I sent in three poems in response to the Ekphrastic Challenge, this painting by Ismael Nery. None was published, but please take a look at the chosen pieces. Kerfe has a poem that is instantly recognisable as hers.
In the dark in the light the men march
faces forward or profiled in moonlight all the same
and I feel the cold of open graves when they pass
hoping they won’t see the slight form in the shadows that is me
hoping the blank stare that offers no hope no justice no pity
will find another. I’ll look away half-life better than none.
These days this war there are no heroes not anymore.
This is the piece of short fiction (which wasn’t chosen for publication) I wrote for the Ekphrastic challenge, the prompt painting After the Storm, by Istvan Farkas. I love the colours in this, purple and green together is among my favourite combinations.
The heavens opened five minutes after the Abbé left the presbytery. A real summer storm, short lived, but violent, driving rain and wind that thrashed green branches. The only shelter was at the top of the hill where the road wound beneath a spinney of oak trees. Someone was already there, a raggedy woman. The Abbé’s nostrils pinched in distaste and he nodded curtly. Clutching his useless umbrella, he turned his back on the woman and gazed firmly out across the heaving landscape.
“You’ll be late for your lunch if this keeps up,” the woman said. “Who is it this Sunday? Lefebvre? Fabre? Meunier?” Her voice was steady as the rain, and the Abbé heard insolence in it. He would not taint himself by replying. “He keeps a good table, Meunier, so I hear. And with the son a courtier at Bordeaux, the wine cellar’s bound to be good too.” The Abbé shuffled, and his stomach rumbled inopportunely. “But they’ll all feed you well. Any of those people. People worth traipsing the countryside in the rain for.” A malcontent, a starveling. The Abbé closed his ears. The wind howled and he heard the crack of thunder. “Not like poor folk. They’d not get you away from your warm fire. Not poor folk who have nothing to pay for a Mass with.” Bitter and envious. “You’d not stir yourself for them, not even if their bairns were dying.” He heard a catch in the steady stream of words. He had no idea who the woman was, but he had nothing to reproach himself with. The clouds hung black, swollen. “You’d think a man of God would have a bit of compassion though, wouldn’t you? Make an exception. A prayer wouldn’t have taken long, would it? It wasn’t the bairn’s fault that her mother had nothing to give.” The sob was unmistakeable now. “If she’d had the money, she’d have given it to the doctor. She might have still had a bairn now, not just a mound of fresh-turned earth outside the cemetery.” The Abbé cast his eyes at the sky, looking, not for spiritual guidance but for a let-up in the storm. “If there was any justice…”
The woman’s voice petered out, and the Abbé found his at last. “Do you dare threaten a priest of the Church?”
She stared through him. Her eyes were sunken, famished. She laughed, a dry, hoarse laugh that ended in a cough. “There is no justice, not here, not from men. But we all die, one day. I’d bear that in mind, Abbé Collet, if I were you.”
She pulled her shawl tight around her throat and, head bent, hurried out into the rain, back towards the village. The Abbé’s eyes narrowed and burned with what he was not allowed to call hatred. There was a time when the Church had been allowed to deal with witches like that. He glanced at the sky, looking for approval perhaps. Thunder growled and a flash of lightning winked at him from over the church tower.
He wondered what that wink signified later, in the last few agonising moments as he choked on a fishbone from Meunier’s otherwise excellent sea bass.
For the whole of November, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow) is hosting an ekphrastic challenge. Our mission, for those of us who accepted it, is to write a poem each day of this month to a visual prompt sent by Paul. Today we had a choice. Mine was this painting by Marcel Herms entitled After Minnie Left .
Please visit Paul’s blog to read all of the contributions.
The mouse in the corner
She had blood in her hair and down her dress dripped, her eyes wild with reflections of what had been, seen and clean sheered away.
She ran out in the street with her wild hair and bloodied lip, but she knew it would end when the pavement ran out, and her feet turned about,
that she’d hang her hurt head, wipe the blood from her lip, tears shed, and the sky would fall so low, so hard and grinding grey.
Caught between stone and waiting fists, shed tears, raining stony blows and blood-gout, she would turn herself about and walk
The tritina is a form that sounds easy…but isn’t. I’m pleased you gave it a try and even more pleased at the results.
This week I’ve chosen a painting for inspiration. It’s entitled Moscow Metro and it’s by Michael E. Arth. It’s an arresting scene, a moment caught on canvas, and I find myself thinking about that girl, who she is, where she’s going, and what the intense expression on her face signifies.
I wasn’t going to inflict a particular form, but I think a cascade might be appropriate.
Have fun and post the link to your poem in the comments. I’ll reblog if the buttons work for me this week.
The painting by Maximilian Pirner used for last fortnight’s Ekphrastic challenge is called either Lovers in Small Boat or The Demon Love, depending on the way you look at it, I suppose. I didn’t send in the only response that came to mind.