Ekphrastic Challenge 9

The winning poem and a selection chosen by editor and judge, Emily Tee

Artwork by Eoin Lane

Eoin's painting for this contest easily brought in the most entries of any contest so far in the year since I became the judge. That of course means a tough time choosing not just the winner but narrowing down the pieces to include in the newsletter. Thank you to everyone who engaged with writing to this fabulous painting, and especially the winner for producing such a well crafted and engaging poem. Thank you to everyone who submitted and congratulations to this month´s winner John Muro, and special mention too for the following poems “Internal landscape”, “Looking long”, and “The landscape”. Congratulations to all whose poems are included below.

-Emily Tee, editor and judge of our Ekphrastic Challenges.

Congratulations to John Muro from the USA for his winning poem “Dispersal”! A Wee Sparrow Poetry Press notebook is winging its way to him.

Dispersal

It’s difficult to recall a day such as this when
a sky of breathtaking blue has gone gossamer, 
steadily dwindling and giving way to clouds 

that seem to dissolve in an expansive sleep
of water, leaving to me this fugitive landscape and
the brief quieting that comes when day offers up

the last of its splendor and, for a moment, heaven
becomes a place that’s indistinguishable from
the contour of the earth and the sudden spill of the
 
divine presses against all things, as the tide softly
swells then retracts, haunting the soul with its diffused
murmur, and a warm wind, hushed and heavy-hearted, 

too, in its passing, extinguishes the last light before giving 
way to a lone sentinel’s eerie bellow, leaving the weighted air 
infused with plum-rose splatter and the pungent smell of pine.

-

The Lough's embrace    
                                                                           
All around is blue, 
all that matters in this place,
this sea, this sky, this stone on shore,
this seaweed lough we call home.

Every year as Solstice draws near,
it happens at dawn and at dusk in the liminal space,
that all manner of portals appear to open
and beckon the magic to rise.

One by one they come out of the gloaming,
the elementals leading us on over winter's palest blue tide
upwards towards Scrabo Tower where we soar to new heights,
bird-like watching heaven's clouds mirrored in powder blue sea below.

Our worries will be washed away on the tide one by one,
dispersing through the upside-down sky, through the lough's embrace.
We will be reborn with new sight to take flight 
and welcome the dawn, a new blue of thought ebbing outwards.

Caitríona Ní Laighin
Letterfrack, Co. Galway

-

Across The Bay
 
Across the bay, the last rays of the sunset fall
I see the distant hills and a tower standing tall
With a secret there to be discovered for us all
Now, even in this twilight, it is finally in view
Much to be examined, as to whether it is true
The grey mist may take no prisoners, it seems
 
Tomorrow may offer me a crossing of the bay
A time for determination and courage, I’d say
Yet still with the prospect of another tiring day
When I reach the tower, responding to its pull
I’ll seek the whole truth, to be answered in full
No longer the quest that is the stuff of dreams

Howard Osborne
UK

-

The Knowing 

the mountain presides
over the sage’s ashram
blessed and pure

mapped and charted 
it's a beacon of wisdom 
for all who seek its light

hopeful aspirants knock
at its doors to find the 
truth of their existence 

silently they meditate 
quietly absorbing the 
essence of their being

in circumambulation 
old ignorance bows to
the fire of Knowledge 

soon they return whence 
they came, hearts brimming 
with songs of universal life 

feet wearing down stones
mountain and ashram abide

Rupa Anand
New Delhi, India

-

the lookout

a young man flails in the water,
his thin arms tiring minute by minute
as storm clouds grow in their ferocity.
 
I’m just an old woman, brittle and frail—all alone.
this wheelchair defines me now; every day, a solitary futility.
my sole joy, this view from my bay window,
the tranquil waters of Lonesome Pond.
 
the daughter I gave away haunts me.
has she, too, floundered in life?
child, have you been treated well?
does love sit with you each day?
I no longer wonder
if I might someday learn your name.
 
