Disappointment I imagined Monet in his mist, shrouded by morning’s last weight. Claude evaporating with the water, pushing pond lilies to the side of the pirogue with a tender oar, lifting the slimy pads to new light with a lover’s hand. I’d read about his love affair with the lilies, felt flush thinking of the intimacy of his long looking. The caress of paint, in pursuit of pure beauty, how he dusted every water lily pad at dawn. It was an obsession against nature interfering with nature, recording truth that isn’t truth, the artist taking her virginal, wiped clean, back to the start, again and again. The spell snapped like first love, shattered, upon learning about the maid. Claude hired a cleaning lady to tend to his passions, someone to dust and wipe his water flowers before he painted them. Another arrow through the heart of poetry. Well, then. Morning has broken. Lorette C. Luzajic This poem first appeared in Pretty Time Machine: ekphrastic prose poems (Mixed Up Media Books, 2020.) Lorette C. Luzajic is from Toronto, Canada. Her prose poetry and small fictions are widely published, with recent or forthcoming appearances in Gyroscope, Free Flash Fiction, Bright Flash, Club Plum, Red Eft, and Indelible. A recent story won first place in a contest at MacQueen’s Quinterly, and she has been nominated several times each for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Her most recent of five poetry collections is Pretty Time Machine: ekphrastic prose poems. Some of her works have been translated into Urdu. Lorette is founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review. She is also an award-winning visual artist, with collectors in 25 countries from Estonia to Qatar. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca.
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The Execution of Lady Jane Gray 1. The Lady in Waiting Blindfold me, too. How can I watch the brutal end to Jane? It may as well be my end she’s occupied my life for sixteen years. I saw her educated wed bedded crowned killed. Every time he attempts expression in my face he falls short whacks the paint away. This sorrow uncontainable unknowable unpaintable. 2. The Executioner Had I seen her before I killed her, I would have brought a sword fine and sharp, her neck so little under my ax. Pretty girl reminds me of my sister without the joys of an average Jane. All that beauty, untested That fine pedigree, wasted. No time to bear a child. Educated the way the nobles like their women. To what end? To this end: Forgiving me, her eyes steady, locked to mine for eternity, even after she ties the fabric around her eyes. As though not seeing the block will blind her to death’s final approach. She stumbles, confused, disoriented, my ax filling her mind. It is heavy, crushing, the blow I must make. 3. Lady Jane History, decide how you feel about me, will you? Was I brilliant, or a pawn? Better to say: I was brilliant because: truth and a woman: also truth which meant: no choice when my traitorous father did his own bit of scheming with frail cousin Edward. I’d like to sigh out “men” and know all the ladies in the room recognize my plight. But as long as we’re after #truthforonce let’s remember it was Bloody Mary (you can tell I’m a lady because I didn’t call her Bloody effin’ Mary) who went back on her word most fatally. Betrayed me her cousin: read it: young & beautiful, womb so fresh and ripe and her, despearate for her Catholic husband, Catholic count- ry, Catholic killing. I know. I should be grateful. I didn’t go screaming against the smell of my own burning flesh and scorched lungs. I should have practiced getting my little neck down on the block. I stumbled. Beverly Army Williams Beverly Army Williams is a writer, multi-media artist, and writing teacher at Westfield State University in Westfield, MA. Her work has appeared in The Dandelion Review, Interweave Crochet, and Project 333 among other places. She is co-founder and co-editor of the webzine MotherShould.com. Beverly holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico and lives in the woods of Connecticut with her husband and two demanding dogs. Still Life with Blue Mug & Lemon Clay slipped from the alluvium. Labor burnishing the maker’s hands. Seawater, cloud water mist, fog, dew— what dissolves, what bends, what binds a matrix back together. Belly in the mud and rain— once, fishes crawled from rivers on their fins. The spin, the potter’s wheel. Day, night. Day, night. Say aubade. Sing nocturne. An ochre body bisques. A scar is left to darken, deepen. The face of a porcelain doll. Volcanic kilns ash the fire’s wood— destruction for creation. Every atom of us the clay of lemon-yellow stars. Our immortal clay. Finally, a cup— the bowl of ocean. We drink, to touch our lip onto the edge of blue. D. Walsh Gilbert D. Walsh Gilbert is the author of Ransom (Grayson Books, 2017). A Pushcart nominee, she has also received honors from The Farmington River Literary Arts Center and the Artist for Artists Project at the Hartford Art School. Her work has appeared in Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, Ireland of the Welcomes, The Café Review, and Verse