Ekphrasis XIII 2024 Online Exhibition
SET 4. Visual Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
L.. DEBRA B. LENNOX: Phantom. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: "October Prayer"
M. MARY T. ANDERSON: Secretary Bird. Response by author PRISCILLA COMEN: "Miracles and Masks"
N. LYNNE WHITING, Center Space. Response by author SUSAN FISHER: "At the Center"
O, STEPHEN GARNER, He Met His Muse. Response by poet LINDA HARTMANN "Eruption"
SET 4. Visual Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
L.. DEBRA B. LENNOX: Phantom. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: "October Prayer"
M. MARY T. ANDERSON: Secretary Bird. Response by author PRISCILLA COMEN: "Miracles and Masks"
N. LYNNE WHITING, Center Space. Response by author SUSAN FISHER: "At the Center"
O, STEPHEN GARNER, He Met His Muse. Response by poet LINDA HARTMANN "Eruption"
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L. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN
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L. Initiating Artist DEBRA LENNOX: Phantom
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October Prayer Let there be rain this winter that my spindly young vines may grow fat buds on their meager sticks new roots find nutrient in moistened soil Let there be rain that the old pear orchard may bloom another spring and my horse and I sniff white-blossomed air in bee-hummed quiet Let there be rain that the creek may purl again groundwater ooze to the aquifer river caress its banks land lie green and fruitful under our gaze |
Woodblock. 125.
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M. Initiating Artist MARY T. ANDERSON: Secretary Bird
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M. MIRACLES AND MASKS Response by Priscilla Comen
What do you see here? One woman says it looks like Groucho Marx scared to death. But Richard knew Groucho as a friend and knew he’d never be frightened of anything. He used to bring Richard dinner when Richard parked cars at Chasen’s restaurant while attending USC dental school. If I kiss this funny, lovable face will he become a Prince Charming and whisk me to the moon in his winged chariot? I do it! The mask comes off and it’s my beloved Richard. He always said if or when beings from other worlds came he’d go with them. They seem friendly. He takes my hand and we soar into space together. I’m not wearing the right clothes but who’s looking? I’m enchanted. On the moon we embrace and dance to Bing Crosby’s one hundred hits that I’ve listened to at home alone. You don’t believe in miracles? Kiss this masked face and see what happens. Surprises abound. This mask covers a lovable character. Love makes miracles. Bing Crosby croons I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…. |
N. Initiating Artist LYNNE WHITING:
Inner Space
N. Response by author SUSAN FISHER: At the Center
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Long ago, humans believed our planet was the center of the universe. Below that, on a smaller scale, we each focused on our tiny self as the most crucial element in the cosmos. (And why would that not be so? We can never know so much detail and motivation in any other history than our own.) At the center of these personal universes, gods and other creatures, events, weather and geological changes, random magic and power existed only to add color, conflict, and prosperity to our own brief lifespans. I didn’t think about my life’s journey much when I was young, but I did have enthusiasm. Life was like a TV show I’d wandered into, and so I improvised, trying to look as good as possible, attempting to convince the other players and myself that I knew what I was doing. The middle years of my life were too busy to be concerned with much more than feeding offspring and keeping them from falling from precipices both real and imagined. I wanted everything good for them, and I transferred my focus to their stories. They thrived--my heart was full. I felt pleased to be a far star in the night sky, helping to guide my sailors. Halfway through my eighth decade, I understand Earth is but a speck, and my individual life is less than a nano-speck surrounded by vast space. I recall Joni’s song, “Circle Game”: the seasons go round and round and my seat on a painted pony passes to someone who comes after. L’chaim! |
O. Initiating artist STEPHEN GARNER
He Met His Muse.
He Met His Muse.
O. Responding poet Linda Hartmann:
"Eruption"
"Eruption"
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In a valley veiled with twilight’s gaze,
A woman bathed beneath the moon, While shadows whispered, danced, and tranced, Her heart remained a steadfast rune. The volcanic mountain, fierce and high With fire’s roar and molten streams Unleashed its wrath upon the sky., It shattered calm and silenced dreams. The woman, lost in words adored, The flames began their feast, By booklight’s glow, her world unmoored. The ancient texts; charred, deceased. From molten ruins and ancient tree Two creatures with interest appeared Small red fox, dark and wise; A bat with wings that sparkled like the fires. Different in talent but equal in size. They reached her landing by the steamy shore, Where flames devoured what came before. |
They whispered to her in the heat,
“Fear not, with destruction, tales repeat. Your books gone, but their words still live, In hearts and minds, they’ll always give.” While lava roared with crazy might The creatures led her through the haze, While wisdom’s flame remained alight. To realms where shadows kissed the blaze. In ancient tales and truths now lost, She saw the fire’s hidden cost. For books may burn and homes may fall, Yet words of wisdom answer all. In every ember, every spark, And though the fiery tempest swirled, A story lives, a vital mark. Her spirit rose like a phoenix, unfurled. |
