Special Showcase with Arrowhead Union High School- Part Four, Louise Moillon

​The Ekphrastic Review is pleased as punch to present ekphrastic work from Arrowhead Union High School. Teachers Elizabeth Jorgensen and Terri Carnell love to engage their writing students with ekphrastic lessons and exercises, and we have the very difficult task of choosing a few selections and publishing them.

There were five artworks. Today is part four of five parts, with selections corresponding to each painting.

To all of the students who participated: we applaud your creativity and your courage. You wrote your hearts out! You all took risks, contemplating and interpreting a famous work of art, being brave enough to interpret it in your own way. You let the art inspire your imagination in new ways. 

It was an extremely difficult task choosing a few from many for each of the artworks. Congratulations  to each and every one of you on your words. We hope this taste of ekphrasis opens for a you a lifetime in relationship to visual art and literature. 

The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger, by Louise Moillon (France) 1630

The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger

She strolls up to me with a devilish smirk,
Demanding to see the fruit that is being prepared for the feast.
No one can ever satisfy her.
I bring her my large basket of peaches
in search of approval.
As she reaches out,
her dark sleeve crawls up her arm
The dress she wears matches her heart-
dark, black, and cold.
It is the only thing that truly expresses her
She reached the peach
and took a bite.
Disgusted with what she tastes,
She scolds me to do better
Leaving me with a burning pit of shame.

Kate Reese

​**

A Mother’s Lost Love Found in The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger

Natural selection: gorey quality of the circle of life
Survival of the fittest: gruesome–
Or merciful.
Allowing the runts an early way out,
For once they grow up it will be too late.
Mothers decide–which offspring will be cradled in their arms and which shall be abandoned.

To my mother, what qualities of mine showed subordination?
Does she see past the mounds of fruit, as plentiful as the tended gardens?
Does she scowl when cats follow my every step, like I’m a mother of their own?
Is she embarrassed of my ratty, peasant clothes?
           Or that I never learned to tame my curly hair the way she does?

every fruit I inspect, 
every stare I cast, 
every heart-aching night,
            is for her
I long for her approval.
I yearn for her love.
I wish for my mother. 

No one, truly, survives a dismissive mother. 
For each piece of fruit she casts away, a piece of my hope goes with it. 

Maggie Walloch

​**

​Memory of the Market

Dear Diary,
 
Today, I went to the farmer’s market—the farmer’s market on Tulip Dr. that Mom and I went to every Saturday morning. It was a special memory that Mom and I shared, until she had gotten too sick to go. I didn’t want to experience it alone, without her by my side. But, today was her birthday, her first birthday since she had entered eternal rest. I knew that she would want me to go because it is what she loved doing: so, I built up enough courage to. 
 
As I walked up to the stand, the world seemed darker than usual. The cabbage and grapes—a darker green. The walls were a murky charcoal in which no light shone upon. The brightest thing lying on that entire table were the apples: the only thing I came here for. Apples were my Moms favorite fruit, and I needed them to make her secret recipe of apple crisp; a dessert she always wanted on her birthday. About to order, the woman, who remembers my Mom and I coming every weekend (but not the last couple months), hugged me and told me how sorry she was about my Mom while I tried to fight back the tears in my eyes. I appreciated people trying to show they care, but nothing will allow me to heal the broken heart that she has left me with. 
 
She gracefully picked the brightest and most delicious looking of the apples and gently put them into my basket. Each one adding more weight to my shoulders, feeling heavy—like the heart I’ve been carrying since her passing. 
 
In the corner of my eye, I noticed a white, tan, and black cat slip out from the shadows. It caught me by surprise, knowing my Mom has always loved cats, especially this kind. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, right in front of my eyes. My heart sank and I almost dropped my basket of apples. Could this be her coming with me? Part of me felt hurt, but another part of me felt comfort as if she was there, by my side. I had asked this woman if it was her cat; she told me it was a stray that has been coming around her stand for the last several weekends. Has my Mom been waiting for me? Is this her way of watching me? I felt sick and in disbelief. 
 
Quickly, I gave the woman my cash and hurried off. Walking home, tears puddled in my eyes and slowly rolled down my cheek like raindrops on a window. In denial, I noticed the cat had been following me home. It is just a stray cat I kept telling myself, although deep down I knew it was my mother. 
 
Hours and hours passed, and I found myself nowhere but my mothers bed. Today was hard, especially since it was a day to celebrate her life on Earth, in which she is no longer upon. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cat and how I was sure it was my mother checking up on me. I built up enough motivation to get myself out of bed, and go in search of the cat. 
 
