The Collected Special Ekphrastic Challenge for May 2020. The Next Four Days. Artworks from Mary Frances, James Knight and Sue Harpham the inspiration for writers: Alex Mazey, Ankh Spice, Samantha Terrell, Dai Fry, Carrie Ann Golden, sonja benskin mesher, Rich Follett, Don Beukes, Yvonne Marjot, and Paul Brookes.

May Ekphrastic challenge white 2[78440]


Thankyou to Jane Cornwell for designing the front cover


May 17th

17MF 17


Murakami’s cats, the peeling memory, an unhealthy preoccupation
with Studio Ghibli animation, an unhealthy preoccupation with
certain social media accounts, with line breaks that you have to
get over – eventually. Ninety-percent of my life is devoted to
upsetting people with a line break, forming only at the preposition.
It seems, most of the time, this is more upsetting to / some people
than the combined human rights violations of, say, North Korea.

-Alex Mazey

Day 17 sonja


foam is ok , like this sea stuff
yet pea foam leaves me wanting for regular
without the mouth sensation

unlike mousse which is more like
solid froth
or should I say foam again
and spoil the muse

light is wonderful
lifts the brain and limbs
sparkles rain the morning
once again we have the repetition
of words

shapes fly
foam flies
the salted wind

by the sea
seagulls fly



The Gift

You never asked what happened
to your favourite mug. On my way to the ocean
I walk past the home for the elderly around the corner
from where I now live. Me, this unanticipated adult.
With these unscheduled steps.
Sometimes I look up
at the little bubbles of convex windows, angled
to catch the last of the sunlight. Treated to rainbows.
The last we spoke I was fourteen
and you were alive and I was barely.
The last word you said to me was ‘anything’.
One of those windows heard anything you spoke last
of all. I smashed that mug on purpose, and I took the bits
to the ocean and I fed them to the sea. She swallowed them
without a sound – broken pieces
far too small to make a splash.
Decades in the dark change a thing.
This fragment of tidegift blue in my palm is heavy
and has no sharp edges at all.

-Ankh Spice

A Sea Spat

You leave treasures
on your golden table,
swept crumb clean
by tiny waves.

Taken home and placed
on sun bleached pine,
with sprigs of sea’s weed
and pebble soothed glass.

When age takes away
the wave and sandy shore.
When sight dims and
eyes fill with rheum.

Then touch her treasures,
smell her salty airs,
remember the crash
and rattle of sea scree.

Draw each breath
and with it,
memories of sand winds
and young limbs.

Remembering when
gulls cried their fish hunger,
and sun backed silhouettes
passed in wet sea skies.

Wistfulness marks you,
a desire for foam and dunes
where land gets up from the sea.

A bringing of comfort, this
distillation of mindfulness,
as a pause in your day.

In a dawn filled room
flax bed and polish, sense
curtains caught in sea breeze.
These billowing angels greet
you on this, your last day.

©️ Dai Fry 16th May 2020.


I long to be consistent through change,
On blue sky days,
Or in city stink claustrophobia.

Repeatedly sharing life energy,
Repeatedly sharing life energy,

Duplicate skeletons
With a singular message –
Love, love, love, love, love.



a shard of delft cradled in seafoam
has survived four centuries of fortunes made and lost,
piracy, war, and brave exploration

perhaps its story is our story;
perhaps it is just a castaway—
why should we even wonder?

still, one thought remains,
unyielding to time and tide—
if this montage truly does not signify,
how is it that one fragment
tossed by wind and waves
can come to rest as
a splendid mountain range
across a lilliputian continent of spume?

-Rich Follett

The Visitors

They came on a moonless night
shedding black rain on us
our bodies
folded and melted
like some block cheese
drip, dripping over a plate
’till only the skeletons
greeted the rising sun

-Carrie Ann Golden

Phantoms in my Mind

Demon Alley – Each liquid dead of night nightmare
continues to deliver a blinding glare of my inner
light darkened by familiar fears snuffed out by
freezing whispers of false rumours of my former
self – My childhood nightmares and insecurities
clashing in a nightly showdown of my inner sanctum
my perceived existential survival, compounded
by recurrent mocking voices singing their cutting
questioning of my existence, my brave resistance –

I used to take their punches even their toxic
repetitive slashing remarks but I am better
now, so I willingly enter demon alley – Just
to make sure none of them is left to jeer and
sneer or chiselling my former brittle veneer.

