Soon the Goose Must Fly Again He feels no fear, knows what to expect. He will crap on people in the park. And just miss Justin in his limo. The errands are forever urgent. No more wasting time with the Flying Nuns. He knows his flights have been slightly off course lately. The winds have become unpredictable. He’s still proud of his plumage. Just a bit more grey around the beak now. Bhat should soon be looking for a gosling. So he can fly off to an elegant golf course, near an ocean somewhere. Start writing about his life on canvas. Elsa Fischer Elsa Fischer comes from the Netherlands, studied Art History at Carleton University, Ottawa, lived and jobbed on four continents and currently lives in Switzerland’s capital where she is a “yelpie” rather than a “woopie”. She tries hard to convey her love of poetry to the natives and is a member of a workshop for expats. She has two pamphlets in the UK and poems published in magazines and anthologies. She endeavours to age with grace
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The Ekphrastic Review extends hearty congratulations to the six nominees for the Best Microfiction Anthology Awards 2022, six microfiction stories published in our online pages in 2021. This will be the fourth Best Microfiction series anthology, founded by microfiction luminaries Meg Pokrass and Gary Fincke to honour the form of very small stories. Last year, one of our nominees, Cyndi MacMillan, made it into the anthology with her story, When Alice Became the Rabbit. Congratulations to this year's six. Read their microfiction below. (Click on the site link to see the artwork that inspired them.) Without further adieu, our nominees this year are: Star Swallowed, by Olivia Wolford Hollow, by Christina Pan Lost Rivers, by Jamie Brian The Moon Practises the Art of Night Photography, by Marjory Woodfield Elusions, by Kerfe Roig At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle School, by Nancy Ludmerer Bravo to all of you!!!! ** Star Swallowed, by Olivia Wolford https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/star-swallowed-by-olivia-wolford Her white dress was the only detail that stayed consistent in the retellings, how it shone in the dazzle that poured down. Most said her dog Cricket was taken up with her, though others claimed he still frisked the edges of their fields, pissing off barn cats. Either way it was agreed he was an inky, yippy little thing, one they preferred out of sight. Come to think of it, they preferred her out of sight too; she’d been a hazy child, more curtain of water than girl. Her brothers wouldn’t speak for seven months after, and they weren’t boys of many words to begin with. “She was swallowed,” one had confided, “by stars.” Truth was, they’d both been bowled clean over by the dazzle, witnesses only to the insides of their eyelids. It was said the cows minded their business while she was taken up. The horses, of course, watched the whole thing. They saw her bathed in moonbeam certainty, head upturned, swimming with clean strokes to a place beyond all light. ** Hollow, by Christina Pan https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/hollow-by-christina-pan Egon handed him a scalpel. It had a slender grip, a sharp blade that slid upward. He thought about people in horror films, fates at the hands of a monster. How many lives could be saved with this scalpel? How many girl-eating goblins gutted, dragon-toothed piranhas slashed, brain-starved zombies decapitated? He wondered. Carve out your collarbones, Egon told him. He drew one smooth arch in the air. Like this, Egon said. But he knew it would take more than one cut. That night, facing the mirror, he took off his shirt. He placed the scalpel on his shoulders and slanted it inward, away from his neck. He moved the blade in then out, ending a breath away from his sternum. The severed skin looked nearly egg-like, lower flaps bloated with yolk. Red dots stained skin like seeds from a gashed pomegranate, little cracked milk teeth. He faced his reflection, jutting his torso open. He could see the cabinet from the mirror, the bottom of a spinning music box. The tiles started to sog under him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. From his window he could see the cutting board on the table with slabs of a fish carcass dangling from rope. The belly had shrunk to half its size, molding the fat and sangria flavour. So much to lose, he marveled. He slit up the other collarbone, his hand more practiced, the cuts smoother. He looked through the hollow of his collarbones again. This time, through the hollow, he could see the entire music box. It sputtered out a small note. He withdrew the scalpel and slipped it back inside the cabinet. The hollow seemed to be getting bigger as blood trickled out. How much blood can the body lose before it fails? He wanted to ask Egon. But Egon had left already, as he always did. He arched his head downwards