I Wish to Return Home Untainted tranquillity breaches past my mind Waves of hills stretch out like stony arms, Rocks crunching underfoot As another step, Cautiously pushes forward, Beneath fingers of blackened cloud Gripping the trees, Uprooting, once lush green, Toxins smothering with a noxious seal. But here, we are clean. Pure and untainted by roughened hands Blades of grass, brace, swords pointed to the sky Allow me to walk along a little more to Rest my weary feet along the coastline. It is not long before their corruption will reach us, Gripping us by the curls sprouting atop our heads Tearing through the serene, Choking us with electric smoke, Spores will blister along our lungs, Tumours bleeding along the walls. Our feet unsteady we rise up We must continue along Our pilgrimage back to Where the waves Join to the towering cliffs, A blanket of blue hovering overheard. All the way back home. Millie Percival Millie Percival is currently studying literature and creative writing in university. She is especially interested in writing poetry on the Romanticism period in art history.
0 Comments
Priest and his Scriveners In a tower that rose so high above the earth that it penetrated the clouds, the man who called himself Priest dominated the girls with his authority. A humorless type, he understood basic symbolism and allegory. In other words, he reveled in what a tower represented. His assistant, a shrouded nameless poetess, kissed his feet when he demanded. She pressed the girls’ rebellious faces to his calfskin boots. In their uniforms of anonymity, the girls sat at desks, backs to each other, from sunrise until sunset, although the windows were placed far above their heads to provide light but not distraction. Priest always read from his own Collected Poems, never poetry by other poets. When one naïve girl questioned him about Alice and her tumble into a strange land, he insisted there was no such story and gave her three poems to memorize before morning. Priest continued to read in his booming, self-pleased cadence. He beamed at his metaphors and images; even the verb tenses brought an orgasmic sheen to his face. He might have seen one girl occasionally turning and winking at another if he had paid attention. Priest attached strings from his pages to the girls’ pens. The scrolls they wrote on flowed from the tower. The copy work of these girls was intended to produce massive amounts of Priest manuscript, enough—in time—to cover the earth. By the time Priest checked on their work, it was too late. He thought to himself that he should have hired boys as scriveners. Girls were unreliable. Into the Poem The poet carried a notebook in their coat pocket, taking it out whenever their heart leapt at a bluejay’s feather. They scribbled frantically when a deer and fox nudged noses. Pressed on the issue, they couldn’t remember the ages of their children. When their partner disappeared, they didn’t notice until the cat pawed their face at 5AM. But they searched for the cricket singing behind the armoire and then wrote a villanelle. One dreary December night, they responded to a knock and muffled voice at the door. They looked left and right but saw nobody. Then they heard the word repeated. Glancing down to see if someone had left a letter or gift, they saw the raven. At least they assumed it was a raven because poets love ravens. If it were a crow, they didn’t want to know. The bird nodded its head toward the path into the woods, as if the poet should follow. Being ambitious, they let the raven lead them into the wintry woodland with its elongated skeletal trees. They could see the tower ahead but didn’t realize until too late they had entered the panopticon and the animals they had stalked were now observing them. Star Porridge Folks noticed it was blacker at night now than before. Instead of going out, they stayed in and retrained their focus on what was inside their building. Nobody knew the woman who lived in the penthouse--the super’s sarcastic name for the garret just under the roof of the high-rise. Some said her albino-like skin came from living parallel to the stars, where it was always night. Others said she was the ghost of an anorexic Mother Goose. A few said she was Finnish. Down on the second floor, they argued over whether she had a job or a trust fund. Someone mentioned that the garret might be Section 8. With coaching from the adults, two kids from that floor channeled Harriet the Spy. When they knocked, she cracked the door an inch. The twelve-year-old pushed it in and entered, dragging the younger child behind. He didn’t menace her. Her skin was so translucent an outline of her muscle-less bones was visible underneath. The room’s geometry spun, and the children sat on the floor to acclimate. She didn’t seem surprised or irritated to see them, but carried on as though they weren’t there, heading back to the bowl of luminescent porridge on the table. A tube connected to the bowl vacuumed the sky through the roof. A bird cage hung next to the table, and the woman hand-fed spoonfuls to the bird. The ten-year-old suddenly recognized the captive she fed—no canary, but the slivery, shivery moon—and screamed. Silver rays blanketed them as they ran out the door and down the fire stairs. That night the streets were louder as nearby pubs and clubs were lit by an otherworldly light from the second floor, and the people partied now that the black nights were over. Waiting for the Handsome Prince: A Farce (Of Course) Some girls left a glove or handkerchief, hoping to obligate a gentleman to return it. Eleonora liked to think she was different. She dropped a pump knowing he would imagine her barefoot and helpless. She remembered the velvet of his broad chest, jeweled medallion clanking, felt parts of her responding. Her new friend, Fairy Godfather, helped her prepare for Handsome Prince’s visit, adding to her pretty table setting an inexhaustible carafe and a trick candle, while assuring Eleonora they were traditional heirlooms with magical powers. Before he departed with an unnecessary hug, he reminded her what would happen if the spell were broken. All she needed to achieve the spell’s fulfillment