 A Christmas Carol, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (England) 1867 Editor's Note: This is the second selection of entries for the Christmas Isn't Cancelled ekphrastic prompt collection. The first selection was published on Christmas Day. Click here to read them. The contest winner will be announced and awarded shortly. ** The Angel Ellen sighs. Almost Christmas. Not that she gives a farthing these days! With her sleeves rolled up, she sweats, labouring in a haze of steam; around her scuffed boots, filthy water; her hair hangs limply, like greased string; from the low ceiling, constant drips; slopping around in her sink, the soiled linen of London’s finest. With vigour, she scrubs petticoats, swills cotton, dabs with blue at the city’s grime, stiff within each collar. Outside, snow swirls and drifts. She needs to get finished; this weather will get worse. Better hurry if she’s to be paid! There’s still wringing and rinsing; still this heap of clothes for the high and mighty: they’ll need them for next week’s swanky soirées. She sighs, loudly this time, trying to forget those few Christmas pasts when the sun seemed to shine out of her backside. Grabbing her shawl and mittens, she clasps a bucket and heads out into the street. As she goes, she hums The Holly and the Ivy, remembering. * Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s hand slowly tilts her chin, this way, that way, until he is satisfied. He smooths her wavy hair so that the gilt hairclip is balanced just above her left ear. He whispers to her to open her lips slightly. She laughs. He strokes her mouth into position, instructs her to imagine she is singing something holy, like Hodie Christus natus est. Ellen pulls a face, bursts out laughing. She tells the artist that she’s never heard of it or that lingo, but would The Holly and the Ivy do? She belts out the carol before he can stop her. He asks her not to sing but to simply imagine pure, sweet, heavenly music: her lips must remain still. She informs him that it’s a cold March morning not Christmas and if he doesn’t want her teeth chattering, it would help if more coal could kindly be put on the fire. The artist frowns. Ellen sighs. She knows that look by now. It’s time to do as she’s told: that’s what she’s paid for. She knows what she owes him: he’s plucked her out of the laundry, given her hope. So, she takes up her position, clutches the strange-looking instrument, moulds her mouth into a chaste, unworldly gawp. She breathes slowly, drifts into a daydream, keeping perfectly still. Rossetti smiles, paints as she poses, hour after hour. * Outside, it’s raw; the tips of her chapped fingers feel numb. Under her hot breath, a stream of oaths as she heaves and cranks the water-pump’s handle, her neck, arms and back aching. She pauses, shrugs, lifts, twists, pulls at her shoulders, then begins pumping again: there’s no time to idle, not like back then. * Today, she is an angel, singing of the Holy Birth. She leans against a beautiful flowery wall; she is an angel with a fine clip, studded with pearls, fastened into her auburn hair; around her neck, emeralds; she wears a pretty patterned, satin gown; she plucks the strings of a golden lyre; her eyes are clear blue; her fresh, softly flushed face almost brushes against an icon of the Holy Mother and Child; her gaze is heavenwards. * Water spills over the bucket’s brim. Ellen is lugging the bucket by the handle towards the yard when her shawl slips onto snow. She curses, pitches the bucket down, grabs the shawl, gives it a shake and brush. She’s about to wrap it round her head again, when she turns to see a tiny tot, with her gran, peering up at her. Ellen grins. The little one screams. The old woman drags the child away, scolding her. Ellen watches them go; all the time, her fingers trace the ugly scars criss-crossing her face. She tries not to be, but she is bitter. One minute she’s coining it in, just for sitting around dolly-daydreaming at the ceiling. The next, no artist will look her in the eye, let alone paint her. Who wants the likeness of a smashed pot that’s been stuck back together badly? And all because some soldier, who fancied his chances and didn’t want other men gawping at her, set to work with a knife! But that was then.This is now. She has shirts and bloomers to attend to. Snow-flakes pirouette across the cobbles. Ellen and her bucket trudge back to the sink. Down the street, she hears an out-of-tune drunk strangling Hark the Herald. * The end of another long sitting in his studio. Staring in wonder at Rossetti’s painting, Ellen suddenly senses what he sees in her: she is beautiful; a proper stunner. This painting will be the making of her! There’ll be a queue of gentleman artists begging her to sit. She can put up her prices too. She’ll never have to do a proper day’s work again! Studying her own sweet angelic face, Ellen can’t help smiling. Dorothy Burrows Based in the UK, Dorothy Burrows enjoys writing flash fiction, poetry and short plays. Her work has been published online by various websites including The Ekphrastic Review, Words for the Wild, Another North, Failed Haiku, The Poetry Pea and also in Mslexia’s newsletter. The Ekphrastic Review has nominated one of her flash fictions, “Four Horses, Two Friends, One Postcard” for Best Short