Special Showcase: Ekphrastic Writing in Recovery

The Ekphrastic Review is excited to present this special showcase, featuring the ekphrastic poetry of women in recovery from addiction. Poet Valerie Bacharach facilitates poetry workshops at Power House and Cece's Place in Pittsburgh. She recently did special ekphrastic workshops, and these are the resulting poems.

Sunflowers, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands). 1889.

Van Gogh’s Sunflowers

You know the picture, painted over and over.
A vase or pot or ground.
Flowers.
Who arranged this?
Someone well-to-do with nothing but time?
A gardener with an eye for pretty, or just making a living?
Someone poor who just likes them?
Were they found along the road?
Stolen from someone’s garden, grown lovingly from seed?
Or just bought at a shop?
Were they chosen specifically or just thrown together?
Planted intentionally or a happy happenstance?
Maybe it’s not about the flowers.
Maybe they are irrelevant and it’s about the pot or vase or ground.

Kenna

​

The Tetons and the Snake River, photograph by Ansel Adams (USA). 1942.

Grand Canyon National Park
   
Like rings of trees
are these rings testimony?
Wide white splash.
What a tale that must be.
Listen to the whispers of the storyteller.

Grand Teton
   
Around the bend.
Around the corner.
I want to go.
It’s got to be better than here.
Go limp, let the water and wind
drop me where they will.
It’s got to be better than here.
Keep looking, keep dreaming.
It’s got to be better than here.
Jump—stumble down the path.
It’s got to be better than here.
I’m not looking around the bend anymore.
The grass isn’t greener.

Stacy

​

Madonna and Child, by Filippo Lippi (Italy). 1450-1465.

The Blessed Mother

When I saw the picture of the Virgin Mary
I thought of my communion name, Margaret.
It made me think of Aunt Margaret
and her doll collection.
That must be who I got my interest
in dolls from.
My very next thought
was when I was at my sister’s college graduation
and we were at church.
I went in front of the Blessed Mother statue
and asked for her help with my addiction.
At that very moment my mom took my picture
so we would always have that to look back on.
My mom believes her higher power is Mary
and prays to her all the time.
I pray to both God and Mary
and even relate my grandma Fran
to the Blessed Mother.
Once my grandma Fran passed away, I always
felt like she was watching over and protecting me.

Caleigh

​

Young Woman Sewing in the Garden, by Mary Cassatt (USA). 1880-1882.

Reflections

Eyes downcast.
Just look at your hands.
Don’t look up.
Don’t ever look up.
Don’t notice all the ones who never notice.
Accept that you’re alone.
Keep the thoughts at bay.
Don’t see the laughter.
Don’t see the conversation.
You’re not part of it.
You’ll never be part of it.
Keep those hands moving.
Keep busy.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
Don’t cry.
Never cry.
They won’t care and the tears won’t cleanse.
Pay no mind.
Pay no mind.
It’s ok to be alone.
It’s ok to be alone.
You chose this life.
You chose this life.
Their world is not yours.
Just keep busy.
And don’t think.

Vicki

Self Portrait, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands). 1889.

Inside His Heart
   
He’s solemn
and he’s weathered.
His eyes are light and kind.
His hair is long and white,
wiry and scarce.  
He’s full of knowledge and wisdom.
But he’s unable to impart
because he’s all alone
and trapped in his mind.
But he’s free inside his heart.

Cindy

​

The Rehearsal, by Edgar Degas (France). 1874.

Dance

Keep it moving
even when you’re down.
Laughter, swaying, enjoy the time.
We all fall down or in a spiral.
It’s how we get up and live,
even if we need to learn from others.
There’s always something
we can learn from each other.
We may look like we are doing well,
but the inside may be different.
Put your feet on the ground
and keep it moving.
It’s not going to happen by yourself,
you need others to complete your team.

Jennifer

​

The Lamentation, by Giotto di Bondone (Italy). 1306.