Emergence – My mind now calmer as I reflect
On my former neglect of my inner core my
personal war but I have won that battle against
myself as I emerge renewed healing my mood…

New Atlantis

Earth barren and bare
Our oceans chalk dry no
No surprise we just did not
Care so we still question our
Actions but we all know the truth –
Humanity complacent ignoring the signs
Mocking the science of those in the know
Dismissing rumours of the final day so here
We dwell in our new Atlantis no more the
Masters of our former existence, having
To journey far just to hope and find
Even just a drop of water – To
Touch our parched lips which cannot
Even speak our regret of our former
Proud existence – Now a mere
Ancient memory in our
New Atlantis…

-Don Beukes

In Our Skulls

of multi story car parks
that foam at the mouth
with the spit of the sea,
ogres and demons deep in the waves
wash the bairn of you clean,
scatter your old ash with their tides.

Multi story car parks are epics,
mountains to be read or heard.
with their twists and turns,
as you try to park your message
safe and secure in the company
of other folk’s narratives.

-Paul Brookes
Cento 3

When sight dims and
eyes fill with rheum
in city stink claustrophobia
we dwell in our new Atlantis
no more the Masters
of our former existence
safe and secure in the company
of other folk’s narratives.
Decades in the dark change a thing.


May 18th


18Version 2

Sue Day 4

The past of those passed
collected on felled trees,
on stones that mattered.
We have written out our lives,
thrown a few words
against the social wind;
maybe a few have clung
to the dying willows.
I doubt it. We’re transients
on this earth. We don’t know
how to live with this earth.
A silent species, a thousand
thousand years from now,
will have nothing from us
to touch with the wonder
only the fingers can translate.

-Elizabeth Moura

Day 18 sonja

,power and glory.

do you feel like two people
that one is split in two
that the other one does
look a bit like you
only more so

do you fetch out your older clothes and boots
now and make longer sentences that do not quite match the others

feel happy now as the chap you are

will you go back when your hair was commanded
where the bidding predicted

the power house reflected

will this all be for nothing
if you make no changes

live in glass houses
and throw stones





Ancient Syrian
Glass beads were made
From sea-turned sand –
Displaced granules
Plus, scalding heat
Created the change.
Solid became liquid,
Became solid once more.

The babies have been bombed
There, you know,
While the Western world
Is willingly blind
(Probably from the glare
Of glass-faced skyscrapers).
But glass and water and time
Have seen it all.



close your eyes … TIGHTLY.

lightning flashes dance and swirl,
neon colors pulsing:
in childhood, an escape—
in adulthood, a nightmare.

we stare into the vortex
behind our eyes
searching for meaning but
meaning eludes us
(it’s a metaphor).

if there is a message—
a lesson is to be learned or
a moral to light our path—
perhaps it is merely
the comfort of knowing that
this chaos, however frightening,
is inherently ours:
we may return to it in the blink of an eye
(or at least in one tight squeeze)
and it will be as we left it.

however senseless it may seem,
it is and always will be a vision beyond vision—
perhaps the only glimpse we get, as mortals,
of life without the burden of flesh.

-Rich Follett


Once led to believe, one time, the second tallest building in Xiamen,
now a pizza hut, sells unlimited juice and coffee for twenty renminbi.
American style pancakes are stacked pancakes with bacon and syrup.
Every world has reflections, every building – fire exits, that should
be observed without question. Guilty pleasures are the backlit, exit-
signs of cinema screens, the warm glow of a stone fire, out back with
a buried chicken, and fire eggs, and perfect, red grapes beside the river.


Versions of your doppelgängers,
lead to these smooth horizons –
vaporwave swimming pools, etc.

Once added a tomato to my rice
cooker, and mixed it in to form
tomato rice.

Exquisite, modern living.

-Alex Mazey

Versions of Us

Floating whispers fade into toxic ash
raining daily to nourish our forgotten
failures in secret mental corners
morphing into fierce creatures spitting
jealous speeches to proclaim our fake
emotional seizures for false larks to
vaguely maybe see us but we mask
our deepest darkest thoughts igniting
silent wars whilst flashing dagger smiles
of sometimes unknown causes shutting
personal borders as we daily drown in
echoes of screeching sounds and clone
flawed weak versions of us before
turning into choking dust…

Urban Citadel

Confined confused voices
rising up from unplanned urban
hell holes confined spaces breeding
nasty haters looking down on determined
individuals escaping their limitations
igniting explosive emotions spilling
over all corners infecting nourishing
willing recipients in a network of
tensions electrifies dormant
confrontations releasing hidden forces
casting long-lasting shadows over concrete
dead meadows of fallen souls unable to
deal with what life has confronted them
with in mundane lives caused by paper
cloud dreams melting into their personal
urban citadel hell with no-one left to tell.

