Best Ekphrastic Poems
Behind the parchment screen and eye to eye Punch chided.
Who are you? Who is she? He’d point it out. You’d see.
No marionette with strings was he. Their paths collided;
Judy stands and faces his animosity
The play is writ by man and maid and staged to teach,
the right and wrong of woman’s position, our place.
Standing on two legs, she meets his gaze without speech.
What shenanigan have brought on this crutched lambaste?
Let us ponder Mr. Punchinell’s stance, his missing leg
let his two-eyed profile tease, has Judy been upstaged?
Stumped by the shadow lore, the punch, the audience begs
for the stiff-necked tirade to end her pick engaged.
Speared by humour, we see two realities spar on
with no means to run, the missing third prong’s a pun.
First Published by The Ekphrastic Review
Tag words: advertising, bebop, bird, bottle, Charlie
Parker, Coca-Cola, Cole Porter, Dizzy Gillespie,
door, flag, heart, jazz, light bulb, Louis Armstrong,
Miles Davis, palette, Pepsi Cola, pluralism – found
object, retablo painting, sculpture
Arbitrary or subconscious, Saunders picked six.
Man created on the sixth day from darkness;
we came into the light, of knowing, of naming.
Satan, sin held within, black of skin. Oh,
Africa chopped up bleeding, the third world’s
doors shown black, nailed shut. With the skin
of drums, the heel of hand, he pounds the nails
on the trail of the carpenter.
Kept in place, biblical wives of Lot turned to salt,
white-line the globe. White powder, white power,
sugars the unpalpable, addicting, coca leafs and
caffeine, doping the public, the poor for dimes.
Reinforcing the lure of the bottle; the cola bottle
that fell unbroken to earth from the sky in The
God’s Must Be Crazy. Some have always used their
addictions to create. Like a found objects, we too
fall calling to Mother Mary.
After: The Gift of Presence Raymond Saunders 1993
First Published by Ekphrastic Art:writing and art on art and writing
*Lot the nephew of Abraham, husband of Edith
who was turned to salt.
Monet's Impression, Sunrise
First impressions leave memories
that can linger for a very long time
and give a sense of peace and understanding
that rewards the solitude of the mind
with satisfaction in contemplative reflection.
This may be deceiving and can mislead one to believe
that which is right may, in fact, be wrong.
Graciously accept the artist’s shared perception
that there is no ambiguity, only a warning
of the impending storm threatening prevalent reasoning.
The ascending sun, with its reflection on the water,
highlights a sense of direction as the rowers row
across the harbour at the break of morn.
Past cranes and derricks and ships at anchor
beneath a smoke-blurred fiery sky, accented
by pastel shades of blue to create the sombre mood
that expresses Monet’s "Impression, Sunrise" painting
and shares with the onlookers his representation
of nature from an Impressionist’s point of view
in the Industrial Age, heralding in the revolution.
That begs the question, “Where are they going,
and why blood orange?” (Oh, but I’ve seen that colour before.)
Day-to-day inquiries are asked of one another and strangers.
Monet incorporates an art form using oils on canvas,
forcing the audience to observe with curiosity,
thus presenting a sliver of time of life’s tranquillity at sea.
This provocation of thought chinks the consciousness
of seasoned connoisseurs who see change as frightening
and challenges their manipulation of artistic output
(to act like mechanical agents thwarting creativity).
“Will they reach their destination? Will it be as they hoped for?”
Hurry! Though calm, the waters will soon froth in labour.
***
Note:
“Monet’s Impression, Sunrise” is an ekphrastic poem referencing the painting “Impression, Sunrise” (1872) by Claude Monet (1840–1926).
Blood masks the lea, the blasted loam
upon whose breasts soldiers came home.
The earth, herself, held each to chest
the mist of sky killed with each breath
as ruined green became their tomb.
Men strafed by shells and gassed by fume:
cast akimbo, blown to their doom
entrenched, barb fenced; death coalesced;
blood masks the lea.
Eight million French, their valor shown;
most shy twenty lay beneath stone:
Russians, Brits, Italians, Yanks, rest
thirty seven million, our best
slaughtered and listed in old tomes;
blood masks the lea.
