Joanna Preston

February 29, 2024

“Portrait of My Father as the Count of Monte Cristo” by Joanna PrestonPosted by

Desperado by G.J. Gillespie, abstract portrait of a cubist-like figure in blues and pinks

Image: “Desperado” by G.J. Gillespie. “Portrait of my father as the Count of Monte Christo” was written by Joanna Preston for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, January 2024, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Joanna Preston

PORTRAIT OF MY FATHER AS THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO

They have made for him a mask, shaped of
face and chest and shoulders and throat, not
to protect him, but with seven long
black screws to lock him firmly down. He
goes into the machine and something
almost him comes out. Because this is
desperation, this attempt by force
to burn out every hyphae of this
thing burrowed in to his throat his jaw
his tongue into the voice and breath and
savour of my father, and so now
they will burn him.
 
My father goes into the machine, and
something almost him comes out.
For the burning they give
him morphine. For the burning
they give him morphine. For
the burning they give him morphine and
his skin peels into ribbons and he
goes into the machine, and something
of him comes out.
 
A chevauchée campaign. Some of his
hair has blackened as though scorched
to its roots. He goes into the machine, and
something of my father comes out. Kind
people pat him dry, press salve and clean
cloth and bandages against him. All this
they can do without looking. He goes
into the machine, and something almost
him comes out. But his mouth
is a charred cave, smoke-filled and
acrid, his throat a scoured-out gully.
His voice is a rumour of flame, carried
by the wind at dusk to where children
are sleeping. He goes into the machine, and
something almost him comes out.
 
For the burning they give him morphine.
For the burning they give him morphine
and methadone. For the burning they give him
morphine and methadone and catch
each other’s gazes above his weeping
skin. He goes into the machine,
and something almost him comes out.
 
His face inside the cage is burnt and his
lungs are the desiccated body of a crow
wired to a fence as warning and his body
is scourged and bleeding and it is
Christmas and he has been made
into tinsel and he goes into
himself and he is dressed
in a jester’s motley but cannot laugh
the white gown of a patient but he
cannot take any more wears the memory
of my father but it is charred
around the edges and there are embers
in his mind and he goes into
the machine and something
does not come out.
 

—from Ekphrastic Challenge
January 2024, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the series editor, Megan O’Reilly: “There is something part human, part machine, and part something else–something indefinable–in G.J. Gillespie’s bold, abstract image, and Joanna Preston’s poem reflects this combination in the most profound and brilliant way I can imagine. Though the subject matter is excruciatingly human, the poet uses repetition, metaphor, and a detached voice to emphasize the clinical, almost robotic nature of what her father is enduring. The result is a poem so weighty and haunting, I needed to remind myself to breathe after reading the last line. Coupled with the captivating image that inspired it, ‘Portrait of my father as the Count of Monte Christo’ will reverberate in my mind for a long time.”

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February 28, 2017

“An Accounting” by Joanna PrestonPosted by

Ekphrastic Challenge, January 2017: Editor’s Choice

 

Days In San Francisco #1, 1984 by Harry Wilson

Image: “Days in San Francisco #1, 1984” by Harry Wilson. “An Accounting” was written by Joanna Preston for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, January 2017, and selected by Timothy Green as the Editor’s Choice winner. (PDF / JPG)

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Joanna Preston

AN ACCOUNTING

And the days spill like soot from a fireplace,
ash of them dusting skin.

Days hoarded like krugerrands.
Days transfixed, pinned

like beetles to the pages
of her clothes. Their passage a shuffle

of dried leaves, hoarse whisper
of an overdue bill. She plucks

unattended days out of the air
—hey presto and a shower of doves.

Days like confetti litter the streets.
Days like bankers litter the streets.

How they gather, the days. Haggard moths
to a lantern. Hungry mouths

to a soup canteen.
A paper boat of wasted days

unfolds in the gutter, forgets itself
in the rain.

—Ekphrastic Challenge, January 2017
Editor’s Choice Winner

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Comment from the editor on this selection: “Preston has crafted a poem full of great images and great music, and at the end of the day I think that’s all poetry really wants. While many other poets had similar reactions to Wilson’s photograph—maybe it’s the year, too; 1984 is now 33 years gone—this was the poem that best captured the emotion of these fleeting days.”

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