Deciduous, 1972 Outside my father cultivates the Rosa Damascena, pressed up against the stucco. I pull at the petals when he turns his back, lays down his garden shears and sighs. I rub the petals between my fingers growing long as tentacles. Inside my mother curls on the couch, the slumber of the dead. Only the birth of a baby, an end to the bombing of Hanoi, or the appearance of a ghost sibling could rouse her. I walk inside through the back door with sunspots in my eyes, leaving my father to his sorrowful ruminations, the vines, and the small dirt patch where he buries regret. I ventriloquize my mother, make her mouth move all over her face, and she tells me all the stories she knows by heart. My sister is curled in the crook of her legs in her Fat Albert t-shirt and shorts. She laughs at my efforts, but softly, like a secret because my mother’s sleep is catching. I am growing into a weariness that is destined to plague me. I want to make the skeletons in the closet dance, to rouse life into those who left us in the not so distant past. I’d festoon the front porch and welcome everyone one of them , because all of the seasons, so far, had been relatively good to me. My father stands between the kitchen and the living room, where my mother rouses herself, but just a bit. Let her sleep, he tells me, the mantra, it seems, of the year and every year after. I will forever brace myself for the changing of the seasons. That tentative step from one year to the next. The awareness of every clock that takes me closer to the ulterior and mysterious motives of time. Michelle Reale Michelle Reale is the author of several poetry collections, including Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) and Blood Memory (Idea Press, 2021).
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Deposition If you wonder why Zanobi leans me right to kiss Christ’s wounded feet in counterpoise to Mary and against the lines of sight, it’s that I didn’t leave him any choice. Those were the feet I had anointed once, washed them with tears and dried them with my hair. Unveiled among the veiled so to announce that I’m different from the other women there. All signs and symbols of extravagance, the outward flowing of an inward grace, I could not know that by God’s Providence in three days’ time I wouldn’t know his face. I’m here to stand with everyone who joins this company all crowned with golden coins. Donald Carlson Donald Carlson lives in Texas. His poems have appeared in Better Than Starbucks, Blue Unicorn, The Road Not Taken, and more. His collaborative volume of poetry, with Timothy Donohue and Dennis Patrick Slattery, is Road Frame Window, published by Mandorla Press. Let's gather tomorrow night for some wine, art history, and creative writing.
Our Ghost Stories workshop will take a peek at a selection of apparitions in art history, with creative prompts and time to write your own ghostly poems or stories. Our online writing sessions, started this summer, have been amazing opportunities to gather with other writers, talk about art, generate new work, and share our writing. This one is a wine and art write night, so bring some Chardonnay if you like! All participants will receive a copy of the Ghost Stories prompt ebook after the workshop! There are forty artworks on the theme of ghosts, curated to inspire your writing practice. 6 pm to 8 pm EST Saturday October 23, 2021 $30 CAD (approx $24 USD) The responses to the Java Shadow Puppet ekphrastic writing challenge are up!
Click on image above, or here, to read a dazzling array of selected responses. First Step There are three types of meaning in the world: what we can know, what we could think to know, and what we cannot fathom. This is how a painted eland, brown and white, might loom out of the flood of history to fill a cave wall, or a drinking cup be stored beneath the glass. You can’t expect to trace a universal pattern here. A stem or leaf or branch will form and dissipate, their tilt is not for meaning. But each word we fashion and each structure we create speaks in our language. I’ve been pondering the way this kouros steps up into art from the brute life of matter. At his sides, his two clenched fists. The man whose grave he graced, the man who spoke and walked beneath the stars, has done with talking, and the kouros too says not a word. And yet, a web of sense descends around him. Every inch a king, says Lear, and every inch of marble here maps out the artist’s language. It is not entirely mine – this kouros is unknown to my brain, he’s too far – yet he provides a freedom, an intent that summon up their echo in my soul. Cut from the stone into what we might call reality, in this now-silent room the kouros strides: a stride forever taken, a first step. John Claiborne Isbell Since 2016, various MSS of John’s have placed as finalist or semifinalist for The Washington Prize (three times), The Brittingham & Felix Pollak Prizes (twice), the Elixir Press 19th Annual Poetry Award, The Gival Press Poetry Award, the 2020 Able Muse Book Award (twice) and the 2020 Richard Snyder Publication Prize. John published his first book of poetry, Allegro, in 2018, and has published in Poetry Durham, threecandles.org, the Jewish Post & Opinion, and The Ekphrastic Review. He has published books with Oxford and with Cambridge University Press and appeared in Who’s Who in the World. He also once represented France in the European Ultimate Frisbee Championships. He retired this summer from The University of Texas – Rio Grande Valley, where he taught French and German and coached men’s and women’s ultimate. His wife continues to teach languages there. Catching the Train to Czestochowa for Monika Pisniak 1. Warsaw Fredric Chopin International Airport I land at the Warsaw Fredric Chopin International Airport on a Summer afternoon. The hour hand on my wristwatch