-Don Beukes

Electron Dreamer

I am the neon burner,
golem walker, dream stalker
on night-ma-red roads.

Behind, pavements
lie murking shadows
in trenches to the side.

Silent drifting, these
sleeping cities dreaming
they still wake.

Deep ocean hunter
under my own light.
Cold fire will call,
from high lines
to dream tides,
washed in the
flotsam and jetsam
of your night.

Outside our dreams piped
to the periphery of life.
See us reborn into
sleep’s despair,
as lizard brains must
warm on moonlit rocks.

©️ Dai Fry 17th May 2020.

This Magic Theatre

Entrance Not for Everyone, For Madmen Only.
There were too many of me
to make sense.

Hawkwind’s Steppenwolf led me to Hermann Hesse
in an effort to find myself. A season in hell

I am the wolf who wishes to feast on all flesh.
I am the man who asks to be reasonable.
The wolf would eat the man raw.
The man who would be sensible.

I am the dragon in both
the man and the wolf.
I am too many.

Kes, the book not the film
ends in a cinema. As I read
I am Billy. Big Billy. Billy
on the screen, Billy sat
in the cinema watching Billy
on the screen. I am Paul
watching Billy sat in the
cinema watching Billy.

I sit with my late grandad
musky with pipesmoke
in the cinema.

I am watching 2001:
A Space Odyssey. I am
Paul watching Dave
in a spacesuit watching
Old Dave in bed.
I am Dave.

I am the dragon who watches Paul
watching Billy and Dave.
I am dragonwolf, I am wolfdragon.
I am BillyDave, I am DaveBilly.

I am adolescent.

Grandad prefers Bond films.

-Paul Brookes

Cento 4

I am the neon burner,
golem walker, dream stalker
on night-ma-red roads,
glass and water and time,

May 19th


19MF 19

The last string

That little town where every kid
starts out with a festival of balloons

each step they’re followed by every colour
before they know the names of any of them

to grow up means to let go of strings
and one by one, they do

when did you realise your body
was a thin shape you were stuck inside

when did you let go of the knowing
that one day you’d be a dolphin

or a butterfly, for-certain-for-real
and your promising skin would stretch

so bright and right, to float you free
when did the second-to-last colour

become just a shadow on the sun
and did you wave it gone

like the proud new adults in that town
left holding just the one

=Ankh Spice


These peonies know
no social distancing.
They cling
petal to petal
in soft defiance,
tactile, lush. They
press closer,
sharing scent like
your skin and mine.

When this is over
I’m going to hold you,
curl myself around you,
and break every taboo.

-Yvonne Marjot

Day 19 sonja

.black butterfly wing.

is it a moth here in the dark?

triangles bring mystery
a new mathematics

the rooms were swept yesterday
bones hidden
teeth implied

yet the shape remains embedded

scratch it scratch with bitten nails
find the origin

peel it back

& find it is all
simply a petal
from the peony
you picked

next time maybe
use the lamp to see



William Gibson was paid twenty-seven dollars for his first short story,
Fragments of A Hologram Rose. Now, alligator clips on the top lawn,
in spring, when the first of the washing, dried outside, different shades,
in length, the boredom, pastel-pink clothes wire between each building.
In length-wise lemon grass, fragrant, and turned again, cut garlic with
another preposition. A page of Bei Dao, waited for birds – how many
years? No – this is not for the peered rose – the pit you once spat out.

-Alex Mazey


When rainbow shades transfigure
From royal blue to Kelly green,

There’s a gradient change
Leaving intact individual

Light pixels, crucial to
Each color’s structure.

Metamorphosis doesn’t simply mean

It’s also preservation of
Our deeply-ingrained parts.


faith in a flower

to see the world in peach and rose is
the curse of the romantic
the bane of science
the crux of re-election and
a haven for the tender-hearted.

knowing that beauty is ephemeral,
we invariably choose denial—
opting for one more moment in the glow
(each to our own degree and
in our own time and place).