Daily, among others.She serves on the board of the non-profit, Riverwood Poetry Series, and as co-editor of the Connecticut River Review published by the Connecticut Poetry Society. She lives in a rural setting in Connecticut. The Woman with a Cat on Her Shoulder an ekphrastic for Karenmaria Dumpy, coiffed mane dyed unnaturally black And shaped mannishly to her mannish face As though she’d handed a pic of fat Elvis To her hairdresser and said, Just like that. Striding through five-thousand steps at summer dusk I must say, “Prosim. Muzu?” and she pauses, Turns, smiles—the most un-Slavic thing to do In public—and I click two photos in which The cat on her shoulder peers into my soul, No easy task given that I do not Possess one, or if I do it is elsewhere, Or perhaps it is astride my shoulder And that tabby-and-white, on a gray pillow Draping the left shoulder of the black shirt, A red leash dangling from its collar, stares Into my phone though maybe it stares Into the cat on my shoulder I can- Not see or feel though once I tried to walk Fat Ophelia, bought the proper harness But she would not enter thus the world astride My folly, would not accompany Ella And me into the twilight of ten years Ago, and Ella, now fifteen, sardonic To the bone yet deeply decent, her heart’s Only impurity the hubris of youth And its glory the repudiation Of all claims to purity, laughed at me When she was five, laughed at our fat cat, Our terrible tortie named for a martyr Of Great Literature, and laughs at me Now, from time to time, because the sky at Nine p.m. is bright in summer, and cats Ride the shoulders of goddesses who will pause To have their photos taken in Prague Four At dusk, and she laughs at me because my soul’s Protector is Nerval’s lobster, that beast Of nonexistent burdens that crush the heart. “Tata, are you getting married again?” She asked last night, referring to you, my love, Five-thousand, three-hundred and sixty-five Miles from here, a pandemic between us, And I laughed at her, and texted you the pic Of the woman with a cat on her shoulder, Her whose familiar is proxy of my heart. Richard Katrovas Richard Katrovas is the author of fifteen books of nonfiction, fiction, and poetry, most recently Raising Girls in Bohemia: Meditations of an American Father (essays, Three Rooms Press, New York: 2014), and Swastika into Lotus (poetry, Carnegie Mellon University Press, Pittsburgh: 2016). A collection of stories, The Great Czech Navy, was published by Carnegie Mellon in 2018. Katrovas’ stories, essays and verse have appeared in dozens of journals and anthologies, and he’s received numerous grants and awards, including the 2018 Gold Medal for the Novel from the Faulkner Society. His books have been nominated for the Pulitzer, among other awards. He taught for twenty years at the University of New Orleans, and for the past eighteen at Western Michigan University. Katrovas is the founding director of the Prague Summer Program for Writers, which is going into its twenty-eighth year. Our First Cash Contest! Since so many of us are being locked down, locked out, separated from loved ones, the month ahead, usually the merriest for many of the year, looks bleak. On the up side, there is lots of time to reflect on art and to write. With all the stores closed, no mulled wine gatherings, no Nutcracker ballet performances, no midnight mass, no carolling socials, what's left? Do not despair! Christmas isn't cancelled! Transform your bleak and lonely holidays immersed in 35 visual art prompts. Lorette's carefully curated collection will intrigue and inspire. The ebook is 10$ CAD (about $7 USD) and your purchase helps support The Ekphrastic Review. Thank you. You can send up to seven poems or short stories in by Christmas Day and we will publish selected works in a special showcase feature on site in the weeks to follow. And we've just decided to make the Christmas challenge into a cash awarded contest- from the selected entries for the showcase, we will choose a winner. The prize is $100! Rules for submissions: 1. Submit to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com by midnight, December 25, 2020. 2. Use HOLIDAY CONTEST in subject line. 3. Send no more than seven entries, all in one email, or in several, no matter. 5. We would love to see more stories- flash fiction, small fiction, microfiction, and prose poetry. Check out our guidelines to see the kind of stories we like. 6. Of course poetry is always welcome. We love poetry and that is not going to change. 7. Nothing over 1000 words. If you have written something exceptionally brilliant, we might make an exception. 