says 2 and the minute hand, 35—on the 7th day of June, 2017 C.E. "It’s really hot today," the immigration officer whinges to me. "But it’s only 22 C," I point her to the digital meteorometer. "Where I come from, the average temperatures are 40 C during this time of the year across the Southern region of the country," I part the news to her. "You’ll enjoy this weather then," she wishes me a pleasant stay. Of course, this is not my virgin trip to Europe, but only to Poland. But of course, I’ve brought my wardrobe of warm clothes, too. You don’t come to give me a reception at the airport, ‘cause I told you not to. Because I wanted us to save the 35 – 40 Euros for the visits to other cities and towns that we had been planning for months—especially, The Tatras and The Jasna Gora Monastery. "Hello, I’m here. The train to Czestochowa will depart in 50 minutes. I’ll see you soon," I keep the phone call deliberately short. "OK," you answer the mobile phone even before the first ring completes its course. "They’ve increased the toll tax again on making calls via public telephone booths here," I take a mental note, "or is this how it is here in Poland?" My dark-brown suitcase appears on the conveyer belt, at last. Next stop: tend to my addictions of caffeine and nicotine. "Now, THIS IS HOW THE CAPPUCCINO IS MEANT TO TASTE LIKE," as I take the first few sips from my (large) first cup of coffee, I draw comparisons between the quality of life in Pakistan and Europe, and remind myself of the life that I once had had the privilege of living only nine odd years ago or so. The first few puffs of a cigarette (Marlboro Gold) make me feel guilty, "… but it was the first puff in the Summer of ’08 C.E. that was the culprit … ." And I make a resolution, "I WILL QUIT SMOKING THIS YEAR, COME WHAT MAY!" 2. The Train I, rather prudently, place my (medium) second cup of coffee (Latte, this time) on the table, and take a window seat in a booth with a seating arrangement for four people—reliving my preferences for the mode of commuting (i.e. train), beverage and seat from when I used to make journeys during my (almost a) decade long stay in the UK. After two and a half hours, I am still the only person occupying the booth. "Should I be surprised though," I think to myself? Anyway, I take the liberty of putting my black Fedora hat and dark-grey corduroy jacket on the adjacent seat. "‘Czestochowa’ means a place with a mountain on one side and river on the other side," you told me during our etymology related discussions some time ago. As I pull out 'Love Poems from God' by D. Ladinsky from my tan leather postman bag to keep me company for the next hour or so, I take another look at the souvenir (mosaic—assorted colourful glass pieces) to reassure myself that it’s still in one piece. By now, it has been > three and a half hours since my last cigarette. To my relief, the announcement is made: "the service will make a short stop of three minutes at the next station." "Do they allow smoking on the platforms here though?" This is the only thought that carries any value for me at this stage. A group of locals (of four lads and two girls) have gathered that I’m not from around the town. The skin tone, colour of hair, attire—it’s the whole package that has given my foreign presence away, obviously. They are intrigued and want to make an acquaintance as they approach me with "broken English” (as we put in colloquial terminology in Pakistan). But they are mostly interested in showing off their English (language) skills, I know. "I’m here to visit my girlfriend," I unreluctantly disclose the purpose of my visit. And immediately, I’m offered the Cytrynowka (lemon Polish vodka) and we all raise a toast. "This (Polish Vodka), I ought to have more of," I make a serious mental note. In the middle of reading ‘The Moment’s Depth’ by Rabia of Basra from the anthology, I can see you blushing madly, when we hug and kiss in < 30 minutes. And I give birth to this prose poem on the milky-white plain pages of my black leather (hardback) journal—with < half a dozen sips left in my third (small) cup of coffee (Mocha, this time). 3. The Premonition That was the dream, I saw the other night—two weeks prior to the intended trip, to be precise. And it stayed a dream. But perhaps, the events would’ve unfolded in the same sequence, too, had the premonition been granted a chance to materialise. Saad Ali Click here to read an interview with Saad Ali about his book, Owl of Pines. Click here to hear the ekphrastic podcast with Brian A. Salmons, featuring Saad Ali. Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an (existential) philosopher, poet, and translator. Ali has authored five collections of poetry. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. By profession, he is a Lecturer, Management Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Persian, Chinese, and Greek cuisines. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com, or his Facebook Author Page at www.facebook.com/owlofpines. Caught Unaware How revealing. A woman roots between the car seats for her folded twenty or the severed limb of a sleepytime pet that her man had yanked free for Becky or Andrew or Tina Marie. Or perhaps it’s the house key fallen off its ring. Or say she digs for the ignition key he’ll need before night shift. On she tunnels, cussing, confident she has no audience. As she dives deeper a street photographer captures her bottom full as a bloated moon, opened parachute, or lumpy cushion bursting at its seams. Almost intimate, the slow way she wriggles out the car door. Her sociological dig unearths a missing button from a faded hand-me-down handed off, granite gum wads and a moldy grape jelly glaze. Yet another thankless task for a woman who had aptitude, got things done. Hadn’t she been there for her family and neighbors who now stare with the