and fitted his index finger between his collarbones. Neither his finger nor his knuckles touched the wounds; the hollow was not even as wide as the scalpel blade. But he felt like he could be chewed into the opening, spit back out, find himself no different from when he started. He faced his reflection again. From the depths of the mirror, he could only see the hollow in place of a human, the mouth shaped like a black hole. ** Lost Rivers, by Jamie Brian https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/lost-rivers-by-jamie-brian Everything feels wrong. Heavy. These hands do not feel like her hands. Where did the lines on her skin come from, these rivers that separate who she was from who she is? Once, she was a river running freely to the sea. Now, her feet ache from standing still in hospital rooms. Kicking off her slippers, she walks to the bathroom and kneels beside the bathtub. She twists the faucet and runs the water until it is so hot that it steams the glass of the window. She has always associated water with clarity. When she was young, she and her grandmother would walk to the bath house on Saturday mornings, take off their starchy clothes, and sink deep into the spring water. She sat still as her grandmother scrubbed her back with soap and kneaded the muscles of her shoulder blades. This ritual soothed her mind and cleansed her soul. Over time, those quiet moments have become harder and harder to find, but she needs them now more than ever. She removes her nurse’s uniform and lays the pieces on the floor one at a time. Slowly, she lowers herself into the water. It covers her knees, then her thighs, then she is submerged to her chin. She takes the first deep breath that she’s been able to savor in months. Here, there are no late-night phone calls, no ambulance sirens, no ringing of heart monitors. Exhaling, she taps a few grains of bath salts out of a vial her mother sent her. The cypress scent of her childhood fills the room. She can almost imagine her baa-baa sitting beside her, tracing the lost rivers along her spine. The water soothes the soreness in her calves and eases the tension in her wrists. She sinks deeper into the bath, until her hair fans out behind her. Gradually, she relaxes into the unraveling. ** The Moon Practises the Art of Night Photography, by Marjory Woodfield https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/selected-challenge-responses-garabet-yazmaciyan 1. He leans into a sea-green sky. Soft focus. 2. Leander’s Tower. Foreground, midground and background: Straits of the Bosphorus. 3. Beyond Sultanahmet men sit in winding streets, play backgammon and drink small glasses of z’atar tea. Cats slink into shadow. Panorama. Pan from left to right. 4. In Beşiktaş a young woman stands, watches as mourners lift her mother’s bier into a waiting carriage. Amber beads twist through her fingers. Point of focus: the daughter. 5. A single boat with quiet oars. To avoid noise lower the ISO. 6. The muzzein calls the hour for morning prayer. The moon shutters the lens, slips away. ** Elusions, by Kerfe Roig https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/selected-challenge-responses-garabet-yazmaciyan And yet there were two sources of light. Each beckoning, calling, asking me to recognize their silhouettes of darkness as the true patterns showing me how to reach my journey’s end. Inviting me to join their respective circles, to choose a side, in or out. To open the channels between sea and sky or to burrow into the ashes of earth and fire. What did I know of my destiny? I sailed an empty vessel waiting to be filled, navigating between the spaces held by promises. Whispered words and ghostly hands extended towards the edges I straddled, balanced on the verge of both inhaling and exhaling. My breath could not tell which way pointed to certainty. I tried to recast my shadow onto something else, but I was suspended too tightly inside the directionless void. Everything was impending, flickering like a candle carried by the whims of the gods and goddesses that saturated the water and air. If I held out my arms would they become fins or wings? ** At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle School, by Nancy Ludmerer https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/at-the-pool-party-for-my-nieces-graduation-from-middle-school-by-nancy-ludmerer I’m a goner even before Leah, my brother’s new colleague, tells me her psychiatric specialty (“evaluating sexually dangerous people”), and when she reappears, resplendent in a golden-brown one-piece, I drown in desire. While Leah swims laps, I descend the ladder at the deep end, figuring I can hang on to the side faking it, never letting on I can’t swim, my eyes on the prize. Marisa, my niece’s best friend, swims up and asks if she can practice life-saving on me; Leah is watching us, and I’m figuring kindness to children is always a plus. But Marisa loses her grip