Ekphrastic Challenge #10 Hippo (image by David Bridge)

Geelong Writers Ekphrastic Challenge Cloistered Hippo #10, 2025

Entries have now closed and selected responses are published below.

The next Ekphrastic Challenge will be published in 2026, under the leadership of incoming Ekphrastic Challenge moderator, Martin Smith.

Geelong Writers wishes all Challengers a relaxed, enjoyable and write-full holiday season.

 

Congratulations to the following contributors to the Cloistered hippo Challenge:

Ian Chisholm   Allan Barden   Ian Stewart   Catherine Mahar

David Jones   Glenyse Robins-Ward   John Heritage

Russell Abbott   Scott Hunt   Denise Main   Geoff Gaskill

Howard Osborne   Pauline Rimmer   Adam Stone

Steve Gray   David Bridge   Bev Blaskett

 

In response to the image, Cloistered hippo (by David Bridge), these writers, in 300 words or less, engaged in flights of fancy which conveyed a range of themes. Many of their original submissions related to being out of place, encountering the unexpected and being isolated. The incongruity of pygmy hippopotamus within the confines of classical monastic architecture inspired several light-hearted allegorical pieces, but also invoked some reflections on stark realities.

 

 

Why?

They had planned to visit a special place; the name of which their St. Bartholomew Girls College Year Ten English teacher hadn’t revealed. She knew that even though any opportunity to escape the classroom was always welcomed, she hadn’t wanted them to be prematurely put off.

When the bus drove through the wide iron gateway of St. Joan of Arc Convent, its wheels noisily crunched on the gravel driveway, lined with neat rows of pink, gold and red roses.

The students gazed at the impressive cream building surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns. An inquisitive murmur escaped their lips when the bus stopped beside the wide steps to a grand arched entrance. The English teacher rose and addressed her pupils.

‘Girls, after our tour, we will be entertained by the convent choir. I have chosen this place for a good reason. Keep your eyes open, a related assignment awaits upon your return.’

A ripple of negativity followed; eyes were raised to the ceiling.

Two novices guided them through the vast interior; each area explained in detail. A collective lacklustre response was evident. When they stepped outside into a vast, tiled, cloistered area and stood beside a small bronze statue of a hippopotamus, strangely alone and out of place, there was a rousing babble of amused curiosity which continued as they walked to the hall to hear the choir perform.

In the bus on their way back to St. Bartholomew’s, the English teacher handed out the assignment and announced,

‘Class, your project this term is to write an essay on why you think a small sculpture of a hippopotamus would be placed in the cloisters of a seminary. You might find our current study of 20^th century American poetry helpful. Good hunting!’

by Ian Chisholm

 

Trigger: a first memory

I’ve read that scientists claim we can’t truly remember anything before the age of seven and that what we call early memories are fabrications, patched together from photos or family stories. Yet one memory from when I was about five defies that theory.

During my childhood we only ever owned one dog. Trigger was his name.

Every afternoon he’d sit statue-still on the front porch, waiting for my sister and me to come home from school. One day, walking down the lane, we noticed he wasn’t there. We called and whistled, but there was no response. I asked Mum where he was.

Her face was sullen as she explained that she’d found Trigger hanging from a tree. Someone had killed him. She thought perhaps a local sheep farmer had done it, believing Trigger had chased his sheep. I remember insisting that even if Trigger did, he would never hurt them. He would have been only playing.  Anyway, he was small and the sheep were much larger.

I remember that conversation vividly, not for its sadness but for my bewilderment. My childish struggle to understand how anyone could do such a thing. Trigger rarely ventured beyond our fence; his world was the yard, safe and small, his own cloistered universe.

Some people claim our first memories are illustrative of who we are. Mine wasn’t happy, a little sad, but questioning. I didn’t cry as much as wonder why? That curiosity has never left me.

Childhood changes everything, the trees are taller, colours brighter, each day more interesting than the last. But certain moments stay in our memory forever. For me, Trigger’s death is one of those.

During my childhood we only ever owned one dog. Trigger was his name.

by Allan Barden

 

 

Beseeching

Hippopotamus amphibius – just another victim of man’s insatiable desire to enthrone himself in places where, in a previous balanced world, he has been either subservient to or on equal terms with the rest of the creatures of the Earth. The large beasts of Africa – hippo, rhino, elephant, zebra, antelopes – seem powerless to reverse Man’s depredation. When will we take up the moral challenge? Where will it all end?