cold eye of news reporters? What, she says, what is it. For once, no comeback as Fishy Ms. Effie wipes stray whiskers with the back of her damp hand while old man Lis openly smirks. If this woman sees her car in a Helen Levitt exhibit, will she recognize this side of herself? Margo Davis Margo Davis finds herself often returning to her first love, ekphrastic poetry, for its rich narrative. Recent poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Deep South Magazine, and MockingHeart Review. A three-time Pushcart nominee, Margo's forthcoming chapbook will be published by Finishing Line Press in late-fall. Chagallian Love Story Someone is trapezing through a tricolor sky. Songs coalesce in air, the moon serendipitous, huge. Windowpane colours at exhalations of poet/painter. Carnival city sleeps, somnambulant heart awakes. A cat with a wistful face sits agape at the spectacle of flight. Flowers as always, a tapestry, a talisman, signifying the romantic fool. While in the background (look closely) horizontally struck - a man and a woman have fallen in love; Oh Paris! Oh world! Oh wonder! art imitating life, a thousand times over. And the whole world conspires to make it all true. Siobhán Mc Laughlin Siobhán is a poet from Co. Donegal in Ireland and has been published several times in The Ekphrastic Review. Her poems have been published in The Honest Ulsterman, Drawn to the Light Press, The Poetry Village, The Trouvaille Review, Bealtaine Magazine and Quince as well as others. She enjoys reading and writing ekphrastic poetry, both of which she finds is a meditative and transportive exercise. She blogs at www.a-blog-of-ones-own.blogspot.com Twitter: @siobhan347 Anorexia Mirabilis: Mary Magdalene de’ Pazzi In the lower choir where my sisters kneel on this rough wood, restless, black-beaded, lost in reveries of glowing oven stones, the coarse seed bread and churned butter that will soon break the long night of their fast, I wait on nothing but you, Lord, unsteady as I am, slow-pulsed and languorous beneath the weight of my patched woolen mantle. Still young, my monthly blood has halted like all hope of the damned. I am mother solely to desire ravenous as a coliseum beast and I will rise only when the gold-throated bells have beckoned You and I brush my lips against the priest’s warm fingers, swallow You who deigns to enter me white as a winding sheet before its terrible commission. You stagger me like plaited thorns pressed to my crown where this white wimple bends its nimbus arc. You have inscribed the reliquary of my heart with a secret to be read only when I am laid open on the surgeon’s cold stone table. The Word Was Made Flesh and dwelt within me. O, Love who descends in a garland of fire, bloodied robe spilling off the shoulder, off the scourged hip, I am damp as a new bride to behold the smooth cursive that arrows from your muscled waist to the rag they hung above your sex for the sake of modesty. Unworthy though I am, a virgin with a harlot’s name, I beseech You not for death, but agony, not light, but doubt’s brute darkness. Render me desolate and hollow as a midnight nave. Countenance the cloister cupboards demon-gaped to illumine glittering jars of late summer preserves. Conjure a years-long ache in my belly, wolf sister to the bone whip that flays me. no matter this starved-drunk equilibrium, the yellowed vellum of my skin, these bones gone brittle as pendant ice. I remain renunciate for Your name’s sake. I consent to nothing but the unleavened moon that conceals Your broken glory. O Lord, I beg You, shatter me with promises of the feast that is to come. Frank Paino Frank Paino’s poems have appeared in a variety of literary publications, including: Crab Orchard Review, Catamaran, North American Review, World Literature Today, Gettysburg Review, Prairie Schooner, The Briar Cliff Review, Lake Effect and a number of anthologies. Frank’s third book, Obscura, was published by Orison Books in 2020. His first two volumes of poetry, The Rapture of Matter and Out of Eden were published by Cleveland State University Press. Frank has received a Pushcart Prize, The Cleveland Arts Prize in Literature, and an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council. His website is: https://www.frankpaino.net The Salamander English: So formed by love am I, I live in flame, a salamander in this world new-born, like to that other beast, as strange, forlorn, who in one place both lives and breathes the same. All these are my delights, these joys my aim, to live alight, all sense of pain forsworn, nor seek from him who’s made my state so worn, his grant of pity, great or small to claim. Scarce were the fires of that first passion done when love another lit, which only went to prove itself the larger livelier one – and of such ardent love I’ll not repent as long as he, who my heart’s lately won, will with my unquenched furnace rest content. Italian: Amor m’ha fatto tal ch’io vivo in foco, qual nova salamandra al mondo, e quale l’altro di lei non men stranio animale, che vive e spira nel medesmo loco. Le mie delizie son tutte e ’l mio gioco viver ardendo e non sentire il male, e non curar ch’ei che m’induce a tale abbia di me pietà molto né poco. A pena era anche estinto il primo ardore, che accese l’altro Amore, a quel ch’io sento fin qui per prova, più vivo e Maggiore. Ed io d’arder amando non mi pento, pur che chi m’ha di novo tolto il core resti de l’arder mio pago e contento Gaspara Stampa, translated by Nigel Stuart Rime d’Amore No. 206/208* Gaspara Stampa (* depending on edition) 16th century Nigel Stuart is a retired professor of 20th century history and a translator of epic poetry, with a secondary professional interest in renaissance Europe, in artistic practice and in film; who also writes poetry in English and in Scots. |
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