Ekphrastic Echoes
- Art made in response to poetry, literature
Ekphrastic poetry: is defined as poems written about works of art. However, in ancient Greece, the term ekphrasis was applied to the skill of describing a thing with vivid detail
Group show
May 27th -July 1st 2024 Opening May 27th
reservations are required 7734505563 sarahmariepalazzolo@gmail.com
Angela Novak
Cheryl Spooner
JUXTAPOSITIONS Ana Lisa de Jong
The juxtaposition of the two,
the pain and beauty,
has me on my knees
looking at the sky.
Where across this expanse of blue
is the lacework weave of clouds
backing the shape of tree limbs
studded in spring bloom.
And under the blue of the whole is a world
struck numb and breathless at its own inhumanity
yet still unbroken in its beauty.
In how it saves us from ourselves, not once but countless times.
Yes, the juxtaposition of the two
has me open-mouthed in grief and gratitude too.
Did the blossom tree draw to a halt her bud burst for the bloodshed on the ground.
Or did she see new purpose in the blooming.
The juxtaposition of the two,
makes every breath so precious
that it hurts
Breathe with me, and smile on the ground, I'm told our tears are fertilizer for seedbeds,
precursors to new life.
Living Tree Poetry
October 2023
Elena Pach
Depression is a great white Shark
Depression is a great white Shark Mia Pratt
Depression is a great white shark who navigates the green sea of my emotions
ravaging part of my arching heart with its teeth
absorbed in bitterness and loneliness
leaving behind shipwrecks and broken relationships in its wake
Jennifer Lenzmeier Dunk
Hokusai Says by Roger Keyes
Hokusai says look carefully.
He says pay attention, notice.
He says keep looking, stay curious.
He says there is no end to seeing
He says look forward to getting old.
He says keep changing,
you just get more who you really are.
He says get stuck, accept it, repeat
yourself as long as it is interesting.
He says keep doing what you love.
He says keep praying.
He says every one of us is a child,
every one of us is ancient
every one of us has a body.
He says every one of us is frightened.
He says every one of us has to find
a way to live with fear.
He says everything is alive —
shells, buildings, people, fish,
mountains, trees, wood is alive.
Water is alive.
Everything has its own life.
Everything lives inside us.
He says live with the world inside you.
He says it doesn’t matter if you draw,
or write books. It doesn’t matter
if you saw wood, or catch fish.
It doesn’t matter if you sit at home
and stare at the ants on your veranda
or the shadows of the trees
and grasses in your garden.
It matters that you care.
It matters that you feel.
It matters that you notice.
It matters that life lives through you.
Contentment is life living through you.
Joy is life living through you.
Satisfaction and strength
is life living through you.
He says don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid.
Love, feel, let life take you by the hand.
Let life live through you.
Sharon Rutledge
Money
Rose Mattax
Musee des Beaux Arts
W. H. Auden
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2022/03/06/books/auden-musee-des-beaux-arts.html
Jamie Tibbits
When I am among the trees by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Ann Reinertsen Farrell
Luke
by Mary Oliver
I had a dog who loved flowers. Briskly she went through the fields,
yet paused for the honeysuckle or the rose,
her dark head her wet nose touching the face of everyone
with its petals of silk, with its fragrance rising
into the air where the bees, their bodies heavy with pollen,
hovered—and easily she adored every blossom,
not in the serious, careful way
that we choose this blossom or that blossom—
the way we praise or don’t praise—
the way we love or don’t love—but the way
we long to be—that happy in the heaven of earth—
that wild, that loving.
Michel Santaquilani
Sarah Palazzolo
As Kingfishers Catch Fire
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.
I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.
Write to Cheryl Gretz Spoone
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