and then I’m grabbing desperately at her orange bikini top and she’s yelling. By the time I reach the metal ladder, my coughing subsided, my snotty nose wiped clean, everyone has gone inside for cake. A dead bug floats on the surface, and I wonder who will save me now. Hopper’s Nighthawks Absent any other sign of life, but for the four. Tickled a Phillies was still a nickel; yeah, still America’s No. 1 Cigar. When refinished in a shade of cherrywood, the repurposed counter lost its patina. Standing for a past century in a smokey corner tavern now displaced, it was bellied up to by the locals. Some pulled up close on wobbly stools: hammering down shots, thinking of loves lost, glimpsing red eyes in a dusty barroom mirror, ruing not having lived the life one coulda, shoulda lived. Many elbows, clasped hands and throbbing heads once rested on that old oak slab’s rounded edge, worn smooth as a mother’s shoulder. From up above unseen, fluorescent tubes illuminate the diner’s pale ocher wall and darker ocher kitchen door. Bathing in white unnatural light: stool seats, the store-front’s jade-colored sill, projecting a curving, blue-grey crescent glow out on the sidewalk as the block bends around. It streaks vividly off the two gleaming silver urns, the stooped-down counter guy’s glowing back and his paper cap’s white crown. There’s no glinting silverware, nor ashtray to be found for the ashless cigarette jammed between the fingers of his stiff right hand. The man seated facing us with hawkish schnoz and rakish fedora looks defeated, mad, or sad. Upset, perhaps by a too brief romantic interlude on this most-likely, last date out for him with the fine gal from the office. His vivid red-bloused companion seems composed, a bit less stressed. Pondering a nibble on what looks like a thin canapé of watercress, her high hopes for him about petered out. Knowing now what her mother meant when she said she owed it to herself to make the break when the moping starts. A bulky body bulges within the snug blue suit of the man seated, back to us, alone. Is that glass half-empty or half-full? One can speculate; he doesn’t have a raptor’s face or a mug like Al Capone. It’s left for us to flesh that in, as is the spare West Village square we stare at, in oil on canvas. Idle salt and pepper shakers rest at the ready, please pass the sugar Honey, just a half glass-tube view of stale coffee, another vial of clear hot water spied to monitor what’s left in the sleek steel cisterns, to sustain. The nocturnals bask in the diner’s glow. Outside, across the lampless, narrow well-swept street, dark apartment shades and shuttered shops in shadow, vacant for all we know, but for a cash register vaguely discerned through a store window. A carefully wrought angular exercise in color, light, line and form. Imaging a sparse late night snack in an all-night café. A brush stroke conjured into a sandwich: a bite briefly held up enroute from hand to mouth as another chance to connect elopes alone. Attracted to the light, the viewer flits into the painting’s frame. Drawn to more than its visual yin and yang. More than a yen for that sweet twinge when quick-singeing light tears up a squinting eye. A moody film noir soundtrack eases in; comforting, but mournful, melancholic, bittersweet. Perched, aquiline, backs facing the dark corner under artificial glow, we begin to slide into the ruffled nighthawk’s skin. Mark Goldstein A Bronx Baby Boomer who began writing in 12th grade, Mark Goldstein graduated from the State U. of NY with a degree in English (class of '72!). He participated in poetry workshops at The New School and The 92nd St. Y. Marriage, kids, gettin' 'n spendin' etc interrupted the Muse until downsized/retirement in 2016. Now, playing creative catch-up and spending precious time tediously seeking a venue to share some of his eclectic pieces. Read more ekphrastic works on this iconic painting here. Pity the Blind "Pity the blind," they say, as well, "The one eyed man is free" in our kingdom... At night, regard the flashes behind your lids- A bow stretched tight against the clouds? Sister purple in chrome fields- the Queen must die; From earth to earth we must return; Your ochre dress, your accordion; Fourth star out- Eta Carinae. You cared for me, Mireille, 'though you were blind- You did not need to search- I was the restless one.. I tear away- look at the sky you cannot see- The double rainbow, bright field of wheat. After a storm, we put the two Into the cairn, with countless seashells; Beneath two great stone menhirs/dolmens- in stone rows; As was our custom for the dead. Boar mandibles, red deer antlers and we sang: The four stars arrange themselves against the replicants; These women were our Gods in dreams. The butterfly, a "tortoise-shell" that Landed on her shawl that day. She sat so still...satori still. The same fly lands on the anchor/pilot stone, The stone a boat through years of light. Guide