Shakespeare knew:
words have the power to freeze time—
to render fleeting beauty timeless—
i need that now:
against all evidence to the contrary,
i choose
to believe.

-Rich Follett

The Biocentric Multiverse

Beneath your dreams
some great truth sleeps.
For every choice
births another universe.

And in the why of it,
the how of it,
a fresh way is forged.

Life’s spark in
universal cogs of
biocentric creation,
a machined reality
oiled by quantum grace.

Every multiverse
by one prime action
is differently made.
Maybe a murder
or a smile in passing.

And time
the measure of
all changes.

A true love yawns,
and turns away.
And you…
the never born,
never ever friend,
will never mind.

©️ Dai Fry 19th May 2020.

Meandering Metamorphosis

Into the Blue – Diving into the waters of my
melancholy is not my daily emotional spa
as my mood swings are rapidly spinning
uncontrollably threatening to drown my
remaining sanity until there will be no chance
of gasping for air but I don’t care if no one
cares – I am done with trying to please
everyone, so much for my master plan of
ignoring the why what and when as I still
try to defend yet again my own elected
doomed reality fantasy in a world not meant
for me, so I willingly float deeper into my
echoes of blue –

Red Alert – Warning flashing turbulent
gnashing of emotions grinding contortions
slowing to a halt then sinking deeper into
my elected dead water hoping for a caring
arm to pull me up from this red alert emotional
dreadful deepening meandering metamorphosis.

Wilted Love

Empty words wilted flowers – I feel such a fool spilling my love
wasting precious shared hours knowing
this tainted love is fading fast despite fake
efforts to somehow make it last but your
purple mood cannot mask your true hidden
intentions as you faintly whisper of past
liaisons which made you born your bitter
frustrations for yearned embraces mute
sensations turning into secret curses but
I cannot allow your constant accusatory
remarks to snuff out my former bright
spark, so I have to let you go before I bow
at your directed love show receiving mediocre
applause for the fiasco you yourself have
caused – Now go as I refuse to starve from
wilted love sucking my once pulsating halo.

© Don Beukes

My Bones

rise into the blue
become butterfly, dolphin, me,
an invisible worm,
when I run against the gust,
the gust takes my skull,
my imaginary wings,
my imaginary fishskin,
the wormdream
and makes it a finger to point
at the sky.

An invisible worm that flies
in my night makes my rose sick.

Cento 4:

When rainbow shades transfigure
silent drifting, these
sleeping cities dreaming
they are still awake,
a finger to point at the sky.


May 20th


20MF 20


Day Zero – A voice an echo hazy halo no human hello
This place this existence a murmur a glitch strange
Sounds no memories faded dreams chrome screams
A tunnel narrowing bright lights prickling skermunkels
Piercing my skin igniting my molecular wiring in this
Outer world existence a sudden intake of forgotten
Breath from eons ago yet vaguely familiar to let go
of these life-giving biological cellular feeding –
I can hear it, a warming accompanying droning
Announcing my awakening to Day Zero…

Memories of Us – A voice white noise entering my
My grey consciousness waking up in this warp speed
Existence no immediate sense only the monotone
Voice of an enigma haunting phenomena, reminding
Us of our former selves now only bionic shells –
Light-years have passed beyond Mars our journey
Only just slowing down this nowhere town our floating
Host transporting dried out souls controlling our
Current state – Floating ash as it reminds recurring
Memories of us in a never-ending interstellar rush…

-Don Beukes

Merrily We Go

Round you go.
See your life,
you catch a glimpse
of what’s to come?

Round you go,
lights and blur
pan piped carousel.
Having fun?

Round you go,
just starting so
get used to these
new circular days.

Round you go,
finally figured it out.
Round and round,
you just go round.

Round you go.
Bell rings,
it starts to slow.
This ride’s at an end.

© Dai Fry 19th May 2020.

Fairest of them all

Once a year you and Spangles
circumnavigated the world. At least
the slice of it that turntabled
a jerky Greensleeves orbit
at the racetrack fair, and Spangles
very secret name known only to you
and fibreglass, frozen forever mid-leap.
And once a year you’d watch yourself transform.
The mirrors on that carousel were cut
with stars, and hungry
for their bites – an elbow or a shank,
each year a bigger meal. And faces licked
to change – in one you glowed, or stretched
to spiderboy, another drooped you grim.
Your future as a jockey-gnome, or sidestep
down a well. It’s not the turn-and-turn
that makes us sick, but reflecting
on all the up-and-down. Each queasy maybe
born beneath a different cut-glass star –
you touched them all
until your fingerprints were sore.

