Ekphrastic Challenge 13
The winning poem and a selection chosen by editor and judge, Emily Tee
Artwork by Tony Black
Probably more than any other contest I’ve judged, poets have strived to craft a narrative for Tony Black’s wonderfully layered artwork. Some have leaned into their own, or shared, British history and others have brought references relevant to where they are. I enjoyed the many different takes on emotions and storylines. When I wrote my own response I was thinking about the many generations of coal miners in my husband’s family.
Thanks to everyone who entered, not just those selected for the newsletter. I enjoyed every poem. I had a hard job making the selection from many well crafted pieces and it came down to fine margins about word choices, imagery and, inevitably, some subjectivity too.
The winning poem this time is “The Mender of Broken Things”. Special mention also goes to the following poems: “A former miner still lives here”, “Bird Song”, “Noah” and “The Man Who Outlived the Bicycle”.
Congratulations to everyone with poems included below.
-Emily Tee, editor and judge of our Ekphrastic Challenges.
Congratulations to Melanie Bettinelli from the USA for her winning poem “The Mender of Broken Things”!
The Mender of Broken Things Everyone in the old neighborhood knows: Go to the Green-Gate house. Go to Old Joe. He’s the mender of broken things. A pigeon with a wounded wing, a bicycle with a slipped chain, and every stray cat that needs feeding up-- everything rusty, tarnished and cracked washes up at his wrackline doorstep where the pipesmoke wreaths his head, where the washline is strung with darned socks and mended jumpers rescued from the ragbin. He’ll offer you tea, hot and sweet with plenty of milk from a cracked cup that’s been glued together again. You’ll note the crack is a golden lightning bolt, the jumper’s mends bloom with bright flowers. And the cherry red bicycle works better than new. His pigeons never flee but coo their sweet songs near where the fat orange cat sleeps: All small living beings love and trust him, Old Joe, the Mender of Broken Things. - leaning on his bike pipe dangling between his lips talks pigeon english Lee-Anne Davie Australia - A former miner still lives here The mines closed decades ago. Threat’ned and then axed. Life changes. It moves on at a speed I can’t keep up with anymore. The wet dampens my house and i just live with it. That’s life now, I suppose. The milkman still visits a few times a week, but he’s gone and got on an app. The neighbours have helped with that though. I like t’keep smart and tidy, gives me a sense of pride. I have to talk a bit more proper these days, so folk’ll understand. Walking the streets o’this town, the smell has changed. The scent of soot has gone, replaced with vapes, I’ll stick t’pipe thanks. When I get home I’ll check the radio times ‘n see if there’s owt good on’t telly. Get settled with a brew in the good chair and remember… Norman Dearlove-Scott UK - … shiny toes … From his cloth flat cap to the shiny toes of his Dr Martin’s boots George is a Northern lad through and through pipe smoker since he were down the pit— skin still taut wi all’t coal muck in it rides his bike through town n’t lanes— his language profane! He dunt like people much not as such— prefers his cat and his moustache because they don’t talk back when he clatters his front wheel int’ to t’dustbin or milk bottles at the door yells wavin’ a fist like he’s fallen on’t yard floor disturbin’ a pigeon or a sparrow or two it’s hard bein’ an old ‘un when kids make jokes about you! ‘cos that’s what they do as he slips in and out of his colourful two-up-one down dipping under the tatty clothes on his washing line like tellin’ him he’d be better off in’t circus as a clown but once a year he gets respect after they remember the medals he wore fighting for a free world in the war to end all wars! Peter R. Longden UK - pipe lit litter picking his conscience clean Nick T UK - Noah You don’t see men like me anymore except in box Brownie black and white snaps or old movies from the Kitchen Sink era of filmmaking. Back in the day you’d see me on a boneshaker bike in thick boots and trousers, shirtsleeves and waistcoat white scarf stuffed into a collarless shirt riding to the factory Mondays to Saturdays in and out through the rank back ginnel past the dustbin. I enjoyed being a right miserable bugger hating everyone and everything except my pipe of tobacco and my pigeons. Noah, my champion racer went missing, was lost for months. When I wheeled the bike in today he was perched on the bin lid an olive leaf in his beak. Marilyn Francis UK - Rats With Wings they call them flying rats with their broken toes and concrete feathers. I knew a pigeon once she only had one eye but she was pretty smart she told me that from in the sky the world didn’t look too bad and it’s true she liked to hang out on the garbage can but I’ve known rats too and she wasn’t a rat. Marc Brimble Spain - Thursday is Trash Day The things that rich folks throw in the trash The haughty ones that live in fancy mansions That’s