8. Relax, enjoy, have fun. 9. Cash will be sent via PayPal. Click here to purchase. Enjoy! Two Children on the Seaside Rocks To paint the blue sky with storm clouds threatening, or the foreground of rusty sea rocks and pale water held between them, shimmering with reflected sun—which did you choose first as you set out the oils, stretched your canvas? Or did you start by posing the two children on the large boulder halfway out from shore, their white aprons, soft blue jackets, and straw hats catching the sun—the boy wearing a faded tie, the girl with hand to mouth, while you, perched farther out on the rocks at low tide, easel precarious, strove to celebrate that day, that place, and your children—possibly my great-grandmother or great-grandfather-- solemnly staring at you through shaded eyes. The rocks striated brown shot through with moss, the weathered boathouse and dock at low tide, the hazy garments blowing on the clothes line strung between two trees behind the outhouse— did you know, how could you know that you were catching time in a sieve, netting the light for me? How could you know that you were stroking hope across a canvas, framing it in gilt that shines across a century, inviting me to sit with you that day in gratitude. Penny Harter This poem first appeared in A Prayer the Body Makes, Kelsay Books, 2020. The painting is by the poet's Great-Great-Grandfather, Jonathan Bradley Morse. Penny Harter’s work has appeared in Persimmon Tree, Rattle, Tiferet, and many other journals. Her more recent collections include A Prayer the Body Makes (2020); The Resonance Around Us (2013); One Bowl ( 2012); and Recycling Starlight (2010). A featured reader at the 1985 and 2010 Dodge Poetry Festivals, she has won three fellowships from the NJSCA; the Mary Carolyn Davies Award from the PSA; and two residencies from VCCA. For more info, please visit: pennyharterpoet.com اسپرٹیم جب تک میں نے تمہارا خط پڑھا میں خالی ہو چکی تھی ہر چیز سے پہلے ہی۔ بوجھل دکھاوے جھڑ چکے تھے، داغ سرکے میں حل ہو چکے تھے، کمرہ بلکل خالی تھا۔ میں بہت چاہتی تھی کہ تم چائے کے وہ مراکشی برتن دیکھو اور وہ معجزوں سے بھرا کراس جو میکسیکو سے لایا گیا تھا۔ مگر کسی سبب یہ جذبہ شیریں دوا سا تھا، ایک نکلی مٹھاس، جو میری زبان پر ایک عجیب ذائقہ چھوڑ گئی۔ پہلے مجھے امید تھی کہ تم میرے ریکارڈز میں سناترا ڈھونڈ لو گے، خیال تھا تم مجھے رقص کرنے کو کہو گے۔ میرا خواب تھا تم میری کتابیں دیکھو گے، کہ تم دیکھو گے وہ سب جو میں تھی اپنی آنکھوں کی حرکت سے اور انگلیوں سے انکی جلدوں پہ۔ مگر تمہاری غیر موجودگی کے غصے میں، میں نے اپنے گھر سے سب کچھ کھروچ دیا، ایک طرح کی پاکیزگی، ایک صفائی، ایک طہارت۔ میں صاف ھونا چاھتی تھی، ایک خالی تختی، امکان کے لئے خالی۔ بجائے صرف میرے اور میرے احمقانہ سہاروں کے۔ transliteration: Aspartame Jab tak main ne tumhara khat parha main khali ho chukie thi her cheiz se pehle hi. Bhoojal dikhaway jhar chukay thay, daag sirke mein hal ho chuke thay, kamra bilkul khali tha. Main bohat chaati thi ke tum chaaye ke woh Marrakshi bartan dekho aur woh moojazoon se bhara cross jo Mexico se laya gaya tha. Magar kisi sabab yeh jazba sheerein dwaa sa tha, ek nakli mithaas, jo meri zuban par aik ajeeb zaika choar gaee. Pehle mujhe umeed thi ke tum mere records mein Sinatra dhoond lo ge, khayaal tha tum mujhe raks karne ko kahoo ge. Mera khawab tha tum meri kitaabain daikhoo ge, ke tum daikhoo ge jo sab main thi apni ankhoon ki harkat se aur ungleeon se unki jildoon pe. Mgar tumhari gair-mojoodgi ke ghuse mein, main ne apne ghar se sub kuch kharoach diya, ek tarha ki pakeezgi, ek safayi, ek tahaarat. Main saaf hona chaati thi, ek khali takhtie, imkaan ke liye khali. Bajaae sirf mere aur mere ahmaqaana sahaaroon ke. Aspartame By the time I read your letter, I had been emptied of everything already. The cumbersome pretenses had been dusted, the stains dissolved in vinegar, the room swept bare. I had so wanted you to see the little Moroccan tea glasses and the cross, cluttered with milagros, brought back from Mexico. But somehow this sentiment seemed saccharine, a simulated sweetness that left a strange taste on my tongue. Earlier I’d hoped for you to find Sinatra in my records, imagined you would ask me to dance. I dreamed you would roam my books, that you would see all that I was with a sweep of eyes and fingers along their spines. But in the fury of your absence, I scrubbed everything from my home, a purification of sorts, a detox, a purge. I wanted to be clean, a blank slate, empty with possibility. Instead of just me and my stupid little props. Lorette C. Luzajic, translated into Urdu by Maraam Pasha and Saad Ali. The English version of this poem was first published in Aspartame, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Mixed Up Media Books, 2016.) 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. Tree, and Stars I am trying to understand the fact of this ponderosa pine on earth. Its bark by night is chill to touch, its canopy massed darkness. I cannot understand the stars haloing this pine, not really, their light sent unfathomable years ago. Deep rooted tree, unfathomable stars -- productions of time and eternity. And something we can’t name. Here, touch the bark. And look up. By your silence I will know you know you don’t understand. Mike Dillon Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a small town on Puget Sound northwest of Seattle. He is the author of four books of poetry and three books of haiku. Several of his haiku were included in Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years, from W.W. Norton (2013). His most recent book, Departures: Poetry and Prose on the Removal of Bainbridge Island’s Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor, was published by Unsolicited Press in April 2019. Interview with Janée J. Baugher, author of The Ekphrastic