है एक नए सफर पर चलते है | दूल्हे का जवाब !!!!!!!!!! गीता जैसी सच्ची तुम फूलो जैसी सुन्दर भी अब तो दिन की शुरुआत भी तेरे नाम है और जिंदगी का अंत भी Let's Go on a New Journey A bride …… Leaving the world of Babylon Heading towards a new turn There were some unsaid things That I wanted to share with you only The mentioned are some simple things But also, some expectations of what will be You are the only key for the locks in my heart Now filling life with the fragrance of red roses Let's go on a new journey. Leaving some relationships behind Making some new relationships aside Saying goodbye to some and hello to some Let's begin a new journey Let’s make some promises beyond these rituals Fulfil those promises with determination With filling a fixed deposit for them Let's begin a new journey Some promises would be weird to you Some promises would be strange to me Without hoping for any trouble, let’s try to fulfill each, Let's begin a new journey I promise to always follow you But in return I expect something similar too Let’s construct a house without cracks with equality Let's begin a new journey Groom’s reply …… You are honest like Geeta And beautiful like flowers From now on my days would begin with you and My life would end with you Shivangi Sharma My name is Shivangi Sharma. I am from India, Punjab. In the year 2019, I came to Canada to complete my bachelor’s degree in business at Trinity Western University, Langley. I am a mix and match of extrovert and introvert (more of introvert). I like doing adventurous sports. Apart from that I love reading and writing (as in giving words to my imagination, ideas and thoughts not as a professional or expert). For reading, I read all kinds of books but mostly fiction and for writing, I like writing persuasive, narrative and fiction. Chinese version: 金红交错 我闭上双眼,仿佛那金红交织的万花镜在闪烁; 在这瞬目间,爆竹的声响贯穿脑海; 双目微垂的刹那间,孩子们在闻声起舞; 我再次闭上双眼,人们的欢声笑语回荡在街道上。 我听见了春天来临的脚步声, 她仿佛在呼唤着我的名字。 那些鞭炮的火药味还回荡在我的鼻腔、 那些声响仿佛一条金龙还在余音绕梁。 当我睁开双眼,中华五千年的文化璀璨生辉, 眼里尽是华夏子孙传承的繁荣盛景。 霎时,童年的回忆涌上了心头, 我渐渐地被这友爱模糊了双眼; 世界的冰冷在这一瞬间全都被融化了, 我睁开双眸,满是幸福、 那正是金红交错的世界, 我最温暖的家。 Red and Gold I close my eyes and I see a kaleidoscope of red and gold I close my eyes and the sounds of swish and bang crash through my ears I close my eyes and sweet hand in hand with sour dances on my tongue I close my eyes and I hear the sounds of tiny feet hitting the road while their tiny giggles hit the walls of the street I close my eyes and I can feel Spring calling my name I close my eyes and fresh gun powder lingers in my nostrils I close my eyes and the tail of a dragon caresses my cheek And when I open my eyes again, I see centuries of culture I open my eyes and I see heritage being taught I open my eyes and I am a little kid again My heart full of love and my eyes full of wonder My mind full of innocence and an experience untouched by the harshness of the world I open my eyes and I feel happiness I open my eyes and I am home again, amongst the red and gold Shenghao Wu My name is Shenghao Wu. I am an overseas student from China who has been studying in Canada for more than five years. In the past five years, Due to the arrangement of the semester, I missed the most important traditional Festival in China -- the Spring Festival, which is also the Chinese New Year. Therefore, when I saw this picture, the feeling of homesickness came to my heart. I also hope that every Chinese student abroad will have the opportunity to go home and see their relatives. The Sunset The sunset in a lonely forest, This tremendous fireball holds a strong desire with his power To burn the world with his fiery color What is that? Just two solitary red-crowned cranes seek the route to go home The beauty of hometown, the warmth of family The hug from my father, the meal from my mother These all remind me: I have returned home So I stretch my feathers under the flame of the sun Flying back towards home without thinking twice The white and red harmoniously exist together Gradually golden red sunlight reflecting on my wings Sunset is the beauty of nature Taking out the warmth and light Eventually, night falls Everything lies in silence and peace. Xinyu Yuan I am Xinyu Yuan, a Chinese student who is studying in Trinity Western University. I am now studying in linguists, which I hold great interest in. This is mainly because I want to become an English teacher when I return to China and help more students to learn more about English. Chinese version: 赏雀 冬去春来花上梢 雀落枝头成对双 独坐楼台观雀鸣 双雀笑眼赏台楼 View and Admire Sparrows Spring arriving at the top of the tree, Winter has just left. Sparrows landed on the branch of the tree, Show up in pairs. Sitting by the windows enjoying the view of the birds, All to myself. The sparrows admiring the creation of man, They sneer at