The sculpted hippopotamus of the image, sad nose pressed deferentially to the tiled pavement, is as obviously out of place as Man is in that creature’s home environment.  The afternoon sun highlights it as a reminder, emphasising its sorry plight. As we hurry along this corridor of learning, the grand open passageway which leads to the dispensation of learning, of wisdom, will we notice and take heed?

The distant green doors are shut. We must open them as we must open our minds and give back what is rightfully theirs – the territory of the hippopotamus and his amazing friends.

by Ian Stewart

 

 

 

The venerable hippopotamus amphibius

In 1742, Bishop Theodore hurried the length of the cloister toward Cardinal Alessandro Albani’s offices.  He tidied his robe as he walked.  The last thing he wanted was to be seen as fresh from the backwaters of the upper Nile, the Nubian dust still on his hem.

He thought of his home on the great flowing Aman Dawu in his mother’s language, but in Rome he spoke only Latin. Although he couldn’t interpret the sideways glances of the sanctus iussit, he knew to act humbly. But in his heart, he wasn’t humble; oh no, his heart lusted, and he was greedy for the good things in Rome.

Bishop Theodorus presented Theodore on his departure with a hippopotamus, carved in the soft warm wood of the dragon tree, with the whisper, ‘now mind, this is our chance to get a loco for Ifriqa in the Sanctum Sedes.’

Thoedore loathed the gift, telling as it did of Church backwaters.  It had accompanied him to Rome, as if it was a long-abandoned deity curious to see the world. It was an embarrassment. He saw the hated thing in the cloister as he hurried toward the Cardinal’s office and was tempted to kick it.

The interview was short. Cardinal Alessandro, antiquary collector, had seen the hippopotamus in the cloister (these words a dagger of shame to Theodore). He spoke with respect of Archbishop Theodorus and asked for news from Nubia; he said the hippopotamus was lifelike and charming, he hoped more such delightful objects would stray north to Rome, he named a few he would like to see.  And he mentioned the gift of a sedes in the Curia.

Oh, holy, blessed saints of Ifriqa, all praise to the apostles and martyrs, Theodore was on his way on the back of a persuasive hippopotamus.

by Catherine Mahar

 

 

Darkness of days

In Mali there is a folk song that mourns the killing of a hippopotamus. Ludovico  Einaudi used this to compose music entitled “I Giorni” (“The Days”)

The hippopotamus cowers

in darkness of days

hidden in cloisters

of man’s unholy ways

Awaits the spear

its fatal thrust

duplicity

spawned from trust

Illusions of belonging

this colonnade, a passage of myth

beckon of doors, a delusion of hope

Fancy, fades to blood-stained earth

where children lie

in darkness of days

hidden in cloisters

of man’s unholy ways

The peristyle morphs

begins to flow

a river of red

the sea-cow shifts, she leads the way

For hippopotamus, and children

the music plays

a sad reality

the darkness of days

• • • • • • As of 22 October 2025, over 71,200 people (69,236 Palestinians and 1,983 Israelis) have been reported killed in the Gaza war according to the Gaza Health Ministry (GHM) and Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as well as 217 journalists and media workers, 120 academics and over 224 humanitarian aid workers [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casualties_of_the_Gaza_war]
          • 18,712 children alone have been killed
          • Gaza has the most amputated children per capita in the world

by David Jones

 

Lonely Hippo

At the height of the social calendar, the gala was held during the summer, and the finely structured outer walking gallery featured massive decorative pillars to showcase the finely crafted flooring, allowing guests to dance under the moonlight.

Inside the decorative doors, the band played. Some of the guests had stopped dancing and were mingling at the other end of the verandah. The lonely hippo’s sculpture resembled a decorative seat.

As the guests came closer, they didn’t know that what looked like a decorative seat was really Henry the Hippo. As soon as someone tried to sit on it, a squeaky noise came from its head as it lifted from the floor.

‘You can’t sit on my seat,’ he said. ‘Although I am thrilled to see you, you can’t sit on me.’

The guests jumped back as the squeaky voice spoke.

‘What do you mean by frightening us?’

You are only a statue.’

‘How can you speak, let alone lift your head?’

‘My name is Henry. I am part stone and part hippo at the moment. I was walking past the building when I fell into the cement, and before the cement set, I managed to drag myself into this position. Although I look like a seat, I am actually real. Just my hindquarters are as hard as a rock, and that is why I look like a nice, comfortable seat.’

