2026 National Poetry Month Ekphrastic Poetry Contest

For the 2026 National Poetry Month Ekphrastic Poetry Contest, SAMA partnered with local poets and art institutions to invite the community to draw inspiration from artworks for ekphrastic poems—poems that describe and expand on the theme of an existing piece of visual art. The artwork that SAMA selected for the contest this year is Statue of Cybele.

Statue of Cybele, Roman, 1st-2nd century, marble, height: 35 9/16 in. (90.4 cm), width: 15 7/8 in. (40.3 cm), depth: 18 1/8 in. (46 cm), San Antonio Museum of Art, gift of Gilbert M. Denman, Jr., 86.134.113.

The poems below are this year’s winners in the youth and adult categories:

2026 Adult Winning Poems

I, Mother of Stone and Lion

I was born from the mountain's rib,
and the lions came to my hands willingly.
Cities rise like circlets upon my brow—
their walls remember who guards them.
In my bowl, mortals poured their trembling,
blood and honey mixed with fear.
My drum once summoned frenzies
that burned the names off dancers' tongues.
My hollow eyes are not emptiness—
they are chambers carved for prophecy.
I see through bone, through lineage,
into the place where your oldest terror kneels.
Do not mistake stillness for absence.
I am the pulse beneath the world.
All paths bend back to me.

Aurora Storm

Cybele, Magna Mater

Eyes of black glass lost
and hollowed, now your gaze
bores deep. Erased are the tawny
golds and terracotta reds
that polychromed your body.
The fertile Earth is blanched,
the mountain forests shaved,
the lions tame as kittens.
Your drum beat has receded
and yet, paused before you,
I feel your ferocious plea⎯
Restore the wild meadows,
let rivers ring the hills.
I have been your Mother,
Dance again with me.

Mobi Warren

To a Statue of Cybele

Oh, great mother, Magna Mater, your sad hollowed-out eyes
show how much you miss the city you once protected
symbolized by your walled crown by the ages worn down
now use your powers to protect your new home, San Antone
reform your crown with our famous missions or the Alamodome
and use those two lions that share your seat
as a leonine force to keep peace in the streets
then people will dance to the rhythm of your tympanum
though in San Antonio the rhythm is rock ’n roll or conjunto
we will offer our libations from your patera
but not the olive oil or wine of your time
offered to the gods of your ancient town
here we’ll offer Lone Star or Big Red
poured onto our own sacred ground
to remember loved ones passed away and say, “presente”

Mark Christal

The Statue of Cybele

I heard somewhere that marble weathers an inch per thousand years, depending on its
surroundings…

At present, I am indoors, in oddly chilly air and raised on a podium (as I should be) bathed in
false, yellow light.

The upper half of my visage is both faint and stippled, but my noble nose and the firm line of
my mouth are still recognizable as such. (Is that a smile? Wouldn’t you like to know…)

My eyes are gone, but they were never marble anyway… Regardless, the lions at my side are still present and ready to pounce… the lines of my linen are still crisp if you squint. I still draw crowds…

Strangers pose beside me, then bend down to learn my name.

I was, I AM, Cybele.

I am a GODDESS.

I was here long before they were born, I will be here long after they are gone.

Your ancestors knew how to treat me; many fell madly in love with me (it was really quite cute).
Perhaps your lineage will once again bring offerings of drink and dance wildly with me.

After all, at this rate, I’ll be here for a long, long time. PS, might I get a glass case with underlighting?

Emily Clark

2026 Youth Winning Poems

Ode To A Mother

She sits atop a throne of marble
Lions making way for her tired arms
They know her struggle -
Providing support for everyone
People worship her out of duty
But, She is exhausted
She hides it really well
But the golden streaked animals know
Who She is – behind the mask
The Mother Earth
Trying to quell the world’s wrath
To make it as it was once before
And yet we underappreciate Her
Take Her for granted
And all mothers that give life to this world.

Shloka Janhavi Subramanian

Additionally, community poets have been selected to represent the participating art institutions in the creation of a unique ekphrastic poem based on a piece that is currently on view. The poem below, GOOD HENRY by Patricia Spears Bigelow, is inspired by Good Henry by Pierre Daura.

Good Henry, Pierre Daura (American, born Spain, 1896 - 1976), 1947, Oil on canvas, 27 1/8 x 21 1/8 in. (68.9 x 53.7 cm), sight, Gift of Martha Daura, 97.5.7

GOOD HENRY (based on a painting by that name at SAMA by Pierre Daura in 1947))

As a boy, Henry tended the wild birds
in winter when the pond froze over,
heating drinking water for them on the wood stove,
pouring it into an old dishpan out back.
Good Henry became his mother’s pet name for him.

But once he was grown, the days were long and hard,
his mother gone now, his wife as well, and the children
migrated up north, trying to make their way.
No one noticed him, except for shouting orders:

–Henry, the front hall was soiled by a student this morning.
Get over there quick, you hear?
Salt those walkways early. Can’t have a student
slipping, breaking a leg, now can we?–
Always something, morning till night.

Then one day Mr. Pierre Daura, the resident artist,
asked to see him. Henry couldn’t believe he wanted to paint
a scarred up janitor instead of someone important!
–Just an hour or so at noon,–he said. I’ll see you have a good meal before we begin.
It’s all right, Henry. I got permission from the higher-ups.–

At first, Henry felt afraid.
But gradually, he began to relax, to reminisce.
Through an open window he heard the chink
of a redbird, the laughter of students at play.
Over the paint smells, he sniffed pine straw, damp earth.
Soon it was the best time of his day.

Mr. Daura noticed every detail of a face,
even claimed to see the soul shining in a person’s eyes.
One day he called him Good Henry
just like his mother had all those years before,
and something hard inside him began to thaw.

Those words were his to keep, he decided,
a gift from someone who knew how to see.
And for Henry, it was the Good Lord who shone
through Mr. Daura’s eyes.                                            By Patricia Spears Bigelow