Writer: Creating Art-Influenced Poetry, Fiction and Nonfiction The Ekphrastic Review: You’ve written an intensive ekphrastic writing workbook. What is your personal attraction to ekphrasis? Give us some background on your passion. Janée J. Baugher: Writers must find their subject. After I’d shelved my juvenilia work in anticipation of entering graduate school, I was seeking ways to extinguish the personality (i.e., the conscious mind, the ego). I longed for something tangible on which to linger while I let the world fall away. As I evolved as a writer, I discovered that art was that tangible thing from which I could imagine beyond that present moment. Beauty enraptures, so it’s an easy thing to find art that is alluring, to cast the eye about for what’s there (the known) and what’s not there (the unknown). Deep-looking is a creative act, though some people might refer to it as mindful meditation. Beyond loving the museum experience, I also have an interest in technical knowledge. I suffer from artist envy. Because I lack the skills of a visual artist, I sought to learn everything that I could about their processes, tools, and techniques. Did art ignite your curiosity to write, or did reading ekphrastic writing spark your love for art? Art definitely ignited my curiosity to write. For a long while, art-viewing and my creative writing resided on parallel tracks. On spring break from college, I visited an artist friend in New York City and there I experienced an art-walk for the first time. Neighbourhood galleries open after hours wherein artists were on hand to discuss their work, while we sipped wine from plastic cups and listened in awe! A few years later I traveled through Europe, and while I did visit a dozen major museums, I did not write creatively. Furthermore, that a person would write poems, stories, or essays to art was as foreign to me then as a carnival on Mars. More years elapsed and while in graduate school I returned back to Europe and was finally poised to explore more than what I was seeing by allowing my pen to dictate to me what was beneath the surface of looking. Only after I’d written near 100 ekphrastic poems did I finally discover another writer who also wrote art-influenced poems (the term “ekphrasis” wasn’t common then)—Peter Cooley. His collection of poems, The Van Gogh Notebook, was an absolute revelation to me. Why does art matter? Is this a trick question? Art/design is omnipresent—look around you: the design of your automobile, the structure of your home, your company’s logo, the cut of your shirt. Art is important to me, so that’s what matters, I suppose. Seeing a product of “art” necessarily means that there was a creative person behind that artwork. And, to be creative means being imaginative. Everyone has the ability to be creative, but not everyone has a life in which art plays a central role. Carl Jung wrote, “The creation of something new isn’t accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the object it loves.” Writers love words, so its through the journey of word play that innovations happen. Albert Einstein said, “I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” Are there some artists or styles that you find particularly evocative to your own ekphrastic practice? What artists or perhaps genres of art inspire you most, and why? Initially, I was solely drawn to realism. My artist mother made realism art, so that form was familiar to me. However, everything changed during my 2000 trip overseas. One morning I was sitting on a bench outside the English-language bookstore Shakespeare and Company and I was chatting with a Canadian fellow about my travels. Another boy was eavesdropping on the conversation and when he heard that I was headed to London, he chimed in. “Did you hear about the Tate Modern Museum, it just opened?” I explained my distain for modern art and as I did the Canadian fellow shifted his focus and said to the boy, “Oh my gosh, did you go? Can you believe the abstract art? It’s incredible.” They turned toward each other and proceeded to share their excitement for art that they’d both viewed, mentioning words like “conceptual” and “installation,” “mixed media” and “surrealism.” Days later I was climbing the steps to the Tate Modern, and within minutes of my arrival I was a convert. It’s embarrassing for me to admit my narrow mindedness, though I can see now that since it’s impossible to predict what will or will not appeal to us aesthetically, it’s imperative to investigate all types of art in order to figure that out. Do you prefer ekphrastic writing that adheres to traditionalist definitions of ekphrasis- describing art? Or do you share The Ekphrastic Review’s vision of expanding ekphrasis to “writing inspired by art”? Why do you feel the way you do? As someone who values the precision of language, I have strong opinions about “ekphrasis.” The scope of my own writing, as well as that of The Ekphrastic Writer is art-influenced creative writing. It’s true that “ekphrasis” comes from the Greek meaning “to describe.” Additionally, I endorse James A. W. Heffernan’s definition of ekphrastic writing as, “verbal representation of visual