was one kiss from Handsome Prince. Eleonora waited at the table for Handsome Prince all day. Then all night and the next day. She examined the events of the ball repeatedly. What went wrong? Was she too assertive? Too quiet? Did he prefer juicier curves or richer daddies? She tried to drink the water, but it was ensconced inside the glass, unattainable. She tried to rise, but the broken spell had already begun to claim its reward. The transformation into feline had begun. She was locked in place, the fur growing, even as the spinster cat had begun to dissolve into the woods. Just as the pitying fairies arrived to spirit her off beyond the veil, the now-unmasked Fairy Godfather appeared in his pumpkin, his goblin face taunting her. The Unsilencing of Doña Juana Doña Juana saw his back so often she didn’t remember if his beard was full or sculpted. Were his eyes brown or tan-flecked green? Too late now. He hurried, his justacorps’ silk lining swishing. She hauled her numb heart back to her windowless room. If anyone had seen her, she moved with the grace of a nun, rolling silently under her habit. She would be alone in her room, a guttering candle for company. She tried to read her prayerbook, but her eyes hurt in the dim light, shadows flickering on the walls. How would he know if she disobeyed? With its foot-thick door and brass locks, the room at hall’s end looked secure. Thoughts of him riding into the moonlight on his black stallion with the night air on his face rose in her like a spring of bile. Why was she forbidden from the locked room? After an hour, she found the keys on the ring and turned them in the correct order. Inside the room, women dressed in her identical nightdress were posed in a row of cells. The women did not move nor blink. They were silent. Doña Juana stripped off her gown and screamed. The piercing cry woke the women from their trances. They too ripped off their white night clothes, talking as they walked out into the balmy night in their bloomers and chemises. Luanne Castle Luanne Castle’s award-winning full-length poetry collections are Rooted and Winged (Finishing Line 2022) and Doll God (Kelsay 2015). Her chapbooks are Our Wolves (Alien Buddha 2023) and Kin Types (Finishing Line 2017), a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Luanne’s Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominated poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bending Genres, Dribble Drabble Review, Copper Nickel, and other journals. She lives with five cats in Arizona along a wash that wildlife use as a thoroughfare. During the pandemic, she began art journaling and now spends happy time with paints, glues, and collage papers. Note: This poem was written after a photograph by Christopher Furlong, not by the art shown above. Click here to view, and scroll down to the second image shown. Modern Abstract An aerial perspective on a casualty of war, A mechanized one, which, understandably, No one will mourn, like Edgar Poe’s aristocrats Who met the Red Death in their barricaded halls – That scene recalled to mind as, with a chill, One notes the Death’s Head in this photograph: The glaring, vacant hatches which are empty Eye sockets; the leering, broken grin Formed by the blocks of gray reactive armor. Like something out of Dia de los Muertos, Only with the festive colours turning here to rust; The grin decaying on the right to blackened gums – This modern abstract on the theme of that Which humankind continues to perpetuate. Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson earned his MA in Rhetoric in 2003 and then ran off to China to teach for a decade. His work has appeared in the Sequoyah Review and The Society of Classical Poets. He is also currently a teacher of English Composition and World Literature at the University of North Georgia and lives in Cumming, GA, with his wife and two sons. Breaking the Mold I feel now I knew nothing then When you were a stranger Now, behind glass cases, amid hushed voices We peer in, shoulder to shoulder And face cast metal statues of buddhas and bodhisattvas, Their curved-lips relaxed as empty bows, their jewel-lids closed And your eyes green as ponds-- your gaze making them human I imagine they feel love, and it wasn’t what they were expecting I wonder for their apprentice— was it special every time? To see the clay chrysalis breaking under the hammer, open around the soft gold god face, intact and smiling They weren't expecting the space Wide as a field when you put the basket down And spread your arms— that soft, hay-under-foal filled space You made me. Formed enough already I began to stretch the full length of me And my body, blood filled, moved. Parrish Finn Parrish Finn is an artist and writer from North Carolina. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York and works as an environmental educator teaching gardening classes in NYC public schools. She has been reading and writing poetry since she could read and write and has finally started to submit for publication. After Edward Wadsworth: Bronze Ballet The sky is a curtain. Giant ships propellers line up on an empty hard. Light and shadows wrap the curves of the props, revealing no source. It is as if the propellers dance, while they wait for a ship to carry them away. A distant merchant vessel passes the harbour light. 1940. I am not here. I am innocent of the flat light on the hard of this channel harbour. War is one year on. These propellers wait. They dance and do not dance. The painters paint on, waiting. After Ivon Hitchens: Evening Sky Over Hills (But where is the sky, where are the hills?) Heavy brushstrokes, dark blue, yellow-green, mauve and grey at the skyline, everywhere light. Trees, leaves, the dark of wood, grass shimmer inside, behind, beyond these thick marks. 