 Fantasy on Faust, by Mariano Fortuny (Spain) 1866 Editor's note: I was incredibly fortunate to see many works of Mariano Fortuny last year in Spain. Although he is less celebrated abroad than the 20th century giants like Dali and Picasso, he was impossibly prolific and grand. Canvas after canvas cover the walls of the museums, many of them epic in size with countless figures and lush detail. It was a stroke of genius or fate that Fortuny married the daughter of a man who would be curator at the Prado Museum, ensuring his legacy would be preserved in one of the world's foremost art collections. This work is unique in that it combines several elements of art in one piece. Painting, music, theatre, and literature come together in a strange dream. The artist died suddenly and unexpectedly at just 36, of malaria. Here are several responses to the painting by our readers and writers. Stay safe and sound everyone! Lorette ** Summer of 1866 Once more you’ve invited us to a party. Once more the only ones to attend are we three. Two of us scrub brushes on stretched canvas and you, Mr. Piano Man, scribble dots on pages wadded up as quickly as notes to muted strings. Synesthesia, imposing one sense in terms of another, rests no better in this room than umber shadows in a crimson spray. an opera from 1863 like Fortuny paints a blank stare into oblivion Todd Sukany Todd Sukany, a Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over 37 years. His work recently appears in The Christian Century and Fireflies’ Light. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, and caring for four rescue dogs, a kitten, and one old-lady cat. ** Lorenzo Casanova Reminisces. How we loved those musical evenings at Francisco's in calle Flor Baja. Who can forget the night Juan Pujol performed his Gran Fantasia sobre Fausto? He mesmerized us with his passion, his energy, his craziness as scores, once played, were hurled away abandoned by the maestro to flutter to the floor. His writhing fingers scuttled over the piano keys like demon-possessed spiders in full retreat to Hades, fearful of Feathered Death's descending talons. Music filled the room arousing Mephistopheles' lust for Martha while fusing Faust's and Marguerite's hearts into a contrasting undefiled crystal love of purity. And there were we, Agapito, lost in a sorcery of sound. How we loved those musical evenings, my friend. What nights! What nights they were! Stephen Poole Stephen Poole served for 31 years in the Metropolitan Police in London, England. He studied Media Practice at Birkbeck College, part of the University of London and also underwent training at the London School of Journalism. His articles and interviews have appeared in a variety of British county and national magazines. He has also been published online. He has been passionate about poetry since boyhood. His poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and he was a contributing poet to The Strand Book of International Poets 2010. ** To Mariano Fortuny Regarding Fantasy on Faust So rightly into dream you bleed libretto now of little need distilled, as purest essence found, to ebb and flow of hammered sound that you have sealed in silent tomb where seen again the keys resume the suite forever echoed heard reminding soul your brush has stirred that tale retold of living death, temptation given flesh and breath, deluding those who dare believe that conscience spurned will never grieve, is allegory thinly veiled of faith forever so assailed. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. ** Faust To remove every remnant of the inner crown. To remove the depth of the seeing eye. To let the saint live without glory. Let sacrifice come to nothing. To pour water on the altar of the kneeling. Let the faithful lose their way. To blind those with vision. To let the world not see me as I am. Only as I choose to be seen in the confusion and splendour Of my spell. Let me own the world and all that reside in it. This is my mantra. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a poet, actress and filmmaker. Her award-winning film-Silent Journey- is streaming on Culture Unplugged. Dedicated to promoting films of social and spiritual significance. http://www.cultureunplugged.com/storyteller/Sandy_Rochelle ** … and you’d think for C. Marlowe, J. W. von Goethe & Parveen Shakir 1 … and you’d think faustus was the protagonist of the play … and you’d think pujol couldn’t go beyond the eighty-eight pitches … and you’d think lorenzo and casanova were there for the musical performance … and you’d think only men desired to trade-in souls … and you’d think with the expulsion of iblis[1] the orchestra concluded 2 we’re all dr. faustus[2] in some way, we’re all dr. faustus. some, for the sake of realising their passions; some, blackmailed by their compulsions-- we all end up trading our souls for some exchanges and returns some, trade-in their eyes and become the merchants of dreams some, compelled to submit their entire systems of thoughts as warranties what is to be accessed is as to which currency is in power and an analysis of the wall street-of-life reveals: these days, ones with the power to procure hold self-respect as their precious. post scriptum: … and in some way, this depiction and reflection brings stairway to heaven by led zeppelin back to the memory, too Saad Ali [1] Iblis = Satan. [2] This is my literal translation of the poem (in Urdu) “Hum Sab Aik Traha Say Dr. Faustus Hain” (In Some Way, We’re All Dr. Faustus) by The Late Parveen Shakir (1952 – 1994 C.E.)