9-1-1 is all I could do for you, young man.
but even then, arthritic fingers prevented a quick dial.
the sirens grow louder.  can you hold on just a bit longer?
I did what I could.
 
I did what I could.

Julie Allyn Johnson
USA

-

Internal Landscape
 
I dream of a place. Mountains, reflections,
symmetry and clouds, depths I can’t fathom.
But you know it already. Landed on your knees
navigated highs and lows, dropped
a plumb line, found equilibrium
between real and imagined
at the water’s edge on a rocky shore.

Janet Laugharne
Wales, UK

-

The Landscape

Twin hills drawn as proud breasts,
the body flowing away, glistening
with post-coital sheen trickling into
the artist's subconscious, lapping
around dreams, desires, terrors.
Mam Eire—she of the inspired poets,
rebels, dreamers; of the gab, the craic—
with dislocated shoulder and cold Atlantic arse,  
shifts her gashed and bloody body
through years of hunger, tears of blight.
The Liffey flows from between her thighs,
nine parts stout, one part life-water,
pissing into the Irish Sea, sending floods
of her children to work the world and return
with stories of bravado, of daring-do-wells,
or never to return, never. Oh painter, paint!
Send them your siren colours, woo them,
sing them home, inspire memories and tears,
reel them back to Mam Eire’s emerald teat.

Ben Bruges
UK

-

Even when you are lost 
You are still 
At peace with finding your way back 
To the shore 
Never sure when darkness lifts
But you know it will
Become mist 
Become light 
Without you ever having to fight for it.

Lisa O´Hare
UK

-

Calm to quake  

The faintest moments 
Become more defined with time 
The breathing mountains 
Become like dragons 
The lightheaded clouds 
Like thunderstorms 
The dull sunsets 
Like revelation 
A scene that 
At first glance 
Resembles the moon 
Cast on a daytime sky 
Familiar but unearthly 
Steady but spinning
In my memory I listen
To the voice of the shore
Sure that everything will shift
In my heart I listen
To the thinking lithosphere
Certain our guide posts will fall

River Ripa
USA 

-


a distant light house 
sucking in all the war greys
tall yet all alone
a path lights the dark of night
sail on by a clear blue sky 

Hla Yin Mon
Yangon, Myanmar

-

Looking Long

Spot the monolith 
that marks the way and 
the feeling of being watched,
even long abandoned.

Climb round its tower,
spiraling by incision eyes.
Once occupied
it becomes sighted.

Watch the watched 
become the watcher,
like the land 
attentive.

Ring the bell,
long lost within.
Replace all missing songs
with your singing.

John Paul Caponigro
USA

---

Here´s Emily Tee´s wonderful poem -

I put myself in the picture

     "The artist should paint not only what he sees before him,
       but also what he sees within him."  - Casper David Friedrich

standing on the shore, eyes drawn to the tower
it's hard not to think of the folly of a rich man

despite the solemn beauty of the evening light
the sky holds inky hints of a kind of darkness

the lough water, blue as any exotic lagoon,
catches the last pink tinges of the setting sun

mists stretch into the distance, hide rolling hills,
their purples fading farther, hiding lands far afield

this place calls deeply for connection, reflection
as evening storms form, ready to strike, to interrupt

the first ripples reach the shore, a breeze is rising -
my own spirit moves to this outer foreshadowing

I look back to the folly, the tower.  I see no beacon,
but a lighthouse warning of hidden rocks, coming dangers

I am the Rückenfigur, standing at the edge of the frame
I am the lightning rod drawing all these feelings into me

---

Thank you so much to all the poets who submitted. We will be opening submissions for our 10th Ekphrastic Challenge in the new year.

A wee reminder that submissions for our monthly Wee Sparrow Haiku Nook are open until the 15th December. You can read the full guidelines on our website here.

Stay well and stay creative.

Claire

Wee poet sparrow watercolour by Colin Thom