where the pickings are always best Better even than the alley behind Walmart Empty cans and bottles fetch ten cents apiece Stuffed in trash bags scavenged from plastic bins Crawling with maggots and stink-dizzy flies The vermin that lurk on the fringes of wealth Yesterday, I found the pieces of a bicycle In a trash can in a wealthy residential enclave A boy must have outgrown it or run it aground I can fit the wheels and frame in a Hefty Bag I’ll take this bagful of empties to Walmart Where they’ll pay me three dollars and change And I can sell the bicycle parts on eBay… There are four free computers in the library Tomorrow, I’ll walk over to the free clinic To get a combination flu and COVID shot The last thing I need is to get sick and die A homeless man like me in the prime of his life Michael H. Lester USA - Courier Pigeon Times Well look who just rolled into town A jammy strung, pizza box bum Cool as fish laced, milk bottle braces Forearms reinforced in sock puppet clowns Propped up pretty on bicycle rounds Criss-cross fat cat lickin’ severed trash can place mats Green fence, five pence, light beam, light house Whistle pipe and checkered slides guide the wooden window Plied red sweatin’ fire sides And what about those blue eyes Streaming wide ships to shore Sure to ensure and secure the message in my mouth And the groove in my heart In these busy times, I hope you have a peaceful mind Reporting live for Courier Pigeon Times Brendan Dawson Italy - A Small Fancy My granddad was broken space strokes chaotic up close— blocky as a dustbin and as rough as an old pair of socks but still beautiful from a distance Banded from birth to grizzle and grind he flat-capped his way through long days and short nights. But on a Sunday— he’d fill his pipe with Gold Block, clicking and cooing as he loaded his crate onto his bike ready for race day. As he watched his pigeon lift from the flock, maybe he felt that same breaking point— a small freedom in his marrow, so that from a distance life was beautiful for a little while I really hope so. Adele Evershed USA - Threatened Species dirt in your fingernails tobacco-stained fingertips swallow tattoos three-day-stubble a greasy cap bicycle-clips few words you could fix anything John Lanyon UK - It is Neville I rode my bike into a backyard to find what the trash held today. Miss Davies yelled through her window, “Leave, old man. There’s nothing for you there.” She did not know my name. I knew, though, that her tabby was named Tiger, and that the cat loved to tip milk bottles. And that the Miss always forgave the cat’s sins. Life speaks the pulse of God. A pigeon of no name perched on the bin lid and forbade me taking a further look. I felt no rancor–my purpose was the bird’s. You need not feel the pulse– just live. G. L. Walters USA - The Man Who Outlived the Bicycle He leans into rust, a body of corners and collapse, pipe clenched like the last nail holding the house together. The pigeon is his priest, absolving with feathers, while milk bottles scatter— ghosts of breakfasts no one remembers. Red cloth dares the wind on a line between failures. A snail climbs brick by brick, slow triumph against gravity. Fragments remain: a wheel, a window, a sock abandoned in shadow. And still he stares, the last man upright, smoking in the ruins. Joshua Walker USA - Bird Song Each day he wheels his treasured bike Past empties strewn along the lane And rubbish that the drunks have left Rugged up in scarf, hat, sturdy boots And pipe, his blue eyes deeply set In craggy, chiselled face, he barely Notices the gym, where worshippers Of form pump weights searching for The perfect shape, tone, contour Not him, his sights are set on other things That conjure joy. His feathered friend Has tweeted where the best bird song Can be heard today Merely a short bike ride away. Helen Seymour Australia - Here´s Emily Tee´s wonderful poem - At the end of the shift, he thinks about his life He’s a flat cap, hobnail boots, scarf ends flapping, a pipe smoking face that’s now scrubbed clean of the colliery black that’s seeped deep in his lungs. The yard is a witness to how the family thrives: ‘an extra bottle today Mrs?’ chirped the milkman, the red jumper washed for the muddy boisterous boy. Pausing, he looks upon Molly, the favoured pigeon, thinks to himself ‘best homer in the county, tha knows’ while the wily old ginger Tom keeps an eye on it all. His gleaming eyes were never happier than now, in the last of the daylight, a small corner to himself, tranquil now the day’s work is done, all duty completed. Born to toil, valued not for his skills, just for his brawn. Another time, another place, what might he have become?
If you would like to learn more about ekphrastic poetry, you can watch the recording of our Free Online Ekphrastic Poetry Workshop presented by The Ekphrastic Review´s Lorette C. Luzajic.
We look forward to many more Ekphrastic Challenges in 2026…
Super entries ! Evocative and thoughtful words , perfect companions for this unusual artwork .
I particularly liked Joe the mender of broken things .
Well done everbody .