Shortly, I found it walking around our backyard, a place where Mom loved to plant her flowers, read her books, and find peace while she was sick. It saw me, stopped in its tracks, and stared. 
 
“Hi Mom—” I barely got those words out of my mouth before I broke down and started sobbing. My vision became blurry, barely seeing ahead of me from the pool of tears trapped in my eyes. The cat slowly walked over to me, rubbed up against my legs and let out a soft purr.
 
It didn’t leave my side as I made Moms apple crisp and I felt comfort like I was making it with her. I decided to keep the cat and bring it in as my pet. It made me feel close and connected to my mother. I feel more at peace with the world and like I am being watched over and protected. 
 
So, Diary, meet my new cat Tulip. 
 
Isabelle Berres
 
**

The Lady at the Handcart

Walking down the dirty, barely lit roads that were covered in rats and people who were spending the evening together; this was expected. As I was walking down the road, I suddenly started yearning for my favorite dessert: apple pie. I walked down the road, counting my coins to see if I had enough. I asked this extremely exquisite couple on the street where the nearest food market was. “Just carry on down this road and pass the bridge, and then you will arrive at the food market!” the nice couple said.
 
“Thank you, thank you so much, and have a beautiful night!” I cheerfully voiced.

I beamed with joy since the food market wasn't that far. The desire for apple pie intensified the closer I got and smelled the freshly baked pastries. I hope to get some of the freshest apples to make an apple pie. I can see the beaming lights of the stands and the sounds of laughter and gossip. I made sure to check if I had exactly the right amount of change. To grant my longing wish of making a fresh plate of some apple pie.
 
As I arrived, I was shockingly overwhelmed. I walked and walked, my feet guiding me, and my nose smelled the appetizing  food. My mouth started to salivate. At last, I finally found a stand that would give me some mouthwatering apples. I walked up to the handcart, and I was greeted by a young, nice lady. This young lady dressed truly differently from me, but that did not matter. My eyes wandered across the whole wooden cart. She had so many goods, ranging from apples to peaches, tomatoes to vegetables. I was extremely pleased that I came at a marvelous time.
 
"Hello, ma'am,” I utter excitedly. My stomach was rumbling. After smelling all the delicious food made around me, it engulfed me in a cozy and warm environment that I never wanted to leave.
 
“Good evening, ma'am,” she said with her lovely voice. She talked slowly and properly. She was tall and slim with brown hair with rosy cheeks and beautiful brown eyes that slightly shimmered underneath the damp light.
 
“I would like to purchase your best apples that glisten underneath the light,” I exclaimed eagerly.
 
She looked mighty happy to serve me, slightly jumping up and down; the excitement was slowly emerging, but she tried to remain somewhat professional. It's almost the end of the day, and her wooden cart is very full; she must not have gotten many customers today. I was so glad that I managed to make her some money today just because of my sudden craving for some apple pie.
 
“Of course, you may purchase the best apples; I have so many to choose from; I have green and red ones, and all of different sizes!” She said  with a loud but sweet tone.
 
I carefully lifted the delicious apples. One by one, I delicately pick up the red apple, and then the green apple next. They were firm, but I could tell that they were surely juicy.
 
“I would love a dozen of these red and green apples, please,” I stated, pulling out the change that I'd checked multiple times on my way here.
 
I watched as her small, pale hands carefully placed the 12 red and green apples inside a wooden basket. She then gently slid a thin cloth above to keep the apples safe. I wish her goodbye and carry on with my day. I am excited to bake an apple pie once I arrive back home.

Savanna Ellenbecker

**
​
Two Worlds Found in The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger

Spirited women with
slim waists and,
stubborn attitudes
stand upon a cobblestone street, with their
soft brown hair pulled back into a bun atop
supple snow white skin.

Exceptional intelligence hides beneath their
emotional yet
elegant demeanor.
Envious personalities covered by their
effortless beauty only
empowers their animosity.

These two
will always be one in the same;
but never equal.

Gabrielle Callen

​**
 
Downtown Portland: The Fruit and Vegetable Costermonger

The lovely shimmering yellow sun peeks over the mountain tops. 
Nothing but the smell of the ocean on the horizon. 

You can look and see the factories huffing and puffing, 
to produce items and goods for those who be lovin 

Tired fisherman sail out to their lobster traps. 
Merciants swivel their signs to open with the morning’s grace. 

The tang of blueberry muffins flow from the bakeries. 
Snails and crabs crawl beside Portland's shores. 

Seagulls croak to say it's time to rise, 
Waves crash continuously and sound. 
 
The black rusted anchors lay out on the shore .
Like seals lounging on the sunlit rocks. 

Good Morning Portland 
The daily construction has begun. 

Audrey Worgull

​