Dichotomy of light and shade
rainbow blurred in cloud and rain
white suicidal water
tangible tears of spray
rocks of despair, eddies of grief
days of uncertainty and loss
Still the blue face of control
cascades of courage and resolution
accepting the crags of destruction
the far horizon of the past
tethered on the edge of memory
Sarah Das Gupta wrote this ekphrastic poem, inspired by Frederic Edwin Church’s 1857 painting Niagara, which was first published in The Ekphrastic Review, October 20, 2023 in their Ekphrastic Challenges series. Read about ekphrastic poetry in Niagara.
Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher living near Cambridge, UK who has taught in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in over 12 countries including US, UK, Australia, Canada, Germany, India, Croatia and Romania
Now the gulls
have chased away
the long- and lacewings,
Now the silt has risen
from the river floor
to overturn her days and ways,
and now their boat trip
has not shown the mist
she had hoped to see,
she sees that rainbows still fall on,
that tides rest at her feet
and barrels drift away anyway.
He might brighten up
once they drive down to the lakes,
once he stops mocking her love
for the waterfalls that make her
think straight, he wants to
control her rise and fall
but her moods to sing like birds
and butterflies, is a step further
towards the edge of
falling days, where her best choice
is, to choose her road carefully, is
to be aware of plunging
without sinking. To see he might just
be in her way. Dive in, dear girl,
but rise, down the shiny waves.
Kate Copeland started absorbing words ever since a little lass. Her love for language led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry…please find her pieces at The Ekphrastic Review, First Lit.Review-East, Wildfire Words, The Weekly/Five South, AltPoetry and others. Over the years, she worked at festivals and Breathe-Read-Write-sessions; she is now curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review and runs linguistic-poetry workshops for the IWWG this year. Kate was born @ harbour city and adores housesitting at the world. https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/
with this falling desire to find
the most magic breezes,
the best of both worlds, to drive
some mighty drives.
Let us go back to 1986,
when my parents opened shop
then proudly spent the money
in big cities, on bigger cars,
at biggest waterfalls.
A road trip, and all is grand, all goes
fast, and y’all say how-ya-folks-doing.
Yellow taxis, subway steams,
rush-hush diners, sneakers’ streams.
We got culturally confused over
morning coffee with no menu,
the fries on every sandwich, the toppings
on every sundae, in every National Park.
No end to the eye, no end to the sights.
Wonderstruck, we got
and our giant car past traffic lights
swinging from wires, we got pulled over
on I-90, by shiny-sunglass-sheriff.
Onwards to Graceland, for the King,
forwards to the Falls, for dear Marilyn.
Liquid silver river, blue-green falling
with no fear for borders,
or for yellow ponchos.
Nature is a thunderous wonder,
nature at its thunderous best.
Feeling like film-living in the mist
of rainbows, the foredeck pointing at
caves and hidden myths.
Dad, you have left us
with this healing desire
to hold on to memories, of cities,
of road trips, the water. You have
shown us your tall way, to fall without fail.
Kate Copeland started absorbing words ever since a little lass. Her love for language led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry…please find her pieces at The Ekphrastic Review, First Lit.Review-East, Wildfire Words, The Weekly/Five South, AltPoetry and others. Over the years, she worked at festivals and Breathe-Read-Write-sessions; she is now curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review and runs linguistic-poetry workshops for the IWWG this year. Kate was born @ harbour city and adores housesitting at the world. https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/
White. Cold. My first noticing was the dense mist. Not tendrils curling around like fingers but thick like a blanket, moisture-rich, like being inside a cloud. It would burn off later as the sun climbed in the sky. I needed there to be good visibility for the crowd. Next, as always, I noticed the noise. A pleasant natural cacophony at a distance, it became a pounding, rushing freight train as I walked towards The Spot. We’d scouted it weeks before, using word-of-mouth and triangulating with newspaper reports from a few years back. The crushing sound, the energy of the spray – it really made me feel alive.
My good friend Itzak was already waiting, well wrapped up in his long greatcoat with the collar turned up, thick padded leather gloves, his long mutton chop sideburns slick with the water vapour and his dark curls were straggling from under his peaked cap. Itzak’s lips curled into a smile at my approach and he had that devilish twinkle in his eye confirming why he was the only person I could have trusted to help me with this caper.
If – no, when – I made it to the bottom of the Falls I’d be famous. No-one else had ever managed the journey and survived, and certainly no woman, though truth be told very few had tried, and even then not voluntarily. The last poor fellows had fallen, one almost rescued then pulled under by the cruel currents. My journey would be sensational in a different way. The reporter would be here soon, as would the usual troupes of tourists, as soon as the dense fog lifted to unveil the splendour of the Falls.
“Who’s that? Is he the man from The Gazette?” I asked Itzak, pointing to a tall stranger. He looked old, probably as much as thirty. The man nodded in our direction but seemed preoccupied as he turned to look at the water cascading over the edge.
“Him? That’s Frederic. I spoke with him yesterday afternoon. He’s some sort of artist, sketching the Falls. You know how popular it is for postcards and pasting onto tourist tat.”
“He’s not drawing us, is he?” I was suspicious of the detached, aloof stranger.
“No, no worries there.” Itzak flashed me another smile. “He told me he’s only interested in the Romantic Ideal of nature. He won’t even paint what he sees, but only the best version of it, he said.”
“Hah! Perhaps he’ll have a new romantic ideal in mind later!”
Itzak smiled again and stepped to the side to reveal the barrel. It was large, dark, heavy – befitting the seriousness of its purpose. Painted on the side in large white letters was “Bella D’Angelo, Niagara Falls, 1856”. Inside, it was packed with soft, cream, newly spun wool. My playful mind suggested that it would be just like climbing into the clouds themselves, although thankfully drier.
“Are you sure you’ll have enough room in there?”
“We’ve tested it out, Itzak. There’s enough room for me to snuggle down, for you to add the last soft pillow of wool on top and bolt on the lid. As long as Bertrand is ready with the boat at the bottom all will be well.”
“Ah, here’s the reporter now. Let me help you in and you can talk to him from there before you nestle down. That will make it more dramatic.”
And that’s where it all went awry. It was a combination of the slippery rock under Itzak’s foot as he helped me, the proximity of the barrel to the edge – after all The Spot was the perfect launch place for a reason, that reason being ease of falling – and the power of gravity sucking at the weight of the barrel with me half in it.
I’ll give The Gazette reporter his due. As obituaries go, it was nicely written. I’d get the fame I wanted but not quite in the way I desired.
Emily Tee writes poetry and flash fiction, often based on ekphrastic topics. She is the editor and judge of a series of monthly ekphrastic contests for The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. She’s had two nominations for Best Small Fictions Anthology from The Ekphrastic Review, who have published a number of her pieces in recent years. Other ekphrastic work has appeared in Visual Verse. Emily lives in the UK.
Strands of darkening
tangerine twilight
tantalizes
an Ontario skyline
near Horseshoe Falls
sending frothy waves,
sheets of water
cascading over
rocky outcroppings
into the Niagara River,
as we stand
on the observation deck
at Skylon Tower
mesmerized
by its sheer force
hours before
moonlight casts
its glow on a dark
June evening sky,
before we whisper
under the stars.
A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) – copies available from opmewriter@gmail.com. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany) and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom).He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI.