me. Junqi Zhou Chinese version: 出征 尘沙飞扬骋边疆 战马嘶鸣载黄军 不识马上将为谁 红池衣堆乃无谓 Heading To War Wind blowing up sand in the air, war horse screaming, running, Making more dust in the air. Soldiers carry by horses are all covered in dust, heading to the front line. Only yellow cloth and red hat can be spotted in the dust. Nobody can tell who is on the horse, Is that the commander? Or is that the General? None of these matters. In the end, In the red sea full of colourful cloths, Nobody will be there to tell the difference. Junqi Zhou A nineteen-year old Chinese student who came from Shanghai. Not very much talent in poems, to be honest. Just hope someone can understand the meaning behind the poem. Mother Cow Oh Mother! You’re not just an animal; You’re the source of our creation and well-being. As a mother feeds her child, You feed us with all the love in you, By which we share an astonishing bond. Time immemorial, through the floods and famines, You were our strength for robustness. Then, how do we address your significance while you go extinct? While your culturally consequential, You’re slaughtered in the name of “individual liberty” and “secularism.” Before prohibiting your flesh for political and religious interests, A lot more education is required. Your presence at one’s dinner table should be a matter of self-interest and fundamental sense Rather than political policies or religious faiths. Vighnesh Vijayan A Cry for Justice Is gambling more significant than a woman’s dignity? Ruthlessness vanquishes tranquility While some take contentment of the situation Many are confused and impotent Probity stipulated equanimity Wholly lustful attributes of man Guiltless and defenseless woman Procrastination is never a solution So why isn’t anybody voicing their dissention? Her weep and shriek were heard by the divine The divine thumps out the opulent And she receives her equity Vighnesh Vijayan My name is Vighnesh Vijayan. I hail from Bengaluru which lies in the southern part of India. Coming from a country and culture which gives predominant consideration to cows for various reasons, I was longing to describe an art which explains a part of my extensive culture. Although academically I am inclined to business, I have enormous endearment towards artistry. I aspire my poem furnishes a platform for my readers to get a glimpse of my multi-diverse country and deliver their notions on this exceedingly sensitive affair as a nonconformist. You are Adam From the opaque chasm of nothingness, His light crafts my existence. Divine breath surges life into my eyes, And I am born. An artist’s sculpture of Earth’s red clay, A helpless being clad in nothing more than the sky’s kiss, And shivering skin. I am naked, without armour, yet He tells me I am sturdy and strong. I feel exposed and small, yet He tells me I am human. His own design, Destined to be the king of the bears who stalk the woods, The birds who sing in His canopies of trees, And the fish which He has crafted to fill my belly. The wind whistles past my ear, the grass curls under my toes, And I can hear His voice, Assuring me that I am alive. But I do not know what it is to live, For I have just been born. I am a man with solid bones, and muscles to root my stance. I am towering and broad, and I know that I am grown. Yet somehow, I am a child. A child who needs his father. I can hear the thunder of His voice, Embrace both His stern grip and His gentle pride. But I cannot see Him, and suddenly there is something within me, Something that pounds beneath my throat. I reach out my fingers, Straining for a loving touch I do not know exists. A moment alone passes, And I can feel Him breathing. I know He is close to me, Even though there is naught but a burning breeze tracing along my fingertips. Water glosses my eyes, air clutches as a gasp, And then my tongue forms around my first strained cry of spoken word. “Father,” I call out, “Father, tell me who I am.” At first, I think it is a cloud breaking away, Or perhaps the sun about to collapse over my feeble body. I fall backward, my arm still outstretched and trembling, And then a face appears. But to me, it is not a face. It is a ball of blinding light, a dream, A crushing blow all at once. It is a cleansing warmth, and a stream of frigid water My heart just now names as tears. It is terror and fear. A dry desert and a damp valley. It is the sweet and the bitter. Anger and serenity. Safety and relief. Both a miracle and a familiar happening. For He is the Lord, my God, The Father who hears even the most silent of my murmurings. And then it is His turn to murmur, Though to me, His murmur comes out as a roar. He at last clasps my hand in His own holy depth of a palm, And He declares, “You will be called Adam, For I have made you the father of what I name Humankind.” Mariah Neily Mariah Neily is a nineteen-year-old aspiring Canadian author and historian, born and raised in British Columbia. She enjoys a passion for writing, and plans on moving to England to begin a career as a novelist and a specialist in British history. Violent Amnesia, by Oscar Murillo (UK, b. Colombia) contemporary