stars lead us between the henge; Two Queens sit beside a lemon field- The blind Queen leads, as in a game of chess; The younger sister wears a purple dress. It all matters- in the order of things- As they must- even the crows, Strut purposefully as covenants; A double rainbow promises bounty for this year! those assembled for the ceremony repeat the chant: "A double rainbow insures our bounty for the year." Dave Eberhardt Dave Eberhardt was born March 26, 1941. He retired in 2010 from 33 years of work in the criminal INjustice system. As a peace protester, he was incarcerated at Lewisburg Federal Prison for pouring blood on draft files in 1967 with Father Phil Berrigan and two others to protest the Vietnam war. He has published three books of poetry: The Tree Calendar, Blue Running Lights, and Poems from the Website, Poetry in Baltimore. He has completed a peace movement memoir, For All the Saints: A Protest Primer. In 2020 he won the Enoch Pratt Library/ Little Patuxent Review prize for poetry. At the Pool Party for My Niece’s Graduation from Middle School after Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures), by David Hockney (UK) 1972 I’m a goner even before Leah, my brother’s new colleague, tells me her psychiatric specialty (“evaluating sexually dangerous people”), and when she reappears, resplendent in a golden-brown one-piece, I drown in desire. While Leah swims laps, I descend the ladder at the deep end, figuring I can hang on to the side faking it, never letting on I can’t swim, my eyes on the prize. Marisa, my niece’s best friend, swims up and asks if she can practice life-saving on me; Leah is watching us, and I’m figuring kindness to children is always a plus. But Marisa loses her grip and then I’m grabbing desperately at her orange bikini top and she’s yelling. By the time I reach the metal ladder, my coughing subsided, my snotty nose wiped clean, everyone has gone inside for cake. A dead bug floats on the surface, and I wonder who will save me now. Nancy Ludmerer Nancy Ludmerer's fiction and flash fiction appear in Kenyon Review, New Orleans Review, Electric Literature, Mid-American Review, Grain, and Best Small Fictions 2016 (a River Styx prizewinner). In 2020, her stories won prizes from Carve, Masters Review, Pulp Literature, and Streetlight. She lives in NYC with her husband Malcolm and their recently-adopted 13-year-old cat, Joseph. Twitter: @nludmerer Star Gazer Help your sister, Mama says, she’s got artist’s block. She’s spent all morning dabbling at an empty canvas. I am not my sister’s keeper, I mumble as I pull at my fingernail, eager to get back to my own work. She may be the first artist in the family but she is not the last, I want to scream but no one is listening. They are all looking at my sister, the budding star, the praying mantis who eats her rivals. Born two years apart, she is the sun, I am the moon, and she eclipses me every time we meet someone new with her tales of New Mexico, her monastic wardrobe, and her flowers on steroids. She steals the limelight but still I shine like the stars over the endless farmland that we call home. Even her own husband pesters me to share his bed. She’s told me to stop exhibiting, that there’s not room for more than one artist in the family, as if there’s not room for more than one star in the sky. She thinks she’s got the Midas touch, but her work is tin, not golden. Her flowers are static, not blooming, their only gift their monumental size. Some nights when the air is so toxic and I can no longer bear her preening, I slip out of the house and gaze at the starlight that has traveled through so much darkness to shine down on me and remember that the sun wobbles and spins but it’s the moon that pulls the tides. Michele Morris Michele Morris is a former magazine editor and travel writer. She has a BA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and an MS in journalism from Columbia University. She’s the author of hundreds of magazine articles and two non-fiction books, one on Chinese cookery and the other on cowboys. Born and raised on a ranch in Montana, Michele raised her children in New York City. She’s lived and worked in Asia, Latin America, and Europe, and presently lives in Park City, Utah where she skis, hikes and bikes, and has the stories and injuries to prove it. Click here or on image above to read a selection of poetry and stories that this artwork inspired. This painting has many strange and terrible stories behind the scenes... Fauvism In the 1900s, they called it fauvism. Separating color from its descriptive, representational purpose, allowing it to exist on the canvas as an independent element. I have lost you entirely. I am naked from my waist to my ankles, and fauvism is dripping from me like tears. If this is departure, so be it. And if you must distance (your legs fallen through mine, your body on me like a cloud) us from each other, so be it--I am a bucket