photograph by Marc Brimble
There were so many well-written poems this time, meaning several just missed selection for the newsletter by a hair’s breadth. Many of you gave the people in the picture names, conjured up back stories. I enjoyed the variety of your narratives, some joyful, others sadder, tending towards bleaker scenarios.
The poems I selected all stood out to me across multiple readings for their technique, emotional engagement and, in a few cases, a unique twist.
The winning poem is “Broken” by Hilary Feeney. Special mention also goes to the following poems: “Neighbors looking out windows”, ”Neighbours” and, “Three Little Words”.
Thanks to everyone who participated and congratulations to the winner and everyone with poems included below.
-Emily Tee, editor and judge of our Ekphrastic Challenges.
Congratulations to Hilary Feeney from the UK for her winning poem “Broken”!
Broken The handle of my pasta pan, the curtain rail, the central ceiling fan, cracked terracotta tiles, as blights of ants scuttle in the listless light of the dark side of the block. Here the communal lock lies shattered on the ground. Too many keys, too many bungling hands, too many thieves, though what there is to steal, beggars belief. Crazed steps creep wearily to my polished landing floor, where threadbare rugs and plastic flowers divide the space between Eduardo’s flat and mine, belying proof of all the loss that lies inside. We lean through windows as the languid air seeps in. ‘Eduardo, how are you today?’ I watch him anxiously. Leaning beside a spider’s web of jagged glass he shakes his head, and glances downwards through the chiller slats where white-washed starling waste, lies pasted on its twisted wires. The blasts of frigid air only provide a welcome respite from the heat in the farmacia below, which sells a comprehensive mix of remedies to fix all maladies, from insect bites to fractured bones and colds. Though, truth be told, no cure can heal a broken soul. ‘Waiting.' he murmurs. - Neighbours we speak across a void you in your world I in mine while the street is waking up below our windows the clatter of the dust cart the smell of two-stroke another day starting an ordinary day like all the others we greet each other cheerfully bon dia, dormiu bem? we do not speak of the spectres that haunt us in the early hours when we lie awake on either side of the same wall and I wish I could reach out to someone through the lonely dark we do not speak of those things when the sun comes up Margaret Morey UK - The heat index Sweat drips, breath rasps, knees tremble. The stifling atmosphere forces him out. A shutter rattles, a window clatters, lungs heave to gasp in polluted air. A cacophony of noise below- deafening, annoying, wrecking his peace. Where once a whirr of cool air presided in his flat, a thick fug now embraces him. Squeezing, pressing, smothering. Interest piqued, attention caught, thoughts processed. The noises from next-door force her out. A shutter is rattled, window clattered and her lungs suck in fresh air. Birds sing, engines rev, people laugh and the silence emanating from the white box is golden. No buzzing, droning or humming to disturb her peace. Hot, thick, balmy air clinches, comforts and wraps its arms around her. Brenda Cusack UK - Three Little Words Each morning for 27 years as the markets sprang into action they appeared at their front windows Isabelle and Phillipe so much to see and share the Padre on the hunt for church defying sinners mothers hurrying daughters past bike revving youths the concierge with a bunch of flowers for his fiery wife they fed on chats Isabelle and Phillipe and the coffee and cakes that came later in the morning the only thing missing from their sustenance was the three little words each was waiting for the other to say they would have been the icing on their cakes. Anna Dean Australia - Where the only windows are our eyelids All the lines and cables in the world can't carry my disappointment in it. No ferry, no semi truck, no container no smart cloud no underground bunch of wire. Only the earned shadows of emotion cached beneath my eyes, and the downturn of my tired mouth. I find solace when you and I meet, lay down wool blankets to soften industrial edges, shout as quietly as we can over the roar of faulty equipment things like, Can you imagine a world without wrought iron rods— where the only windows are our eyelids? Valerie Westerman Bess USA - Checking-In Each morning, in bathrobes, while coffee brewed, they would push up their wooden shutters letting morning light and air enter. On particularly hot summer days, he invited her over for a lemon tea. She brought homemade oatmeal raisin cookies—his favorite. They would sit at his little wooden table, often in silence. On days she walked to the market down the cobblestone street, she would knock to ask if he needed anything. He would politely shake his head, although he smiled if she brought him a pastry, especially the jelly-filled kind. One day, he asked if he could come along on the walk. She hesitated, then looked him square in the eye, nodded, and lumbered in with her straw basket to sit while he got dressed. autumn breeze the sound of migrating geese in the distance John S Green USA - The Gap Between Us We’ve been married for almost 50 years In this home nearly as long Raised children, cooked dinners, buried family members Yet somewhere, A gap has grown between us We live together Me in the bedroom Him on the pullout Each morning we say hello through the window The sunshine hits our face Smoke our morning cigarettes Drink our coffee We nod to who we used to be But still with a gap between us. Caroline S. Beit-Beale USA - Neighbors looking out windows a golden shovel after “Skyline Pigeon” by Elton John like pigeons on a ledge turn toward each other taking no notice of me. They stare into space as into loose tea leaves in a flipped cup from the cupboard. Sometimes your dreams slip through your hands while the wild summer winds that you let into your home, tear it apart. As for me, I know that these monochrome days must fly and that summer’s heat will give way to autumn’s glow. Perhaps in some distant time we will meet again in radiant and colorful lands. Lara Dolphin USA - the chillwave between their windows an AC unit Tré USA - Retreat Early, the day barely awake. Winter, the air inside thick with waiting – for warmth, for light, for change. There is a need for breath, an ache to fill lungs, to empty the head, lose all thoughts. The rattle of a neighbour’s window; a recoil, barely hidden. Courtesy stops flight, forces words. Meaningless. Fall back inside; find the familiar night. Elizabeth Holt UK
Here´s Emily Tee´s wonderful poem -
Lifted Voices
Sunday morning words drift,
said prayerlike, softly.
Familiar phrases, often repeated,
a habit-become-litany,
the ritual of long friendship.
It's this deed -
talking, taking stock -
a small act of mutual compassion,
as wavering voices float
over the world's electrified whine.
Airborne murmurs of connection.
What's said doesn't matter;
the shared saying
is where life's spark is,
it's what keeps us going.
A wee reminder that submissions are currently open for Winged Words. You can find full details here.
Happy writing!
Chirp chirp!
Bravo to all who entered!!
Beautiful poetry!