Spanish Para Adonde El Futuro Nos Lleva Ay En lo profundo de la muerte de los sueños Ay En lo profundo de la oscuridad de esta depresión donde nos descartaste Ay Delirante por derribar restos desechados directamente de la basura Ay Disociado de tu destructividad despreciable Silenciosamente gritando, luchando para no ser otro muerto Masacrados, masacrados en avaricia Excepto los pocos afortunados que sobrevivieron para crecer codiciosos ¿Mi dulce joven bebé será adormecida por un suave zumbido? ¿O llorarán sin remedio bajo su opresión? Ahogado por el feroz disparo de disparos Portuguese Para Onde O Futuro Nos Leva Ow Nas profundezas da morte dos sonhos Ow No fundo desta escuridão onde você nos descartou Ow Ilusório de restos de escavação escavados diretamente do lixo Ow Dissociado de sua destrutividade desprezível Gritando silenciosamente, lutando para não ser outro morto Massacrado, abatido na ganância Exceto os poucos sortudos que sobreviveram para crescer gananciosos Será que meu doce jovem bebê será embalado para dormir por um suave zumbido Ou eles vão chorar desesperadamente sob sua opressão Abafado pelo feroz disparo de tiros Where The Future Takes Us Ow Deep beneath the deaths of dreams Ow Deep in the dark of this depression where you discarded us Ow Delusional from downing scraps dug directly from the trash Ow Dissociated from your despicable destructiveness Quietly screaming, fighting to not be another one dead Massacred, slaughtered in greed Except the lucky few who survived to grow up greedy Will my sweet young babe be lulled to slumber by soft humming Or will they cry hopelessly under their oppression Drowned out by the fierce firing of gunshots Juliana Silva Madrigal My name is Juliana Silva Madrigal. I was born in Medellín, Colombia in La Clínica De Las Américas in 1999. My family moved to Vancouver British Columbia when I was three years old. While I grew up in Canada and hold many Canadian values there is still a significant part of me that holds my Latin American heritage. I would like to bring to light the reality of what Latin America can be like and hopefully challenge people to rethink their current worldview.
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Cinqo Labios Before she lived, no one owned the colour blue. After her, all claims and suitors dropped away like lily petals one by one. She kissed them all goodbye. After her, azul anil was hers alone. She wrapped her broken body in it, framed her high-cheekboned face and surly brows that challenged everything that came before. She alone flung her useless womb outside her body, multiplied her organs on her canvases, saying One of me is not enough. Am I too much chocolate for your table? Too much kissing, too much bleeding? Then let me multiply it further, multiply myself until you see me. Let me leave my lipstick tracks across your face, wear my own lips as earrings. Do not dare frame me in the shadow of a hulking man, my fire dismissed as mere hobby. Watch me climb the ladder in my long skirt and withered leg, paint the tall murals knowing lesser men will claim them as their own. Watch me do what none of them can do. The colour blue ran to her, lunged into her ample skirts, and then the other colours followed: bougainvillea red, saffron yellow, edamame green, white of starched lace, rebozo stripe, mixing paint and milk and blood. The square huipil, enagua skirt, the heavy threads and beads of her Tehuantepec madre, cinched in Guatemalan sash— All the colours ran to her. They alone were faithful to her. After her, the colours all lost their names like scattered orphans. All of them were wordless in her presence, as her lips and hearts and wombs arranged themselves like tissue-paper flowers on her long-remembered canvases. Her face and life gargantuan, impossible to fathom, and her lips, enduring, tender, and yet murderous like five prolonged kisses. Catherine Marenghi A native of Massachusetts, Catherine Marenghi is an award-winning poet and the author of Breaking Bread: Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her work has appeared in literary journals in the U.S. and Mexico. She received first-place honors in separate contests judged by poets Richard Blanco and Jennifer Clement. Her poems also twice received first-place honours from the Academy of American Poets University and College Poetry Prize program. She also