pouring itself into you apart from (pulling you through tight alleys behind buildings where parents are washing away through all their exhaustion, through all of their dishes, crusting, we laughed as we undid each other, slipped our fingers into places descriptive, representational) purpose, let us open ourselves like skies or like oceans, dump our fluids out onto the earth as if there is nothing to become of us. I will drip myself empty into unbirthed spaces, or whisper to you songs that lie, saying, pigments are leaving me now, which could not have been a description of you carving your rib from yourself like a moment, and becoming. Yael Herzog Yael Herzog: "I have received my MFA from Bar Ilan University, and received the Andrea Moriah Poetry Prize in May, 2017. My work has previously been published in Eclectica Magazine and Aurora Poetry, and was nominated for the Sundress Publications 2019 Best of the Net Anthology. I grew up in New Jersey and now live in Tel Aviv, Israel, where I teach English to middle school and high school students. Barye’s Theseus Fighting the Minotaur a Story in Twelve Attempts One The wooden floorboards in the Portland Art Museum (PAM) creak. In one room on the first floor, people walking without talking generate a roaring cacophony of creaks, squeaks, thumps, bumps, and all manner of sounds that pliable wood floors generate under the shifting weight of dozens of people. The sound is louder, more oppressive than the audio for the installation in the adjoining room. I still haven’t found the artwork to use as the subject of this piece. Two When entering PAM (heheh)-- Three While sitting on the couch by Barye’s Theseus Fighting the Minotaur, I briefly fall asleep. “Hey, you.” It’s the lady with the short blonde bob I met late at night in the hospital a few weeks ago. She is sitting next to me on the couch. “Hey, yourself. What brings you here on a Wednesday afternoon?” “I work here.” She smiles and leans toward me. I smile back as my eyes close. Four Something about Barye’s Theseus impels me to continue looking at it. I walk around it clockwise, then counterclockwise. I look at it from across the room, and with my nose touching the glass case. Standing in one position, I slowly rotate, moving the piece across the field of vision, out of it, and back in again. I start close to the glass and back away from it. I crouch as close as possible to the white column supporting it to get a view of the underside. I stand on tiptoe and lean over it, looking at it from directly above. I stand with my back to it and bend at the hips, looking at it upside down through my legs. I bounce up and down to see it while in motion. I sit on the couch, looking at it from the side, my body twisted to the right to look at the statue. On the phone, I look up images of this very artwork while standing next to it, comparing the facsimile to the real. And yet I have nothing to say about it. Five Barye, like many artists, drew inspiration from the myths of antiquity. Six The most common interpretation of the Minotaur myth is as an allegory for man subduing his own bestial nature. There are less conventional theories positing that it symbolizes the ending of the Age of Taurus, as the Exodus story of the golden calf does in the Hebrew Bible. There also seems to be an element of warring phalluses—a bull and its horns, a young man and his sword. They’re deep within the Labyrinth, a devouring yoni if ever there was one. What about Ariadne and her string? Seven Is this statue meant to be so homoerotic? It does not look like a fight. Eight I had to ask for directions to find this room. The museum employee, holding a lantern, led me through a long circuitous passageway downward, past secret exhibits below the museum, up flights of stairs, through a storage room filled with wooden crates stacked to the ceiling, around areas closed for construction and renovation, through an unmarked door that led to an office filled with cubicles, over a walkway high above the museum’s first floor installation, down several flights of stairs (each level marked with eldritch, foreign sigils unknown to eyes that have seen the sun), over a bridge of bones spanning an underground stream, past a series of doors guarded by armored sentries who responded to the employee’s speaking of a guttural and nauseating tongue, into a vast musty subterranean matrix of catacombs in which the sound of scraping stone echoes, past great pits of glowing red coals over which unrecognizable effigies burned obscenely, around stalagmites of pure obsidian that seemed to press in upon the path, finally reaching great adamantine gates flanked by sconces on which she threw incense of the most putrid smell. “I must leave you here,” she said, handing me the lantern before donning a hooded cloak and quickly departing. When I stepped closer, the dim, dizzying light of the sconces revealed hieroglyphs of some kind, nearly indecipherable