An Ekphrastic done as a French Rondeau
after:Flanders Fields by John McCrae
The Little White Church
The little white church engulfed by the immensity
Of Western Hemlock, Red Cedar, and Douglas Fir
On Nootka Island in Nootka Sound
Confirms the remoteness of the Yuquot Village
On the west coast of Vancouver Island.
The green of the trees towering above and around
Glorifies the whitewashed wood of the chapel.
Surrounding the path leading to the entrance
Are coastal ferns leaning as if pointing the way,
Akin to a Westminster Abbey in the rainforest.
The windowless facade structure faces the ocean
As a defence against the wind’s many directional forces,
While crosses protected in the yard by a picket fence
Bear testimony to Christ’s presence
Among the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations.
Above the door to the house of God,
A steeple rises with a cross on top
And a bell that tolls to call the “people of the deer”
Of Friendly Cove to gather, worship, and pray
In Jesus Christ’s name, Lord and Saviour.
***
Note:
“The Little White Church” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting of a local church located on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada, by Canadian artist Emily Carr (1871–1945) entitled “Native Church” (1929).
Café Terrace in Arles, France
Beneath stars of heavenly grandeur,
In a café, romance prospects dwell brighter.
Patrons’ entertaining escapades of camaraderie
Charismatically whisper away the evening.
Visible under the illuminating gas lantern
Of sulphurous yellow, revealing customers
Who say, “S'il vous plaît” to the French waiter
As passersby stare at empty tables.
At the street’s end is seen a church spiral rise,
And in-between the buildings’ windows of light,
Over the cobblestones, the calèche chatters
As people yield to the horse-drawn carriage.
Une nuit d'été de bonjours et d'au revoirs
(A summer night of hellos and goodbyes)
On Place du Forum in Arles, France.
***
Note:
“Café Terrace in Arles, France” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “Café Terrace at Night” (1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890).
Held inside, my third eye flies through the bars
of this cage. On wing am I, mated I fly,
my spirit undaunted by this earthly stage.
Hollow bones and hallowed heart in play,
I find repast within the air though bars
contain this sage. With tearful eyes, I fly.
With brazen line, I seek to find a stage,
to portray the core of me, swallows play.
A soul who seeks cannot be stayed by bars.
Great Spirit gifts each man a way to fly,
a bridge between his eyes onto the stage
the road open, to the place where Gods play.
Mother, mother dear, I can't live this way.
I drown in dreams and drink, I cannot stay.
After:Swallows by Benjamin Chee Chee 1974
*Sestina Sonnet
First published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art - November 2015
Tickets are not easy to get at the Royal Circle.
A lady does not wish to get a seat by currying favor;
the flavor will eventually turn rancid and ruin her day.
The scent of expensive perfume pervades the warm air.
A packed house of coiffed women in evening frown
and men who wear success like a badge; she is here alone
in full regalia: pinned-up auburn hair, porcelain skin
in a buttoned-up dress. White opera gloves, her nod to
convention. Several eyebrows raise when she comes
unescorted. There is not much legroom and it cramps her style,
yet, she bears the discomfort one hundred feet above the ground.
She doesn’t get to see clearly the emotions on the actor’s face.
The rest of humanity looks like buzzing bees and butterflies
hiding gossiping lips on pale faces behind colorful fluttering fans.
She assumes the look; men have no monopoly on the stoic face.
An evening out unescorted teaches her the world will always
judge not just the melodrama she is watching onstage.
There is more to life than The Salon; a woman has a choice.
After: Theater by Mary Cassatte 1879
For Debbie Guzzi's Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 6
Kim Patrice Nunez
13 January 2016
* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing
Those condescending Royals in their pristine
garden, primp and preen among the other flowers.
Their porcelain pale skin so fragile; they make
a wide berth, around me. I feel like a thorn
in their flesh, an oddity at best.
The stately cedar would not deign to give
his daughter to my son, saying she already has
a place at the palaces of kings. I bristle for without
this lowly thistle, their lives would be boring.
Why, they’ll be sorry to find me and my kind
honored on the Highlander’s Royal flag. One day,
my thorn will puncture the proud, topple them from their
high horses. They’ll slow down, their careless
stride and fall, as the thistle's prick is pulled from
their perfumed and powdered rumps.