1957. I am eight years old. This is my time. I am part of the new tribe. The painters say we will not show you what you want but only the core of the world. Into which you will pour your hope, longing, your bright internal eye. John White These two poems are inspired by paintings on display as part of TOWNER 100: The Living Collection at Towner Eastbourne, UK. John White will be reading the poems at a free, drop-in event in the gallery on Thursday 17 August 2023, 1.30pm. John White was first published in Michael Horovitz’s seminal review New Departures. He was a TV & Cross-media Director-Producer for many years. He graduated with Distinction from the London Poetry School-Newcastle University Writing Poetry MA in 2021. Recently he has had poems on the newbootsandpantisocracies blog, in the New European, The Ekphrastic Review, Alchemy Spoon, New Writing Scotland 40, morphrog, upcoming in the Frogmore Papers, and a poem longlisted in the 2022 UK National Poetry Competition. The Potato Eaters To those who live in hope--not plenty--the fertile, soft earth yields, and sunlight guides their steady feet across the furrowed fields. With hands that reach like roots, they stir the warming ground, arrange within the quickening seed and over all, a mound. White sprouts come forth and reach above to green in soft bright air while purpling blooms give out a glow at once alive and fair. At last there comes the harvest day, the meager breaking of the bread. They pour their drink of bitterness with no sign of care or dread. In the low, dark room they gather, wan faces emitting light pale and strange as a waning moon on a winter's starry night. Sherry Poff Sherry Poff grew up in the hills of West Virginia. She now lives and writes in and around Ooltewah, Tennessee, where she interacts with a large group of students and family members. Sherry holds an MA in Writing from the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and is a member of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. Her stories and poems have appeared recently in the Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel. Sherry’s short poem “Resurrection” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Progress night barge, low and slow slips by in silence dark water forgives its passage neither blocking nor remarking on its import dull eyes and ears hurry on the quay flowing between stony past and fluid future home to a simple supper only dog and rats smell shifting winds laden with soot towering clock, modern wonder will not pause, take breath, nor cry for me brash tungsten flare mocks soft gas-light glow faithful friend to hearth and home childless so quickly passes pain and light steam and strife, steel and greed insatiable beast steady as the river’s flow safe as time cold as pride Cathy Hollister Cathy Hollister is an older writer whose work celebrates treasures embedded in age, isolation, and continual readjustments. When not writing you might find her on the dance floor enjoying the company of friends or deep in the woods basking in the peace of solitude. Her work has been in Smokey Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Open Door Magazine, Humans of the World Blog, Beyond Words Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Poet’s Choice anthologies, and others. Her new book Seasoned Women, is available at Poet’s Choice. She lives in middle Tennessee; find her online at www.cathyhollister.com The Best Among Them It’s hard not to see poets as builders of parallel worlds: a village cobbled together with wind, a forest of fish. They know that you know they’re playing around with somebody else’s life. That the stakes are high. They’ll move mountains to convince you of the authenticity of their tricks. They have this idea they stand at the edge of the universe. Their dreams are eyes. The best among them own hats holding rabbits with long, velvet ears you can’t resist stroking. Laura Ann Reed Laura Ann Reed, a San Francisco Bay Area native, taught modern dance and ballet at the University of California, Berkeley before working as a leadership development trainer at the San Francisco headquarters of the United States Environmental Protection Agency. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the United States, Canada and Britain. She is the author of the chapbook, Shadows Thrown, (Sungold Editions, 2023). Laura and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest. the damaged tree’s soliloquy the rowboat mocks us, meanders along the glass stream that cascaded down my stump, and turned us into deformed strangers our stream now washes its hands of its scheme how naive i was to trust this traitor i straighten my trunk and stretch my branches; once lush, now lacking the flourishing meadow and i lock eyes, it gazes at me while i fantasize i would slash stems and shrubs, the searing sting never ceasing pulverize lively flowers forcing them to begin again but rather i shield her from the sunlight strips from the fickle ivory puffballs that were just yesterday the colour of slate covering her eyes as mine flood with residue drips golden warmth on my back asks me please, for a second chance i swivel back around without a second glance Maya Wohl Maya Wohl is a 16 year old creative writing student from the San Francisco Bay Area. She is passionate about art and creative writing, especially poetry and short fiction. She plans to major in Art History. Wanderer above the Sea of Fog The solitary man, back to the world, a Rücksfigur in Romantic stance, in his green-black frock mourning coat, against a slender cane, a walking stick, above the fog of empires, the sun obscured by enigma, the total thing to ask, what was ever here but loneliness and longing in the sum of a single mood, a soul’s speech. ** A Line From Goethe In another epoch, the fog lifted for a moment or for ten, unclothing the Romantic spring mallow, the blue mallow, blue like the buttonhole flower in the felt lapel of Novalis or Mann, among gold mallow and blood mallow now in this morning for a moment or for ten, O Goethe, Ich habe dein hertz! Michael Gessner Michael Gessner has authored 14 books of poetry and prose. His work has been included in American Letters & Commentary, American Literary Review, The French Literary Review, Journal of the American Medical Society, Kenyon Review, North American Review, Oxford Review (UK,) Pacific Review, Sycamore Review, The Yale Journal of Humanities and others. He is a voting member of the National Book Critics Circle. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
May 2024
|