from the wear of many ages, depicting a bull-god at the head of throngs of nude, prostrate people. The symbols were unlike any I had ever seen in my years of scholarship of the ancient civilizations. Behind the adamantine gate stood an enormous replica of Barye’s Theseus, only with the figures reversed. The hero’s sword lay shattered on the ground as an anthropomorphic bull overtook him; his brass mouth was frozen in a silent scream. From somewhere in the maze of passages beyond the statue came a bellowing, snorting call followed by thunderous fall of hooves. A hot wind from the passages extinguished the torch, leaving blackness and a monstrous roar that grew ever louder. Nine I am standing by Barye’s Theseus. I move my face very close to the corner where panes of glass meet suddenly. The perpendicular joint, observed from inches away, refracts the light in an unpredictable, shifting way. Images of Theseus and his phallic sword proliferate into thousands. Directions collapse and language falls out of my brain. Everything expands into a single miniscule point in space. It begins to seem that the invisible air and white walls are the works of art and these paintings are inverse frames, marking the bounds where white space ends and busy brushstrokes begin. The fluorescent light buzzes. Ten After a reverie induced by staring at Barye’s Theseus, the presence of others in the room becomes apparent. Andy Goldsworthy, or possibly another consciousness animating that body, stands by a very large kiddie pool, which is filled with rose petals arranged in stripes of varying colour. A large stone cairn and a tightly packed pile of sticks are next to him. Goldsworthy is-- Nearby is an obsidian catafalque on which the corpse of Andy Warhol, wearing a tuxedo with the surgeon general’s tobacco warning screen-printed, rots. An Elvis impersonator wearing the 1968 comeback special outfit says, “This is his last work, his greatest work. The movie about sleeping was only a prelude.” The couch in front of him is occupied by several nude, zaftig women to whom Peter Paul Rubens is doing something lewd while leering at one, then another. Behind the couch Gustav Doré asks Jacob and the Angel, acting as their own models, to adjust their positions while he engages in the slow process of creating a woodcut depicting the scene. Did Barye make all this? Did all of this make Barye? Eleven After looking at Theseus for over twenty minutes, I realize that the Minotaur has left scratch marks on Theseus’ back. Twelve “What do you think I should write for this piece?” “Don’t you have any ideas of your own?” “Do you know Greek mythology well?” “Is it cheating if I give you ideas?” “Do I have any ideas of my own?” “How would I know?” “What comes next?” Eric Vanderwall Eric is a musician and writer. He has released two solo guitar albums, Precious Memories and Take Time to Be Holy, both of which are available through major download and streaming services. Eric is currently a graduate student at the University of Chicago, where his concentrations are Eastern European literature and creative writing. Lewis Chess Knight Replica (in memory of James Wilson & Robert Chapman) 1. Lewis Chess Knight replica from the British Museum: belligerent & comedic, sat astride his miniature steed. 2. Far more than souvenir, more a talisman & amulet of our secret brotherhood. 3. Objet d’art, clown-piece, he perches on my bookcase scowling at the imagined enemy hordes. Absurd Hebridean fixed in quixotic preoccupation. What quest electrifies him? Holds his body tense, his sword raised horizontal & rapidly heating? He’s a relic from Old Albion, a denizen of our childhood kingdom, holding onto the reins for dear life, his horse paler than whalebone-ivory. 4. Caricature of tragi- comic characterisation, a fossil of our misplaced imaginations, this warrior’s poised erect to do battle on the field of Armageddon. Yes, he’s a spitting image of the figurines we used to mould as kids out of modelling clay. Underdog-heroes caught in end- game scenarios of pallid jades & perpetual checkmates. Here cometh our White Knight: glorious, yet vitriolic in every soul-flaying defeat. 5. See, he casts an ironical eye on life, & on death, & on everything in between. Nothing, absolutely nothing dares to pass him by. Mark Wilson Mark Wilson has previously published four poetry collections: Quartet For the End of Time (Editions du Zaporogue, 2011), Passio (Editions du Zaporogue, 2013), The Angel of History (Leaky Boot Press, 2013) and Illuminations (Leaky Boot Press, 2016). He is also the author of a verse-drama, One Eucalyptus Seed, about the arrest and incarceration of Ezra Pound after World War Two. His poems and articles have appeared in: The Black Herald, The Shop, 3:AM Magazine, International Times, The Fiend, Epignosis Quarterly, Dodging the Rain, The Ekphrastic Review and Le Zaporogue. |
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