Ekphrasis XIII 2024 Online Exhibition
SET 6. Visual Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
T. KATHY CARL, "Bubblefish." Response by BETH SPENCER: "Blue Fish".
U. SHARON GARNER, Downtown Elk. Response by author HOLLY TANNEN: "The Woody"
V. BOB RHOADES, Late Night Shopping. Response by poet ELIZABETH VRENIOS: "Huckleberries"
SET 6. Visual Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
T. KATHY CARL, "Bubblefish." Response by BETH SPENCER: "Blue Fish".
U. SHARON GARNER, Downtown Elk. Response by author HOLLY TANNEN: "The Woody"
V. BOB RHOADES, Late Night Shopping. Response by poet ELIZABETH VRENIOS: "Huckleberries"
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T. Initiating artist KATHY CARL: Bubblefish |
THE BLUE FISH CONSIDERS HAPPINESS Response by BETH SPENCER |
Watercolor and soap bubbles. 10x8. 350.
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In fall, often, the blue fish held back
from its tribe shoaling near the rocks or in the sunken ruins of a trawler. The blue fish preferred to tumble alone near the mouth of the river that came hard into the sea after a storm, sometimes so hard it turned the sea a silty golden brown. The blue fish liked a little danger, a little turbulence. What’s an ocean for if not to test a fish’s mettle, it thought, but the family was forever going on about school safety and avoiding party boats trailing hooks and vomit and clouds of gulls. The blue fish had often seen boats sail directly into a school and trick the family with spinners and worms and—horrors!-- parts of other fish. Watched as cousin after cousin met air for the first and last time and learned too late that thrashing only made the end more painful. Safer here between the bridge and bell buoy despite seals and lions looking for lunch at all hours. Freedom! It was worth the risk. Just now the sun was falling into a forest of kelp. Weaving through the parliament of tall green bodies the blue fish felt the rarest kind of joy. It wouldn’t last, but it was enough. It was, thought the blue fish, more than enough. |
U. Initiating photographer SHARON GARNER: Downtown Elk.
U. Response by poet HOLLY TANNEN: "The Woody"
By Hedgar Hallen Poo (Holly Tannen)
The cartoon character Woody Woodpecker is said to have been inspired by an acorn
woodpecker whose drilling kept Gracie and Walter Lantz awake on their honeymoon.
Once upon a morning cloudy, while my phone machine said “Howdy!”
Over many a quaint and curious fossil of fogrotten dinosaur -
I was musing, nearly snoozing, suddenly there came confusing
Sounds of someone cruising, boozing, at my cabin door.
“’Tis some tone-deaf geek who’s tripping, rapping at my cabin door -
“Some ungrateful deadhead,” I surmised, “and nothing more.”
Bugged, I tried to shut the shutter, when with many a mighty flutter,
There appeared an acorn woody pecking at some buglike goody
Woody! Star of Saturday cartoons from days of yore;
Not a downy nor a hairy pileated wood canary, fidget-
Ing upon a cross of Bridget high above my cabin door
“Can I use your phone?” s/he said, “Just once, and nevermore.”
“Wily pecker, you would grab it, crack it, and most likely hack it.
No!” I told this aerial descendant of the late great dinosaur;
Thus the woody, angry, moody as an old disgruntled foodie,
Cried, “I am no morbid corvid, nor a rabid buffleheaded duck,
Nor an osprey, nor a heron, so stop starin’, stupid human,”
Quoth the surly, tetchy woody pecker, “WTF!”
If I hacked all eighteen verses, you’d admonish me with curses -
“Every verse you write is worser than the one before!”
You would drive me howling, yowling, scowling, mewling, growling,
Bawling, crawling out the open Coop door -
In your fractious, righteous rages, you who pay no praise nor wages,
Would despoil my spindrift pages, fling them on the floor.
Four more lines and I’ll be finished, thus my glory ne’er diminished,
I will eat some chocolate and do yoga on the floor -
I am glad this page has room for not a stanza more.
“That’s all, folks,” said Woody, “That’s all, folks!” and nothing more.”
The cartoon character Woody Woodpecker is said to have been inspired by an acorn
woodpecker whose drilling kept Gracie and Walter Lantz awake on their honeymoon.
Once upon a morning cloudy, while my phone machine said “Howdy!”
Over many a quaint and curious fossil of fogrotten dinosaur -
I was musing, nearly snoozing, suddenly there came confusing
Sounds of someone cruising, boozing, at my cabin door.
“’Tis some tone-deaf geek who’s tripping, rapping at my cabin door -
“Some ungrateful deadhead,” I surmised, “and nothing more.”
Bugged, I tried to shut the shutter, when with many a mighty flutter,
There appeared an acorn woody pecking at some buglike goody
Woody! Star of Saturday cartoons from days of yore;
Not a downy nor a hairy pileated wood canary, fidget-
Ing upon a cross of Bridget high above my cabin door
“Can I use your phone?” s/he said, “Just once, and nevermore.”
“Wily pecker, you would grab it, crack it, and most likely hack it.
No!” I told this aerial descendant of the late great dinosaur;
Thus the woody, angry, moody as an old disgruntled foodie,
Cried, “I am no morbid corvid, nor a rabid buffleheaded duck,
Nor an osprey, nor a heron, so stop starin’, stupid human,”
Quoth the surly, tetchy woody pecker, “WTF!”
If I hacked all eighteen verses, you’d admonish me with curses -
“Every verse you write is worser than the one before!”
You would drive me howling, yowling, scowling, mewling, growling,
Bawling, crawling out the open Coop door -
In your fractious, righteous rages, you who pay no praise nor wages,
Would despoil my spindrift pages, fling them on the floor.
Four more lines and I’ll be finished, thus my glory ne’er diminished,
I will eat some chocolate and do yoga on the floor -
I am glad this page has room for not a stanza more.
“That’s all, folks,” said Woody, “That’s all, folks!” and nothing more.”
V. Initiating artist BOB RHOADES: Late Night Shopping
S. Response by poet ELIZABETH KIRKPATRICK VRENIOS
"Huckleberries"
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Memory is all around you.
It begins with the morning light holding its breath on her side of the bed, begins with her standing by the door waiting, holding your cap and scarf, her laughter evaporating in your hands. This morning you expect her to be there with you and for a second as small as a huckleberry, you think you smell the aroma of muffins coming from the kitchen where she must be, face flushed from the heat of the oven. Elizabeth Kirkpatrick-Vrenios |
Here in Mendosa’s, the aisles echo,
no one about in canned goods or produce, cashier waiting impatiently for you, the last customer, to leave. You walk out into a changed light of endings. Memory ends with the sun appearing to set before it even rises, a strained chorus of nothing at nine p.m., sky painted into silence. When the fog comes you still won’t be home, won’t be with her at home. All this time for now, time spent filling time. |