The gala came to an end, and Henry lowered his head once more as he saw the guests leave. Jack, the maintenance man, had finally come to give Henry his freedom and chisel away the cement so that he could wander back to his home in the river at the back of the large building. After he finished chiselling, he escorted Henry back to the river.

by Glenyse Robins-Ward

 

 

 

how very dare you

        you’re my brother

         you’re throwing me

         out of the palace

         we inherited from mummy

         because i’m the cause of global warming

               F  A  R  T  S

               o  t   e   e  h

               o  e  s   m  i

               d      u   p   f

                       l    e   t

                       t    r    s

                       s   a

                            t

                            u

                            r

                            e

by John Heritage

 

 

 

Hippo John

John drifted into the small bush town, a mountain of a man with a very pronounced limp.

He stayed, buying a few acres on the edge of town. John became a familiar figure. The local children called him “Hippo John” due to his prominent limp and physical size. He carried his nickname proudly.

John become an uncle to them all. He observed their boredom. This concerned him; there were few distractions within the town.

Hippo John formed a plan. Before his crippling accident he was the half owner of a travelling circus with Mario the Ringmaster. He called Mario and talked through his idea. Mario was on board.

The circus came to town during their off-season. The big tent was erected on John’s land with the help of the local teens who marvelled at its size. Many of the circus performers also came to help their former boss with his plan.

He encouraged the youngsters to join in the activities, learning the skills of a circus entertainer, high wire acts, tumbling, clowns, jugglers. Bella brought her much loved pony in and became a star bareback rider.

The dusty streets were empty; all the town’s young were busy learning new skills in the big top.

One day someone asked Mario how Hippo John was injured.

He told them of the night a storm set one of the big tent poles loose, sending it down trapping part of the audience under the heavy canvas. John caught the tent pole and held it until everyone crawled to safety. John was a hero; however, the weight was too much for his big body and his right side was crushed. John never worked again.

John arrived at the tent to see council erecting a large sign that proclaimed HIPPO JOHN’S CIRCUS ACADEMY.

by Russell Abbott

 

 

 

My name is Hippo

My name is Hippo. At least that’s what they call me.

I’ve spent my whole life inside institutions. My earliest memories are of life in an orphanage; an austere place of grey stone walls and grey steel bars.

As a kid I liked to eat; hence the name. It was my solace, my escape from a life without love. I often ate the food the other kids left. The nuns tried to beat the habit out of me. It sounds bad but it was nothing compared to what the priests did.

On my seventh birthday I was adopted by a kindly couple. They’d lost a child and I was his replacement. They often spoke of him as though I wasn’t there. With the best of intentions, they packed me off to boarding school. A good education would give me the best chance for a better life, they said.

There I was: the poor, adopted kid who didn’t belong. The taunts and beatings were relentless. Poor fat Hippo. Even within the sandstone cloisters there was no place to hide. Until I escaped to the sanctuary of the streets.

On the streets I stole to survive and before long I was back inside. Poor abandoned Hippo. I wasn’t fat anymore. The drugs had taken the place of food and, inside my new home, white corridors and fluorescent lights took the place of stone walls.

I’ve seen the outside world. It’s way more brutal than in here. There’s violence in here, but violence I understand. Violence is familiar. In here I know who my enemies are. Out there they are silent.

I don’t know why I am telling you this. I am not looking for pity. This might not be the life I dreamed of, but it’s mine.

And it’s all I’ve got.

by Scott Hunt

 

 

Cloistered Hippo

 

The cloister, St. Mary of the Angels, sits in a valley in Uganda. It’s been my sanctuary from the raging war since I arrived, seven months pregnant, debilitated and in need of care.

The morning shower sluices away the remnant stabs of panic and nightmares which brought Sister Augustine running to my bedside at midnight with soothing words of comfort.

The misty mirror reflects my heavy, full breasts and swollen belly. The taut skin ripples, reassuringly, my baby is moving, dancing in my womb. I smile, wrap the towel around my wet body. A soft knock, Sister Augustine peeps in, a wide smile on her nut-brown face and says, ‘We have completed our morning prayers. Please join us for breakfast.’

I sit with the Franciscan order of nuns, breakfast on sorghum porridge, cassava and weak tea. Sister Augustine chats in English, translates their Acoli language for me.

Before, crazed, I only wanted death, but now I want to live for my baby. I thrive on their compassion and care.  Sister Augustine will help overcome my deep gut fears of birthing. I’m grateful. We await word from Medecins Sans Frontieres.

Each day I help grow vegetables and herbs, then feed baby animals in the nursey until the sun rises high, the heat stifling. I retreat to the shaded, cool veranda, sit beside and stroke  Hippo, a small, brown, ebony wood sculpture. To the Acoli, Brown Hippo is a sacred strength which doesn’t need to roar, but quietly, resiliently, guards those in need of succour.