representation.” It’s interesting to note, though, that some art-influenced creative writing dispenses with description entirely (the term I coined for this approach was metaekphrasis). Describe your own ekphrastic practice. Do you follow prompts from your book, from online communities, or create your own with books, the Internet, or local galleries? Do you wait until an artwork draws you in, or do you explore works at random to see what you might discover? Tell us what works for you. Until a writer has settled on her creative process, it’s advisable to try as many methods as possible, hence the importance of attempting years’ worth of writing prompts. In my book I list nearly 30 conventions of ekphrasis, all of which I’ve tackled intuitively over the last quarter century. To answer your penultimate question, I both wait and work randomly. What’s imperative to writing successful ekphrastic poems, stories, and essays is the freedom of choice. If you yourself choose an artwork, then you have a better chance of writing organically something that’s worthy of readers’ attention. So, I myself wait to find that one artwork and then free-write to see what might come from the act of deep-looking. For example, recently a museum commissioned me to write a poem. I scoured their website and found three images that stirred in me a desire to leap to the blank page. Ultimately, I wrote three poems that I’m proud of; however, if I had been handed one image with the request, “Please write a poem on this,” I would have failed. You’ve been teaching creative writing for a long time. What have your students taught you about ekphrastic writing? One year at the Association of Writing & Writing Programs conference, I heard a panelist say, “I’m not a teacher who writes. I’m a writer who teaches.” While these statements also describe me, I’ll add that I’m a writer and a student who teaches. Because I wanted to showcase ekphrasis in the classroom and because there were very few instructive resources, I was frustrated. So, I began creating my own multi-genre ekphrastic curriculum. Unknowingly, my students were helping me to perfect my ekphrastic tutelage. One important lesson that I learned early in my teaching was that the writing process is a mystery to most people. Hence, The Ekphrastic Writer focuses on creative practice and the process of writing, rather than writing as a product. As a life-long student myself, it was my privilege to have taught courses such as Children’s Literature, Multicultural Literature, Poetry and Society, Research Methods, English Composition, and all genres of creative writing, as well as team-teaching with visual artist teachers. Every class that I have taught, from the first class on a psychiatric unit to my current class called “Literary Description,” informed my book on ekphrasis. How has your work as a teacher influenced the way you conceived The Ekphrastic Writer? What else shaped the vision and execution of your book? Teaching, which begins at home, is an act of generosity. My mom is an artist, so we grew up with original art on the walls and the smell of oil paint drying on canvases, and as a psychologist, my father taught me how the brain processes what is seen. Additionally the travel guru Rick Steves with his museum guide, Mona Wink (my constant travel companion) was instrumental in my development as an art-viewer and art-lover. Of course, forging friends with visual artists has enriched my life immensely. Visiting their studios and watching them work, discussing contemporary art, sharing ideas, and collaborating both personally and in the classroom have been enormously enriching. How do you recommend readers and writers use The Ekphrastic Writer? Read it from start to finish; delight in the anthology aspect of it; enjoy that it’s a museum in your hands—especially during the pandemic, which has closed most museums around the world; research the 125 artworks listed as “suggested viewing”; read about the tools and techniques of various disciplines of visual artists; attempt all 200 writing invitations; explore the bibliography of 250 other titles; read excerpts of ekphrastic fiction and nonfiction; or focus on chapters that pertain directly to your interests, such as children’s literature or S.T.E.M. The Ekphrastic Writer is a room I constructed for you. I stand with the door held open—you are welcome here. I myself have a sense of what I created, but you will see things differently. Go ahead, fling open the windows, move the furniture, add your own art to the walls, stay forever. The Ekphrastic Writer Janée J. Baugher McFarland Books, 2020 Dear Ekphrastic World,
Thank you so much for your patience waiting for a response to your submissions for our first anthology! I'm working hard on it, and making great headway. There is a lot to sort out, read through, and decide on- many of you submitted the maximum of fifteen pieces!!! Bravo for all that amazing creativity. I will be in touch soon, and I can assure you, we have created something beautiful here. I can't wait to reveal it to the world, and will work harder to make that happen faster. love, Lorette |
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