The Day My Savior Died
        
Love, ultimate love.
Pain and suffering and sacrifice.
The long and grueling journey
to the mountaintop.
They nailed him to a tree.
His death set His Spirit free.
God’s only son.
His life’s work was done.
In fulfillment of the Word.
He and His Father in one accord.
His mother bent over in grief.
Oh, her breaking heart.
He took His last breath.
All the angels overhead,
with the last words He said,
“Forgive them for they know not what they are doing.”
Up to the end He loved us so.
His followers hated to see Him go.
They laid Him in a tomb.
Three days later He returned
to bring more believers to God.
He walked amongst them once more.
God, the Son, and Holy Spirit
who I truly adore.

Mary Ann

​

Bedroom in Arles, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands). 1888.

This is My Room
        
This is my room, my comfort zone,
where I can talk to God alone.
A place where I can meditate and pray.
A place where I know my spirit is safe.
A place where I can feel and protect my soul
because here I’m not alone.

This is my room,
out of all places in this house.
A place where we’re not crammed on the couch.
A place where all the confusion doesn’t take place.
Just for me, a quiet, little place where I can get away.

This is my room.
My room, it’s just big enough for God and me.
A place where I can come to make peace,
no he say/she say, no drama from the world.
It’s just a room, but it’s a place.

This is my room.

Kennedy

​

Madonna Litta, by Leonardo da Vinci (Italy). 1490.

Madonna

In her arms she feels the weight of new life, gift of grace.
The child now holds her gaze, she stares, scared, amazed.

Precious life she will raise, awake at night, the dreams the freight.
And now she’s sure of nothing more. No higher love in this world.

Caitlyn

Mares and Foals in a River Landscape, by George Stubbs (UK). 1763-1768.

When I Was a Very Young Girl
     
When I was a very young girl
I can remember my great-uncle
having a horse farm.
He would invite our family
out there to Mercer county, PA,
to have lunch and ride horses.
My brother and I would have so much fun
under the large trees in his yard.
My mother worked a lot,
so usually my grandmother and grandfather
would take us, and we would spend
the whole day.  On the way home
in the car, my brother and I fell asleep.

The horse I seemed to always pick
was all white with brown spots all over.
He was very gentle.
I can remember him being so big to me,
when I was a very young girl.

Cynthia

​

The Monkeys, by Henri Rousseau (France). 1909.

No One Can Find Us
        Based on the painting The Monkeys by Henri Rousseau

The jungle of wild animals hides in our den.
The green trees hide our eyes as we smile,
as the birds sing.
Oh what a beautiful day to be in the jungle,
safe and warm.
No one can find us.
We have another day to enjoy the rays.
As the green leaves of the trees turn colours
of red and yellow.
The smell of the jungle is free and relaxing
to the wild animals that hide deep in the den.
Another day of relaxation comes our way,
as we lay deep in the den, safely in a dark hole
that no one can see in,
with crisp leaves of yellow and red that hide
the entrance of our bed.

Sandy

​

Cafe Terrace at Night, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands). 1888.

Comfort
     
Is there anything more comforting than a summer night?
The sky so clear, every star in our sight.

Is there anything more comforting than talking with those we love?
Speaking of days gone past and the meaning of the sky above.

Is there anything more comforting than taking a long, quiet walk?
No need to say a thing, no reason to talk.

Is there anything more comforting than the night breeze lifting your hair?
It wraps around your body, leaving you bare.

Is there anything more comforting than a summer night?
It calms the soul, helping life seem more light.

Bekki

​

Valerie Bacharach is a volunteer at two halfway houses in Pittsburgh, PA, for women in recovery from drug and alcohol addiction; Power House and Cece’s Place.  She runs weekly poetry workshops for the women that include both reading and writing poetry. Valerie began writing poetry several years ago, after her son died from opioid addiction.  Writing became a way to cope with grief, regret, anger.
​
In the poetry workshops, the groups read and discuss poetry written by women, and then write their own poetry with a prompt provided, or using any inspiration they choose. The women decide whether or not they'd like to share their words with the group, and they almost always do. Valerie says that it is vital for them to know they have a voice, that their words matter, and that what they write may help someone else.  

For this special presentation of ekphrastic writing from the women in recovery, Valerie Bacharach planned workshops using visual art prompts. The Ekphrastic Review is privileged to showcase the results of the workshop for our readers.