-Ankh Spice

No Standing Room Only

Carousels haunt me
More than skeletons
These days

Maybe it’s the way
They keep showing up

Or how no one
Is allowed to
Stand together,

Let alone,
On the carousel ride,

Maybe, though, it’s
The way they
Keep us moving,

Going nowhere –
Human hamsters
On our wheel.


May 21st

Day 20 sonja

.lockdown ladders.

the bones of snow

wait until spring arrives


my legs would not

hold me up that day without the thought

of iron rods to help


ladders to support us

they said no standing

some of us are determined

ladders to support us

gifts of merry go

round we go again….



An entire childhood can be played out at ten o’clock, on channel four,
an entire childhood can be relived as a streaming service. Jackie Chan
informed – an ontological outlook – took years finding another copy
of New Police Story; took years to find The awful rowing toward God.
Wonder if you ever found God, backseat, vodka on the rocks, fume pipe
like a telephone, another drive through televangelist. This isn’t about
being in the world, reoccurrence, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week.


Recall the skeleton
of each science classroom,

the bleached, painted anatomy, it seemed,
awful to this one teacher, one time,

his baseball cap,
my scarf in winter.

-Alex Mazey


No standing.


The urchin in me is outraged:
“This thing was made to move!
Sure, pistons and cranks and cylinders
may not be pretty but come on!
This whole thing was meant to spin
and whirr and dazzle and gallop and
play the coolest music …”

Yet, here it sits;
not paused for new riders to mount
(no, never so lucky)—
just run down, abandoned,
neglected, just …

With that word
uttered only in my head,
the grownup apprehends:

No ponies today;
no standing, either:
newly aware,
renewed in purpose,
I trot on—
nose to the wind and
determined to run.

-Rich Follett

A Merry-Go-Round

“They leapt upon it, Mary Poppins on a black horse and [Bert] on a grey. And when the music started again and they began to move, they rode all the way to Yarmouth and back, because that was the place they both wanted most to see.”

So P.L Travers described the carousel in Mary Poppins.
When she requested the added animation of ponies freed of the merry go round to win horse races and join fox hunts be removed
Disney replied “That ship has sailed”.

And the painted ponies go up and down
Joni Mitchell answers Neil Young’s barkers
On Sugar Mountain
In The Circle Game. Art inspires art.

Adds sinew to bare bones. So this digital art
Of a human skeleton with a feather in its lungs
And landscape photo of a carousel without
the ponies sails other ships.

Art has its own life
a form of flattery
Not always enjoyed
By the original creator.

And this energy goes round
And round
And round
Occasionally breaks free
And endures

-Paul Brookes


Keep us moving
round you go

And once a year you’d watch yourself transform.

Occasionally break free
and endure.

Bios and Links

-Alex Mazey

(b.1991) received his MA (distinction) from Keele University in 2017. He later won The Roy Fisher Prize for Poetry with his debut pamphlet, ‘Bread and Salt’ (Flarestack, TBA). He was also the recipient of a Creative Future Writers’ Award in 2019. His poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine. His collection of essays, ‘Living in Disneyland’, will be available from Broken Sleep Books in October 2020. Alex spent 2018 as a resident of The People’s Republic of China, where he taught the English Language in a school run by the Ministry of Education. His writing has been described as ‘wry and knowing,’ with ‘an edge that tears rather than cuts or deals blows.’

Twitter: @AlexzanderMazey

Instagram: alexmazey

Here is my interview of Alex:

-Rich Follett

is a High School English and Creative Writing teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than forty years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and the late Felino Soriano’s CounterExample Poetics, for which he was a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human &c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (

As a singer-songwriter, Rich has released five albums of independent contemporary folk music. His latest. Somewhere in the Stars, is available at He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, playwright, and director.

-Ankh Spice

is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (NZ). His poetry has appeared in a wide range of international publications and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He truly believes that words have the power to change the place we’re in, and you’ll find him doing his best to prove it on

Twitter: @SeaGoatScreams
or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry

-Carrie Ann Golden

is a deafblind writer from the mystical Adirondack Mountains now living on a farmstead in northeastern North Dakota. She writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in places like Piker Press, Edify Fiction, Doll Hospital Journal, The Hungry Chimera, GFT Press, Asylum Ink, and Visual Verse.