authored Glad Farm: A Memoir (Tate Publishing, 2016), an acclaimed story of poverty, loss, and resilience; President Jimmy Carter called it “inspiring.” She holds an M.A., B.A. summa cum laude in English from Tufts University, where she studied with Denise Levertov and X.J. Kennedy, and currently divides her time between Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. On the Wing All kinds of creatures in Heaven's bestiary. They protect my labours from the Evil Eye. Sometimes the innocents follow Satan's black poodle. The words at the beginning are also at the end. Dragons witness their redness cast into the earth. Green jaguar plays tugowar with the purple lamb. Orange gargoyle grooms the yellow jackalope. All kinds of colours in Heaven's bestiary. Spectral fishes neon through bright bluey jello. Heaven’s gargoyles hover with hummingbirds. Heaven's dogs dream Behold! God Army. They protect my labours from the Evil Eye. Teal dogs paddle after holy kayaks in Heaven's red lake. They inspire dogs on earth to sainthood— except for my dogs, suffered no more to visit the dog lake, for they follow Satan's black poodle right on across. Heaven's dogs dream Behold! God Army. Holy Ghost Power swims them away to freedom. I stand on the sand of the lake, calling and calling, and my words at the beginning are the same at the end. I’ve got four now on the wing in Heaven's bestiary. Edna, Sully, Moe, and Louie, protect me from the Evil Eye. Satan's black poodle leads them forever into temptation, and the words at the beginning are the words at the end. Katherine Williams Katherine Williams has published four chap books and read at venues from the L.A. Poetry Festival to the College of Charleston. A Pushcart and Best of the Web nominee, she has poems in Spillway, Projector, South Carolina Review, Measure, Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere. She is a retired biomedical research technician living on James Island, SC. Every gift to The Ekphrastic Review is much appreciated. Thank you so much to those who have already given.
Like many literary and arts journals, The Ekphrastic Review is a labour of love. It takes an incredible amount of time each day to read submissions, edit, prepare posts, promote on social media, answer questions, seek permissions, trouble shoot, respond to submissions, run the challenges, work with guest editors, read and nominate for prizes, and more. We are most grateful to our guest editors, social media angels, and prize committee members who also give their time to helping this amazing forum of ekphrastic writing. We do not charge reading fees and the Review is always free to read. If you love The Ekphrastic Review and appreciate the work we do, please consider supporting us. THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart!
Joyce H. Munro Joyce Munro’s work can be found in Broad Street Review, CIRCA, Hamilton Arts & Letters, Hippocampus, Minding Nature, Philadelphia Stories, The Copperfield Review, and elsewhere. Anna, Arranged Sitting for her portrait, Anna prepares for death: idle hands, black dress, steel gaze, spine straight; the pose a stiffness she can’t shake. She wishes Whistler would work faster— the room is drafty; her bones ache. He was raised to be unsentimental. He draws the drapes, elaborates a bit of lace; mixes greys as if his grief might be constrained; reminds himself: a model is a nesting doll of shapes; art isn’t life— it just suggests. This face is not his mother’s face, and yet… painting her brow, her nose, her neck, Whistler’s aesthetic distance vacillates. Violeta Garcia-Mendoza Violeta Garcia-Mendoza is writer, photographer, and teacher. She lives with her family in Western Pennsylvania. More of her work can be found at https://www.violetagarciamendoza.com Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrastic! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential poets writing today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Kohbar of Mithila, by Padma Shri Sita. Deadline is December 25, 2020. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, or short fiction. 1000 words max please. 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 artwork 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. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. Have fun. 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to ekphrasticchallenge@gmail.com. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include MITHILA WRITING CHALLENGE in the subject line. 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. Guest editors may not be familiar with your bio or have access to archives. 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. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight, December 25, 2020. 