After: Thistle in the Field, by Fidelia Bridges, 1875
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 10
16 January 2016
* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing 24 February 2016
Répéter Depuis le Début
The Pink Studio, by Henri Matisse, 1911.
Perception fuses like melted rose quartz,
fuses on the lens of Matisse’s puzzled eyes
like the naiveté of childhood returned to age.
Melted images rose in two dimensions,
rose in repetition, mothering the pieces.
Quartz, genteel rosé, shown in transcendence,
fuses on the lens of Matisse’s puzzled eyes
on naysayers & followers, his morphosis reigns.
The stimulus silent, light’s effect returned, burned
lens now open to the madness of pattern, pieces
of left brain obliterated; right reinforced; art,
Matisse’s obsession oozed from his pores
puzzled synapses explored and explored,
eyes dry as a bone, from sleepless nights, sigh.
Like the naiveté of childhood returned to age,
the Madonna appears, or the muse Aphrodite reborn,
naiveté sexless tasted clean, pure, purged in white.
Of the patterns outside, he’d reproduce those within
childhood wide-eyed he approached & there he
returned again & again paying homage to the core,
to reiterate images in pieces of two dimensions
age left the left brain obliterated – reinforced the right.
Melted images rose in two dimensions.
Images, giving meaning to negative space,
rose ground beneath the pestle of repetition
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys
two halves male-female, left-right, up-down
dimensions all an idiocracy depicted his fright,
rose in repetition, mothering pieces,
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys
repetition reiterated, quartz ground beneath the pestle
mothering the pieces of two dimensions,
pieces of puzzles conjoining parts triangularly staged.
Quartz, genteel rosé, shown in transcendence.
Genteel, childlike, Matisse adored illumination, art
rose with repetition, a mothering of the pieces,
shown in the dance, in stance, in transfigured delight,
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys,
transcendence an illusion, of optics, of light.
First Published in Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing 2016
Here’s a starry poem one might call ekphrastic
about an exploding fireball fantastic
from a ‘nova’, imaged with time-lapse clarity,
all the more remarkable for the rarity
of tracking its expansion– which researchers say
engulfs a place in outer space in just a day
as great as where the orbit of our Earth holds its sway,
at a distance of fifteen thousand light years away,
passing that of Jupiter in less than two weeks–
through some challenging magnification techniques…
Six telescopes collaborated in the huge task
of measuring its size and shape, so as to unmask
the colossal ferocity, albeit remote,
of its “dramatic process”, to astronomers quote.
The eruption that occurred was in the location
of Delphinus– Latin for Dolphin– Constellation.
What causes these spectacular events to arise?
When any of the two of a binary star dies,
as a consequence of its empyrean demise,
it becomes ‘white dwarf’ companion to the larger one.
Then this parasitic partner has some fiendish fun…
In some sort of star-struck, degenerate devotion,
it siphons enough hydrogen to form an ocean
on its surface, till it reaches the critical mass
that will make a brobdingnagian blast come to pass.
Now this formerly faint star system takes center stage
to indeed ‘against the dying of the light, rage, rage’…
A tremendous fireball is hurled into the skies–
so brilliant that it’s visible with unaided eyes…
Thus it burns out its bright celestial futurity
in that bumpy ride to recurrent obscurity.
Novae may play second fiddle to the ‘super’ kind–
their bigger stellar cousins– in the popular mind,
still these marvelous phenomena my awe inspire–
as does that Dylan Thomas villanelle I admire…
But it was wild man Lewis who captured them entire,
when he belted out, “Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!”
~ Harley White
Father's Gone
Beside the seaside the fisherman's wife,
her child in hand, walks asking about loss.
Her father, years gone, left a life of strife.
They both offer prayers with sign of the cross.
A serene light graces this seaside day.
Time seems to still as mother and child gaze
to the past and father's laughter at play.
Now he's gone in darkness and time's dim haze.
They look and pray for their hero now lost,
finding peace in this daily morning walk.
Their lives once full demanded a harsh cost,
as misery follows them, see it stalk.
But, sights and sounds ease with familiar tune
and beauty helps the sad and grieving hearts.
The pleasant weather this morn in cool June,
missing only the flights of the martes.
Soon sailors and fishermen go to sea
with nets to cast while praying for big scores.
The strolling pair pray, "return him to me",
to Neptune they each sadly implores.