-sonja benskin mesher

born , Bournemouth.


lives and works in North Wales
as an independent artist

‘i am a multidisciplinary artist, crafting paint, charcoal, words and whatever comes to hand, to explain ideas and issues

words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.

Elected as a member of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the United Artists Society
The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide.
Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.

Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:

-Samantha Terrell

is an American poet whose work emphasizes emotional integrity and social justice. She is the author of several eBooks including, Learning from Pompeii, Coffee for Neanderthals, Disgracing Lady Justice and others, available on and its affiliates.Chapbook: Ebola (West Chester University Poetry Center, 2014)

Twitter: @honestypoetry

Here is my 2020 interview of her:

-Don Beukes

is a South African and British writer. He is the author of ‘The Salamander Chronicles’ (CTU) and ‘Icarus Rising-Volume 1’ (ABP), an ekphrastic collection. He taught English and Geography in both South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been anthologized in numerous collections and translated into Afrikaans, Persian, French and Albanian. He was nominated by Roxana Nastase, editor of Scarlet Leaf Review for the ‘Best of the Net’ in 2017 as well as the Pushcart Poetry Prize (USA) in 2016. He was published in his first SA Anthology ‘In Pursuit of Poetic Perfection’ in 2018 (Libbo Publishers) and his second ‘Cape Sounds’ in 2019 (Gavin Joachims Publishing). He is also an amateur photographer and his debut Photographic publication appeared in Spirit Fire Review in June 2019. His new book, ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’/Thus Passes the Glory of this World’ is due to be published by Concrete Mist Press.

Here is my interview of Don Beukes:

-Dai Fry

is an old new poet. He worked in social care but now has no day job. A keen photographer and eater of literature and lurid covers. Fascinated by nature, physics, pagans, sea and storm. His poetry seeks to capture image and tell philosophical tales. Published in Black Bough Poetry, Re-Side, The Hellebore Press and the Pangolin Review. He can be seen reading on #InternationalPoetryCircle and regularly appears on #TopTweetTuesday.
Twitter. @thnargg

Audio/Visual. @IntPoetryCircle #InternationalPoetryCircle Twitter

-Elizabeth Moura

lives in a converted factory and works with elders. She has had poetry, flash fiction or photographs published in online and print publications Human/Kind Journal, Rose Quartz Poetry Magazine, Hawk & Whippoorwill, The Cormorant, Radical: A Lit Zine, Chrysanthemum, Occulum, Flash, Paragraph Planet, and Flash Fiction Magazine. On Twitter @mourapoet, Instagram mourathepoet and

-Paul Brookes

is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018), Please Take Change (, 2018), Stubborn Sod, with Marcel Herms (artist) (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). Forthcoming Khoshhali with Hiva Moazed (artist), Our Ghost’s Holiday (Final book of threesome “A Pagan’s Year”) . He is a contributing writer of Literati Magazine and Editor of Wombwell Rainbow Interviews.

-Mary Frances

is an artist and writer based in the UK. She takes a few photos every day, for inspiration and to use in her work. The images for this project were all taken in the last two years on walks during in the month of May. Her words and images have been published by Penteract Press, Metambesen, Ice Floe Press, Burning House Press, Inside the Outside, Luvina Rivista Literaria, and Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness.

-James Knight

is an experimental poet and digital artist. His books include Void Voices (Hesterglock Press) and Self Portrait by Night (Sampson Low). His visual poems have been published in several places, including the Penteract Press anthology Reflections and Temporary Spaces (Pamenar Press). Chimera, a book of visual poems, is due from Penteract Press in July 2020.


Twitter: @badbadpoet

Here is my interview of James Knight:

-Sue Harpham

is an admin worker, currently not in work Married, 2 sons. Loves poetry and words. She considers herself a writer of scribble rather than a poet. She has written a novel and is using her spare time to finally get it published (self-publishing) which has been an ambition of her for the last 10 years.

One thought on “The Collected Special Ekphrastic Challenge for May 2020. The Next Four Days. Artworks from Mary Frances, James Knight and Sue Harpham the inspiration for writers: Alex Mazey, Ankh Spice, Samantha Terrell, Dai Fry, Carrie Ann Golden, sonja benskin mesher, Rich Follett, Don Beukes, Yvonne Marjot, and Paul Brookes.

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