Saint Augustine, Sister Augustine and maternal spiritual beliefs of Brown Hippo will see me safely deliver my baby. The child will stay in the cloisters until I return, with instinct sharper than terror, to collect her and repay the Christian care of Saint Mary of the Angels.

by Denise Main

 

 

Choeropsis Liberiensis

 

‘It’s an O week prank,’ Duff-Jones declared. ‘Pay “it” no mind.’

‘O week was six months ago,’ Carruthers corrected him. ‘What should we do?’

‘Ignore it.  Alternatively, we could adopt it as a mascot?’ DJ told him. ‘No one else will have anything quite like it.’

‘No argument there. But how did it get here?’ Carruthers asked.

DJ shrugged. Carruthers thought his friend wasn’t making a good fist of ignoring the thing. ‘Maybe we should think of it as our lucky hippo.’

Carruthers declared, ‘I’ve never heard of a lucky hippo before.’

Duff-Jones wasn’t to be outdone. ‘I’ll bet you’ve never heard of an unlucky hippo either.’

‘True,’ conceded Carruthers.

As they were walking towards the lecture theatre for their first lesson of the day, Carruthers noted, ‘She’s following. Just like a dog. Come on, old girl,’ he called to the animal lumbering and snuffling at their heels.

‘How do you know it’s she?’ DJ asked. ‘Should we give her a name?’

‘Choeropsis?’

DJ frowned. ‘Choeropsis?’

Carruthers sighed. ‘The correct name for a baby hippo is Choeropsis liberiensis, and, FYI, she’s following me, not us. Anything female follows me.’

‘You didn’t really say that did you?’ DJ asked cocking an eyebrow at his friend.

‘It’s true. I’ve got animal magnetism.’

DJ looked as if he was about to puke.

by Geoff Gaskill

 

 

No mud here

There’s a small zoo here, to be opening soon

Yet currently for the public, out of bounds

An animal’s missing, since late afternoon

A hippo is loose in the palace grounds

Its escape’s been noticed and the bell has rung

Now discovered by staff when doing their rounds

Perhaps not so dangerous, as it looks young

But in such surroundings, it’s anomalous

Now it’s tales to be told and songs to be sung

We’ll show respect for the hippopotamus

As it’s actually liked by a lot of us

by Howard Osborne

 

 

 

 

We need to talk about Geraldine

‘We need to talk about Geraldine.’

My stepmother’s shrill voice carried up to me as I sat listening on the top stair.

‘There is nothing wrong with Gerri. She is a lonely ten-year-old girl.’ Dad sighed.

‘There is, Charles. She wanders around the old convent and talks to her imaginary friend. You are away at work, so you don’t have to put up with it. She hates me.’

She was right, we do hate each other. Luckily, I have Harriet to talk to. Sylvia got me as a package with Dad. I overheard her calling me “the brat.” Hearing that made me feel very unwanted.

Sylvia gave a watery sniff.

‘Don’t cry, Darling. I am sure she doesn’t hate you, and Gerri will be going to boarding school soon.’

‘You must call her Geraldine. She is not a baby, but she sometimes acts like one. I am genuinely concerned about her, but you won’t address the elephant in the room!’

I snorted loudly.

‘Gerri, I know you are listening. Come down, please.’

I bumped my way slowly down each step, acting like a baby, just to annoy Sylvia more.

‘Hi, Dad’

‘Hi, Gerri.’

Dad smiled.

‘Sylvie says you have been worrying her.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘You always believe her, Charles! I heard her muttering about murder the other day!’

I glared at her from behind Dad’s back.

‘Sylvia, Gerri is a clever little girl, but I am sure she is incapable of murder. You must have misheard.’

‘I read about crows. A group of them is called a murder. They are smart.’

He knew I was being cheeky and hid his smile, but his eyes sparkled.

‘Go and play, Darling.’

‘Anyway, Harriet is a hippopotamus, not an elephant in the room, ‘ I mumbled as I walked away.

by Pauline Rimmer

 

 

 

Rhombus

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ chirps Rose, the pink flamingo.

‘Hello, Rose,’ honks Harold, the hippo. ‘I like the warmth of the sun on my face and the juxtaposition of the coolness of the bluestone on my rump – and the marble rhombus on my snout; it’s soothing.’

‘You’re a strange one, Harold! And isn’t that a diamond? All this time, I thought they were diamonds.’

‘No, it’s a rhombus.’

‘What happens when the sun moves, and you’re in the shadows?’

‘I’ll simply move with it. I can do this all day.’