Robert J. Lindley, 1-12-2016
Painting number nine
Poem number nine, Ekphrasis, (rhyme)
Inspired by-
(Morning at the Quay in Venice), by Helen Allingham
and Debbie Guzzi's ten/ten/ten challenge.
Ekphrastic: Writing on Art and Art on Writing [this site ACCEPTS reprints] http://www.ekphrastic.net/submissions.html
note: "martes"
Definitions of Martes:
noun: martens
Her Longing Heart Seeks Love's Relief
Pretty young lady, my how you steal the show
how many admiring eyes look back at you?
Perhaps a secret admirer is gazing back you know
longing to be in your private booth too.
With that handy fan hiding your shy smiles
you're features are an enticing mystery.
Clever use of your female charms or wiles
denying him such an early discovery.
What of the high stage, you alone dare grace,
could your setting look more like a throne,
or your beauty reveal more of a loving face,
while desiring you, should he walk out alone?
Alas! Society restricts such daring bold acts.
Yet, a longing mind can always find some way,
to defeat the prudish rules society enacts
she's sure there's time to steal away to kiss and play!
Robert J. Lindley, 1- 10-2016
Painting number six
Poem number six, Ekphrasis (rhyme)
Inspired by- the painting
(Theater, by Mary Cassatte 1879)
Debbie Guzzi's 10 for 10 challenge
Ekphrastic: Writing on Art and Art on Writing [this site ACCEPTS reprints] http://www.ekphrastic.net/submissions.html
Diego Rivera’s Flower Carrier
My load to carry is backbreaking,
But this I must do to feed my family.
Down on all fours on the ground, I pray
For fairness in barter and my safe return home
From this capitalist enterprise I am engaging in.
My basket is laden to overflowing the brim
With the most beautiful flowers in all the land.
My woman helps me to my feet to begin
The journey to the mercado to sell our flores.
She, too, is strong like me, with strong hands.
Together, for survival and comfort in this life,
We labour, leaning on each other as a pillar
Through the impending toils of daily grind.
In quiet rectitude, we are satisfied knowing
That our Lord and Saviour Jesucristo will provide.
We pick the flowers at their peak
When the colours are their brightest
And their scents are the most invigorating.
One by one, we gently lay them
In the cesta de mimbre.
With every step and breath I take,
Their fragrances fill my nostrils,
And the unbearable becomes bearable,
Bringing relief to my aching back
And sandal-shodden feet.
How can I ask for more?
When I return, the joy on my family’s faces
For the money received from the sale
Provides the strength I require
To do this task over and over again
Until I am departed.
***
Notes:
“Diego Rivera’s Flower Carrier” is an ekphrastic poem based on the painting "The Flower Carrier" (1935) by Diego Rivera (1886–1957).
mercado: market
flores: flowers
Jesucristo: Jesus Christ
cesta de mimbre: wicker basket.
The Swirling Green Storm
Sea foam splattered upon his panicked face
his boat sank and life was torn asunder.
He had run away, he was a disgrace;
the storm worsened with a crack of thunder.
Each new wave tore at his weakening hold
yet he recovered, now he longed to live.
Wanting to hold her as he had of old
to taste sweet love only Kara could give.
The words formed inside, then out swift they rushed
Jacob prayed for rescue and a new start.
God, let me live, let my life not be crushed
please save me, please enter this aching heart.
Suddenly, silence, the sea stopped raging
as he had prayed he would get a new chance.
He could picture them together aging
he felt blessed by their renewed romance.
A ship rescued him, new life he could see
with many new paths to embrace with hope.
All that was needed was his heartfelt plea;
God's answer given when he could not cope.
Robert J. Lindley, 1-07-2016
Painting number one
Poem number one, Ekphrasis
http://www.georgiaokeeffe.net/blue-and-green-music.jsp
Blue and Green Music, 1919/1921 by Georgia O'Keeffe
Inspired by-
(After: Blue and Green Music - Georgia O'Keeffe 1921)
Debbie Guzzi's 10 for 10 challenge
Ekphrastic: Writing on Art and Art on Writing [this site ACCEPTS reprints] http://www.ekphrastic.net/submissions.html
Syllables Per Line:
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 200
Total # Lines: 24 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 161