Fictions 2021. She tweets @rambling_dot **  Children's Games, by Eitaku (Shutaro) Kobayashi (Japan) 1894 Winter Spirit a soft white blanket muffles the valley’s floor as four wrapped-up youngsters gaze and giggle at the world’s sparkle, then they start to play the youngest child pats snowballs, still happy at the bottom of the pile the next in the line, with little dog on lead, barks orders at elders second-in-command shouts back, icily proud, fierce, fighting for status big brother artist works, absorbed in creation, above silly games snow blankets cedars as children shiver, shaping their winter spirit: it appears in laughter but will leave when the tall trees weep Dorothy Burrows Based in the UK, Dorothy Burrows enjoys writing flash fiction, poetry and short plays. Her work has been published online by various websites including The Ekphrastic Review, Words for the Wild, Another North, Failed Haiku, The Poetry Pea and also in Mslexia’s newsletter. The Ekphrastic Review has nominated one of her flash fictions, “Four Horses, Two Friends, One Postcard” for Best Short Fictions 2021. She tweets @rambling_dot ** Tanka the boys used so much snow to build their ice giant I was really cross they barely left me enough to mould one little rabbit Sheila Lockhart Sheila Lockhart is a retired social worker and lives on the Black Isle in the Scottish Highlands. She is a member of Ross-shire Writers and the Moniack Mhor writers’ group and has been published in Northwords Now, Nine Muses Poetry, Twelve Rivers (Suffolk Poetry Society), the StAnza Poetry Map of Scotland, The Writers’ Cafe and the Ekphrastic Review. **  Two Oxen in Winter, by Maud Lewis (Canada) by 1970 Double Yoked Holiday fever had us elbow To elbow in sweaters two For one if You could find the Same size but then It didn’t matter really after Awhile the joy of Color and pattern eclipsing Sense until we Grabbed the same one at The same time pulling Then realizing we were in The same egg, burning eye to eye for The other to let go when a Restock dropped by the Salesgirl with brighter Prospects caught your eye and Opened your hand to seize that Purple leopard print from the wild Melee instead while I kept clutching that Yellow buffalo check all the way to The register. Strangers still we spotted each other Again that weekend at a company Christmas party you in the Same careful cashmere as I coloured Chagrined knowing the secrets of Each other’s closets and The mad whirl Inside filling them Still in the same egg. Kate Bowers Kate Bowers is a Pittsburgh based writer whose work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Rue Scribe, and Sheila-Na-Gig. ** Toast on Your Wedding Anniversary To a couple who’re yoked together like two oxen pulling through snow, who toil towards progress and plod without counting steps or kicking each other, who endure obstacles – eyes like stars, horns top-lit and chains adorned with bells. If I lift off your harness, I sense you’d choose to stay together, your bodies in sturdy balance. Patient with your lot, you low and trample hard clods underfoot searching for the next bellyful. You stand out – blue skies or grey. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman started writing poetry during recovery time from a serious road traffic accident in Oman and got hooked. She has been published in several magazines and supplements including with Corbel Stone Press, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Clear Poetry, Algebra of Owls, Ground Poetry, Your One Phone-call, Open Mouse, Red River Review, Barren Magazine, The Drabble, Sukoon, Poems for Ephesians and The Ekphrastic Review. Some of her ekphrastic poems were published alongside related Diane Rendle paintings at an exhibition in Open Eye Gallery, Edinburgh. She taught English for many years in Kenya, Tanzania, Oman and Dubai and now lives in Durham, England.  Saint Nick, by Robert Walter Weir (USA) 1837 The Merry Troll A merry little troll droll and demonic sidesteps the hearth at Christmas a naughty little heathen is he. Behooded in a red-and-white cape smote with ashes and soot this furtive oddball Sinterklaas this gnarly grotesque mischief-maker jests rude gestures with his fingers and his nose. A wicked prankster a Victorian Grinch he clambers up the cold stone chimney and chortles with an ogreish laugh after snatching gifts and stealing off with stocking treasures leaving behind no clementines only a sour lemon cut in half and its rind. A fragile angel in the sack on his back watches over him through the coal chute before he scurries away to a reindeerless sleigh snowbanked on Christmas Eve. Tanya Adèle Koehnke Tanya Adèle Koehnke is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society (TOPS) and the Scarborough Poetry Club. Tanya's poems appear in The Ekphrastic Review, The Canvas, Big Arts Book, Canadian Woman Studies, Foreplay: An Anthology of Word Sonnets, and other publications. Tanya taught English at several post-secondary institutions in Toronto. Tanya also has a background in arts journalism. **  Dreamer of Dreams, by Edmund Dulac (France) 1915 The Ice-Maiden She isn’t all there her eyes say to us pity, sadness, shock shimmering a pearl and crystal veil the white dress drapes in the white of perfection her face, the beauty of rescue all those broken red hearts she gathers in the cold blue night holds cupped in her hands like a shaman her attendant white bears are guardians of heartbreak as she carries the sadness with her to warm it at her hearth Amy Phimister Amy Phimister is a writer who resides in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. She is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and has been published by WFOP, Yardstick Books and The Ekphrastic Review, and was a finalist for the Hal Prize. She and her cousin have written a children’s book called A-B-C the Animals which will be released by Sand Beach Press in December.  