9. 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. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 12. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! Also, don't miss out! Ekphrastic Christmas Contest Get 35 more ekphrastic Christmas prompts in our special holiday ebook, Christmas Isn't Cancelled. You can send us up to seven poems or stories from the prompts in the book by Christmas Day. Selected works will be published in a special showcase, and one winner will be chosen for our first cash prize ever, $100 CAD. Please note: The contest is for works written in response to Christmas themed prompts in the ebook, not our online prompt above. The ebook is $10 CAD and your purchase supports this journal. Thank you! Transliteration: Laal Sar Jab aasman khul kar baras chuka to sarkain darya ban chuki thein, mgar main phir bhi tumhari laal sar wali chamakti gulabi roshani ko uss par se dekh sakti thi. Jab hum bachay the, to hum ne torch aur cherry jello se apna Morse Code banaya tha, aur ab main iss sooch mein hon ke iss selaab mein se tum tak apna rasta talaash karoon. Main janti hoon ke mere bhege huwe joote kuch ahmiat nahein rkhte, jab pore ke pore ghar samundar mein beh rahe hain unn jazeeroon pe jo tofanoon se sab se Zaida motaasar huwe hain, pore ke pore gaoon samundar ne nigal liye hain. Yaqinaan khuda dewaane hoon ge, ya naraaz, ya phir yeh sirf ek gair-munazam tofani raqs hai, bhanwar kaatta imkan, badalta waqat, kismet ke tamtamaate taal, aur afshaan hone ko kuch bhi nahein. Main takriban tumhare darwaze par phoonch jati hoon jab mujhe yaad aata hai ke tum saloon phele ja chuke ho. Balcony ke laal sar kisi aur ki khaani ka akas hain, hamaari khaani se mukhtalif, lehroon mein chupi hui jaise ek musawada, ya jaroon se juri phool khilati. Beharhaal, unhoon nai tumhere carnival ke parinde rakhe huwe the, aur main unki tarf phir se khinch gayi thi. Iss tofan mein main sirf yehi janti thi ke tum kaise mashal-e-rah the. Flamingos The roads were rivers after the sky fell open, but I could still see your flamingo light string blinking pink from across the way. When we were children, we made our own Morse Code with a flashlight and cherry Jello, and that's what I think of now, finding my way to you through the flood. I know that my soaked sneakers are nothing, when whole houses are floating out to sea on the islands hit hardest by the hurricanes, whole villages swallowed by the sea. The gods must be crazy, or angry, or maybe it's just the random tempest dance, chance churning, time turning, fate’s flickering rhythms, and nothing more. I'm almost there, at your doorstep, when I remember you've been gone for years. The balcony flamingos are a vestige of someone else's story, different from ours, layered like palimpsest on top of it, attached at the root and flowering of its own accord. They kept your carnival birds, after all, and I was drawn back to them. All I knew in that storm was how you were like a lighthouse. Lorette C. Luzajic, translated into Urdu by Maraam Pasha and Saad Ali. The English version of this poem was first published in Pretty Time Machine, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Mixed Up Media Books, 2020.) Maraam Pasha (b. 1999 C.E. in Lahore, Pakistan) has been raised in Rawalpindi & Islamabad, Pakistan. She earned her Bachelor’s degree in Accounting & Finance from the National University of Pakistan, Pakistan. By profession, she is a Marketing & Communication Executive, and now works at Mob Inspire, USA. She has been published in The Ekphrastic Review. She finds literature a way to connect with both herself and others. Her other interests include: photography, painting, music, travelling, baking, and sculpting. She shares her artistic creations on her page: www.instagram.com/maraam_pasha. 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. Ali has authored four books of poetry i.e. Ephemeral Echoes (AuthorHouse, 2018), Metamorphoses: Poetic Discourses (AuthorHouse, 2019), Ekphrases: Book One (AuthorHouse, 2020), and Prose Poems: Βιβλίο Άλφα (AuthorHouse, 2020). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, 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. Lorette C. Luzajic is an award-winning, internationally collected visual artist. She is also a widely published author who usually writes about art. She is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca. Feast of Façade Casa Batlló, with your dot-matrix pastels & your pirate hat of rainbow fish scales & your skeleton-face balconettes orbital slats of iron through which I dream to see & your shark-snout- trio terrace, may I swim the world through your teeth join the masquerade pulsing behind your wavy walls I want to climb your body like a vine traverse the façade peel back its garden-mottled skin crack open its bones & slide inside breathe the brain that turned the century & your rooms wild you are only a house but may I caress your soul rest my head on your chest eat the beat of your heart I want to swallow your ocean of current & light drink your dream of madness as if it were my own Leslie Ferguson Leslie Ferguson resides in San Diego, California, with one husband, two cats, and good whiskey. She obtained her MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University. Leslie’s work has been published in fws: journal of literature and art, Coffin Bell, and several anthologies and is forthcoming in Tiny Spoon this year. She has also recently completed a memoir. Her writing centers on love, loss, and the consequences of trauma. For more, visit her blog at www.MentallyWellish.com. INK It’s made from what remains: powder of oak galls, tincture of iron, thin wine or vinegar-- a mixture mysterious as a hag’s charm or potion aflame in a cauldron. How could these monks know in the future, twelve hundred years later, that their hooks and angles carved in the skin of a small herd of calves using pens cut with feathers would make us stop in our tracks, full of wonder, stunned by the mystery of the alphabet, the fastness of the word. ** GOLD Not precious metal, but the sun: yolk candled and cradled inside the thin shell. Or else it was orpiment, called yellow arsenic, shining loudly on the page. Not gilt flake or leaf, merely plain pigment, layer upon layer. Breath of the Holy Spirit made visible darkness transfigured into light. ** KERMES RED For the Book of Kells, monks made Kermes red, bled from crushed bodies of small pregnant insects. Not the red lead of minium, rusty red-orange, but bluer, truer, to scarlet, to flame. Look how its placement makes gold gleam, a dream of a color that burns to set your yearning heart aflame. ** CAPITALS In the Book of Kells, 2000 capitals, no two alike. Animals, humans, plants twisted and interlaced to form letters: petals, stems, branching patterns. The line “Remember Lot’s wife” begins with a salty white face looking backwards, framed in the heart of the capital. “Paying taxes to Caesar” starts with a capital T in Latin, made up of a little man with his neck torqued and straining, his arms outstretched, reaching through a tangle of ribbon to catch a bird in flight. The Pharisees tried to snare Jesus in their net, but he flew away. The Sermon on the Mount has eight capital Bs for Blessed, four of them human, four of them swans, whose long necks outline the right-hand side of the letter. I would like my letter B to be embellished, emblazoned in orpiment, lapis lazuli, red lead, copper green, woven out of flowers and leaves, knots and curlicues. I would like to be scratched into vellum with the quill of a swan, delineated in brown oak gall. Bend me, lord, like a human pretzel, fit me into the form you desire. Let me shine like crushed foil, let me become a perfect design. ** SNAKE Symbol of the resurrection, slithering and hissing down the page. The monks believed a snake was restored to youth whenever it shed its skin. But then there was the snake in Genesis, the loss of innocence, the great fall: a double-edged sword, a forked tongue. In the Book of Kells, some snakes are made out of abstract interlace, while others form complete borders: serpentine coiling interweaving fretwork tracery: S. ** PUNCTUATION Some parts of the Book of Kells are punctuated, not by ordinary marks like ampersands, colons, exclamations, commas, but like this: a horseman’s foot points like an arrow on a one-way street, drawing the eye to the text Et tertia die resurget. Instead of brackets, tiny animals. When a word didn’t fit on the line, they placed the extra syllable in the space over the line or tucked carefully under the unfinished word, guarded by the outstretched wing of a bird or the front paws of a dog. The scribes called this “putting the head under the wing” or “taking the turn down the path.” I’d like to insert little animals into modern English: ladybugs instead of periods, question mark earthworms, starfish asterisks, squirrel-tail commas, and ellipses, a fine line of industrious ants, ever marching. . . . Barbara Crooker All of these poems are from Barbara's book, The Book of Kells (Cascade Books, 2018.) Barbara Crooker is the author of many books of poetry; The Book of Kells and Some Glad Morning are recent. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature, Commonwealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, The Poetry of Presence and Nasty Women: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. www.barbaracrooker.com |
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