—one of renowned poetesses of the 20th Century from Karachi, Pakistan. Saad Ali was born in Okara, Pakistan in 1980 C.E. He has been brought up in the UK and Pakistan. He earned his BSc and MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an existential philosopher-poet. Ali has authored three books of free verse and prose (so far) i.e. Ephemeral Echoes (AuthorHouse, 2018), Metamorphoses: Poetic Discourses (AuthorHouse, 2019) and Ekphrases: Book One (AuthorHouse, 2020). 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 Chinese, Greek and Arabic cuisine. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com. ** Untitled He sits at his piano, his creative thoughts exploding in random flashes of brilliance. His fingers flow freely to catch his imagination wild with the wonder of all that exists. Wanton with delight he conjures alchemy strong. Order from chaos, she slowly births and forms a memory for the whole world to admire. Mark de Wet
Mark de Wet lives in Africa and loves to exercise his grey matter by writing poetry. He has published two books of poetry called The Cape Rubaiyat and Scattered Thoughts. ** Fantasy in Fever The room narrows (expands), moves memory into (out of) misted corners. The floor is layered lava, (no) sandpaper, (no) sheet music (but what song?). The decommissioned battleship floats in its ignorant frame. There are too many ways to drown. I avoid fake news broadcasted over mirrors. The business of days has phased out; borders are myths though edges are everywhere. Nothing is crisp or clean or clearly defined. In shadow profiles face all directions. Forgive me. Forgive me. Feverish fugue, the insistent staccato circling back. The owl’s infamous question wondering who who remains here among us (nobody, nobody). I close my eyes for God’s slick oil spill, generous brushstrokes of oblivion. Jennifer Edwards Jennifer Edwards is a speech therapist living in Concord, NH. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and can be found in the Portrait of New England, The Ekphrastic Review, Headline Poetry and Press (Erasure the Occupant Series #8), and the Poet's Touchstone. She's a poetry reader at Mud Season Review. Twitter @Jennife00420145 ** Yes Faust was foolish tripped up and tangled in his own lust and the petty work of Mephistopheles. His story rings familiar like a warning from some grim parent we’re sure to ignore. All temptation comes from the mother root, Eve in the garden before that fascinating serpent preening like a diva in the forbidden tree. What has then and always been the prize worth such hard bargains in every story we tell every measure we remember? Not to be as gods and live forever, but to see as gods- to know the secret heart of things the alphabet of creation and the calculus of time, to dance new worlds into being the way gods do, reflecting and inventing visions to hang like bright tapestries against the cold forever, to make songs that burn like stars before they fade, going deep into the stony bowels of earth to fill the walls of caves with painted animals that seem to move and breathe with grace and power, alive here yet so long beyond their time. Creation is our most irresistible pleasure, our most persistent and delicious sin- to spin stories the way gods spin worlds out of dust and breath out of nothing- our first and everlasting passion repeated in a thousand shapes with paint and words and music-- We exult in every step, each revelation, remaining forever unrepentant, ready to pay everything it costs. Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy, studied art and literature, worked as a Registered Nurse, has always been a greedy reader and word lover. She is hoping to outlast the pandemic and see what comes next. ** Desire at No. 13, Calle Flor Baja What shall we believe of a piano planted inside a studio next to a garden scene that shows Mephistopheles floating above, dressed in a purple suit with a rooster feather in his hat, his cape offset by the low flight of a white owl, one of the devil’s emblems, the flight that fantasy tends to take, the flight path is a type of opaqueness, more distracted, more fantastical. The piano sounds strike innocence more clearly, so that we feel the deal Faust agreed to, transformed as a musical evening, one where we see the milky pages splayed on the rouge floor reflecting how we live, weighing us, like what keys to play before time expires, which urges me to want to see you now, with a gardenia before you arise from those bed sheets since morning threads light, for the ivory in the eye. John Milkereit John Milkereit is a mechanical engineer working in the oil & gas industry who lives in Houston, Texas. His poems have appeared in various literary journals including The Ekphrastic Review, San Pedro River Review, and The Ocotillo Review. He completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop in Tacoma, WA in 2016. His most recent collection of poems, Drive the World in a Taxicab, was published by Lamar University Press. ** Zojaj (vi) after Gounoud's Faust Shadows of heads still like roses in a snow-dome; flame of red hair levitates taking a woman's body with it. Rows of entranced minds, eyes unblinking, souls step out of swimming melodies. The dead have walked down from their heavens – this fantasy isn't morose or sombre, a pair of lovers drift between clouds. White souls aligned like graves; the piano, an invisible instrument, a dove lands on black lips. Fingers glide a bow on strings; waist svelte like a conjuror's belt, tre(m)bles jovial yet forlorn. Moon's counterparts engage in may-pole dancing, design the sky with foams of cloud-dust; stars burst sprinkling as sequins. The gate of emptiness opens, divided lovers mourn eternity – soulless span; light spills into famine carrying them away – Sheikha A. Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her works appear in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Recent publications are Strange Horizons, Pedestal Magazine, Atlantean Publishing, Alban Lake Publishing, and elsewhere. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Greek, Arabic and Persian. She has also appeared in Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love anthology that has been nominated for a Pulitzer. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com ** Fantasy On Fortuny I could play Scott Joplin rags before he had written Maple Leaf Peacherine Sunflower and of course Easy Winners Eugenia Nonpareil Gladiolus Searchlight all created in flat keys to tread enharmonics by stretching fingers over the black notes of life ahead of my time deep into the darkness but at least it is a paid gig for I am the Entertainer in this Strenuous Life playing Elite Syncopations paying off my debts my dues to society as my creditors to the right shuffle feet, crack knuckles while a duo on stage the Manqué and his Master (a Moorish carpet-seller) trip at pace in a paradox of ceremony and reality across the stage lightly in this theatre endowed with ornamental bric-a-brac yet somewhat bereft of a plethora of customers and atmosphere yet in Row C left side stalls is an artist with easel (perhaps a pre-foetal wraith) set to capture these moments with a marvellously sensitive eye though I can see through him to a judgment of the model alone in the cumulus stage left dead an apparition of the arts the erudite Faustian. Alun Robert Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical verse. Of late, he has achieved success in poetry competitions and featured in international literary magazines, anthologies and on the web. He particularly enjoys ekphrastic challenges. In 2019, he was a Featured Writer of the Federation of Writers Scotland. ** Reading Faust to My Comatose Husband Notes rise from musical scores scattered on an Oriental carpet, the passionate Pujol playing his Gran fantasia sobre Fausto. Story fragments from Goethe’s masterpiece manifest above the piano. Faust’s bargain with Mephistopheles, a possible soul for the taking. Though my husband deems Mephistopheles the more tormented of the two. Neither is totally blameless nor evil as their roles unfold. Two artists listen intently as Pujol’s notes fill the room. The way I listened to the repeated wheeze and sigh, compression boots closing tight, then opening full, like an accordion, pulsing blood through my spouse’s body. In his induced coma, I read to him from Goethe’s book, the images as fantastic as Fortuny’s painting. Mephistopheles in his devilish red suit and feathered hat, cajoling Martha the Pimp in noir, as the owl of death hovers. I read to summon him back from the land of myth, to unveil the false rhapsody of Faust and Marguerite. To lead him through the thick forest of pneumonia, not knowing what bargain he might have made. I read to head him off before the gates to the underworld opened. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg is a former magazine feature writer and editor living in Houston, Texas, after 21 years abroad. Her poetry has appeared with The Ekphrastic Review challenges, as well as in other small journals, anthologies, the Houston Chronicle and San Antonio Express-News. She has a poem upcoming in a new anthology on vultures, Purifying Wind, from Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press. ** The Same Old Song Larger than life you say-- the vision expands as the color intensifies like a rock crushing your soul-- Which side are you on you say-- the flames keep rising-- they gather and tangle like lines on a very old body, like thunder reverberating from a place beyond the sky-- Third time’s the charm you say-- below all the fears growing, around the edges of what we know and what no one will tell-- You can’t fight fire with fire you say-- but you can clear a space, fill what is left with treasure-- all the words that could have been spoken, distilled into a symbolic language, a voice that sings with some kind of truth-- Everything must die you say-- but what of after? what of the consequences, what of the skeletons?-- You never know you say-- what is held in trust-- what choice is really better, what answer is really correct? but then all roads find the same destination-- the cosmos surrounded by the abyss-- Larger than life you say-- Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig plays with words and images inside her NYC apartment. She hopes to be released along with the rest of the world soon. ** Alchemy How grandly played - though scores so low - to gain the Casanova’s love, the art of music, paint, as one at home with classmate, Catalan, Flor Baja studio, Madrid. The canvas notes the evening’s frame, inspiring sketch by trinity; performance wild as Goethe’s hand, a purple suit, embroidered gold, a silk cape, cock-a-hoop with hat. Low sweeping owl speaks evil, death, the devil’s revels, Brocken Harz, where pines would weep their resin tears, till May Day closed Walpurga’s Eve - Frank abbess blessed, Pope Adrian. The strokes brush freely, energy, Mephisto’s magic alchemy, fortunate pact named Faustian - near heavy cloth, weaved dyeing nap - so far from feather flying cap. So celebrate as picture tells, not dubious deals, immoral tales - though warnings voiced in Johann’s play - but sheer spiration forte’s keys, Fortuny’s tag shared everywhere. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites, including The Ekphrastic Review; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines, Vita Brevis Anthology & Fly on the Wall Press ‘Identity’. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ ** Ageless Students Another early Sunday morning after Saturday night's salon, the lusting couples gone to bed, the four of us soberly in search: What would you ask of the devil, not your harridan ex, but real Satan bargaining for what soul remains? We've been here before, still shrug. All the things I haven't done yet. Maybe the undoing of my wrongs. Perhaps to avoid drinking absinthe, which covers the first two at once. And never to lose the use of my hands, these equally valuable eyes and ears. No decision had. None really possible. The subject changes once again. We're the artsy types, minus pretense. Scattering scores and manuscripts, we chase melodic styles and dances across centuries, continents, people, charting their progressions on the air. Lennart Lundh Lennart Lundh is a poet, short-fictionist, historian, and photographer. His work has appeared internationally since 1965. ** The Eternal Feminine Draws us on High The creator sung a deep song of silence. And she breathed out. There flowed universes, galaxies, stars, planets. Then she looked and saw that it was good. Her energy filled her creation. They became one. She wove a net from pollen, moonlight, spring and autumn colours and magical moments, from birdsong and petrichor and gave it to Gaia, her beloved. With her breath of ice she cooled the boiling metal. Her profound, silent basso continuo made the oceans recede; sharp, piercing, joyful cries of no sound let the earth heave and mountains fold, her jubilant song rose in exulted silence and life responded, unfolded, permeated the earth. And earth was humming. Water churned against stone, rocks moved against rock. A potpourri of vibrations echoed between mountains, bowled across oceans and tectonic plates. She moved molecules, atoms, DNA, cells… Sculped man. And woman. She had fun, she was no longer alone. Then she created music from millions of years of star-songs, wind-sighs, electric discharges, supernova explosions… added a bag of meter and tempo, pitch, melody, harmony… and hung it all on the big wisdom tree in the centre of her garden. Man and woman in their hubris soon forgot from whom they took the gift of music, the gift to create. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and Tangents, a full-length poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the now defunct Goodreads monthly competition. Recent poetry collections: From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949: A Child’s Journey, and Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back, Her latest full-length poetry MS, The Rain Girl, has been accepted for publication in June 2020 by Blue Nib. Her poem, "Old Love’s Sonnet," has been nominated for a Pushcart by Shark Reef Journal where it was published in the summer of 2019. ** Goethe Reimagined The piano keys are stirred, ever so slightly Like grass ruffled by wind, Dreams alive again. Usually, they talk politics In the dingy-carpeted room Stifled by smoke and hot air, Egos inflated as always, But save for the music, Everything fades away, Their words evanescing. To them, it may only be An assemblage of notes, Though to him, it is art, A song that breathes hope Into his weary heart No longer quieted by the strain of worldly pressures. Suddenly, it’s no longer even Faust Trading his soul for vague promises Of what he had thought he wanted; Now, it is his story, The pianist’s vision of heaven, Hope reawakened. The melodies float like a dove over the room, And for once, Those grizzled politickers in the corner Turn away from their argument, Remembering times More sweet than bitter, No longer playing Mephistopheles’ advocates. The thirst for knowledge, the quest for truth Is replaced by some yet greater virtue, The peace of being content, free From worries, fulfilled by the simple joy Of music spun like strands of gold From the imagination, Painted by the restless heart Stilled by the serenity of beauty, A meaningful masterpiece. Once again, the poet leaves the philosophers Speechless, breathless with amazement At how words are inadequate to describe The stirrings of the soul, Brought to life by the piano keys. If only Faust had known of this salvation. Kathryn Sadakierski Kathryn Sadakierski’s writing has appeared in The Bangor Literary Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Nine Muses Poetry, Teachers of Vision, Dime Show Review, The Decadent Review, Visual Verse, iō Literary Journal, and elsewhere. Kathryn’s poem “Fall in New England” is forthcoming in Northern New England Review. She holds a B.A. from Bay Path University, and is currently pursuing her Master’s degree.
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September 2024
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