The Annunciation, by Juan de Flandes (Spain, Flanders) c. 1509-1519 Unprecedented I tried my best to be stern, even raised a finger at her, ballooning my wings, brandishing my sceptre, but I tell you my heart was racing like a sonic boom. My knees crumpled. My cape flapped about. I thought she’d never accept such a seismic request. She just knelt there, lily-white, allowing the page to turn. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman started writing poetry during recovery time from a serious road traffic accident in Oman and got hooked. She has been published in several magazines and supplements including with Corbel Stone Press, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Clear Poetry, Algebra of Owls, Ground Poetry, Your One Phone-call, Open Mouse, Red River Review, Barren Magazine, The Drabble, Sukoon, Poems for Ephesians and The Ekphrastic Review. Some of her ekphrastic poems were published alongside related Diane Rendle paintings at an exhibition in Open Eye Gallery, Edinburgh. She taught English for many years in Kenya, Tanzania, Oman and Dubai and now lives in Durham, England.  Gray Tree, by Piet Mondrian (Netherlands) 1911 Lone Oak in December Stark bleak tree cobwebbed with spidery branches mazed in battleship grey how majestic and desolate you are. When soft white flakes dance upon your outstretched rickety limbs your spindly tenacious beauty sparkles as though captured in a snow globe. A crystal city in winter mauve is the backdrop for your being your trunk bends to support your fragile weight that has toiled through the seasons. How you pine to find your roots like the ones in a family tree but what is the genealogy of a lonely individual with no ties to ground them? Shake and the snow falls all around you Oh, beautiful grey tree. Tanya Adèle Koehnke Tanya Adèle Koehnke is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society (TOPS) and the Scarborough Poetry Club. Tanya's poems appear in The Ekphrastic Review, The Canvas, Big Arts Book, Canadian Woman Studies, Foreplay: An Anthology of Word Sonnets, and other publications. Tanya taught English at several post-secondary institutions in Toronto. Tanya also has a background in arts journalism.  Massacre of the Innocents, by Léon Cogniet (France) 1824 When Will the Counting Stop? She harvested figs, counting them into baskets and counted days waiting for a baby. Some months one came and left before she could count breaths. So she tended trees. Finally, a son. All year she counted feeds, smiles, words, steps. She counted paces round Bethlehem – her lovely town, until suddenly it wasn’t. See her cower – bullet eyes, arms glued, bare feet kicking, cornered by bulls ripping her apart? She’s glaring at us, petrified by our choices, the weapons we wield, the boots we’ve donned. She’s still counting other mothers all around the world cradling doomed children, running for their lives. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman started writing poetry during recovery time from a serious road traffic accident in Oman and got hooked. She has been published in several magazines and supplements including with Corbel Stone Press, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Clear Poetry, Algebra of Owls, Ground Poetry, Your One Phone-call, Open Mouse, Red River Review, Barren Magazine, The Drabble, Sukoon, Poems for Ephesians and The Ekphrastic Review. Some of her ekphrastic poems were published alongside related Diane Rendle paintings at an exhibition in Open Eye Gallery, Edinburgh. She taught English for many years in Kenya, Tanzania, Oman and Dubai and now lives in Durham, England.  The Nativity, by Edwin Reginald Framptom (Britain) by 1923 Angels The sky was midnight-blue, just a few pale stars to guide the flocks, all the rest darkness. A dull clatter of sheep bells in the hills. Then the almighty flash above our heads. Words were spoken or maybe sung. We had to screw our eyes against the brightness. Angels? Heavenly host? They looked more like ghosts, long thin substance-less things, no wings, pale faces, arms and legs, like crucified boys hanging there in the midnight sky. But beneath their feet the frozen earth blossomed, primroses, crocuses, violets, the flowers of Spring. Sheila Lockhart Sheila Lockhart is a retired social worker and lives on the Black Isle in the Scottish Highlands. She is a member of Ross-shire Writers and the Moniack Mhor writers’ group and has been published in Northwords Now, Nine Muses Poetry, Twelve Rivers (Suffolk Poetry Society), the StAnza Poetry Map of Scotland, The Writers’ Cafe and the Ekphrastic Review.
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February 2025
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