‘It sounds a bit boring to me, but hey, each to their own! Say, a few of us are heading over to the zoo this afternoon. We thought we’d throw some feces at the orangutans, just for a laugh. Wanna tag along? It’ll be fun!’

‘No, thanks, though. I’d like to stay close to home. Roger, the rhino, has been grunting not-so-subtle hints about dropping in for supper. Barging in, more like it. Have you seen him with a cup and saucer? I’d really prefer he didn’t come. He always has a dig at me about being a pygmy. Besides, it’s my quiet time.’

‘Quiet time?! All you have is quiet time, Harold. Why not open the doors, let others in?’

‘I’d rather not. Will you speak to Roger for me, please?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. You know Roger, though. Once he has his mind set on something, he’s as stubborn as a …. Well, you know what I mean.’

‘Thanks, Rose. You’re a sweetheart. Always willing to stick your neck out for a friend. I’ll have you over for dinner sometime.’

‘That’s all right, Harold. I’d better head back to the flamboyance now. We’re having shrimp and algae cocktails before we head out. See ya!’

by Adam Stone

 

 

 

Mary on the Grass

Mary would sneak out from the fly wire kitchen side door. Then walked purposefully across to the grass, looked up and down and then lay on her back on the sun-drenched grass.

She would slowly raise a smile, enjoying the warmth, arms outstretched. Hoping she could be there for a long while. The morning sun having dried off the night’s dew.

Sometimes she would hear the window open on the second level of the far building, sometimes not, lost in her own thoughts occasionally, but she would definitely hear her Mother’s voice. “Get off the Grass, Mary! How many times do you need to be told, child!” Mary would carefully roll to one side and stand, then wipe down the white apron she had to wear.

The voice from afar would echo across the broad open space, “If you get a stain on that apron, I will be none too happy, Mary!” Mary would look up, give a cheery wave with her left hand. Turn slightly and walk on the grass, up and down the length of the yard, then turn and back track on her steps. Get back to where she started and stop, then turn to see if she could see her Mother through one of the other windows. The previous one had closed.

She then turned to face the door she had ventured from and let the sun warm her back for a moment. Sometimes the cook would emerge and in a soft voice, simply say, “Mary, come back in now.” Then gently repeat herself.

Mary would take slow, deliberate steps, then, on the paved undercover area, take a few quick skips across to the door. She smiled as she ventured back inside; her morning ritual was now somewhat complete.

by Steve Gray

 

 

 

Breaking boundaries

In the darkness the young hippo emerged from its waterhole to graze on the grassland adjacent to the redeveloped colonial mansion. By now, the mansion owner had usually abandoned his intoxicated revels in the old trophy room and delivered fruit treats. With no sign, the hippo embarked on an exploratory ramble.

The grand entrance lay open, lit but oddly abandoned. Not for the first time, the hippo stepped up into the immense hallway, disliking the cool hard floor and dry air, but encouraged by the scent of watermelon, broken pieces scattered along the broad passageway. Browsing, the hippo followed the trail, nostrils twitching. Spaces opened to either side but held little allure, the air stale. Dead air like brackish water, best avoided.

An acrid smell made the great head swivel, primitive fear of burning vegetation in play. Wisps of smouldering fur hung above a leopard stretched before a spitting fire of logs and, as the hippo tensed, its sweeping gaze met one like his own, jaws agape, brow curiously flattened. Competing dangers wrestled for attention though both opponents remained prostrate. Shouldering obstacles aside, including a door frame, the hippo charged, crushing the leopard underfoot and tumbling the rival’s head, its exposed tusks still grimacing ineffectively, completely inverted.

Exultant, the vanquisher pivoted, toppling inexplicable wooden structures and revealing the slumped carcase of the looked-for benefactor. A hand flopped lifelessly casting pale seed like objects across the space.

Gradually sensing a lack of threat and little likelihood of further food, the hippo grasped the proximity of the now well-lit world beyond. Hard transparent shards rained down as head and shoulders burst outside once more. Fingers of early sunlight probed its face and the great nostrils flared breathing in the grassland scent. A simpler refreshing meal beckoned.

by David Bridge

 

 

 

Hippolyte eviction

The stampede surged from Wilson Hall, clattering over flagstones, exuberant with post-exam hormones, taking in the sunlight, until a neatly-coiffed and bespectacled grey head emerged from the Law Faculty office, to command us to cease our noise, have some respect and leave the environs forthwith.

Where nothing is to be disturbed.

Only those devoted to the study of jurisprudence may enter the hallowed courtyard.

Those who have, proceed with glacial, majestic inevitability, the full force of the law behind them.

Whereas I had chosen to wallow in pursuit of the Humanities. In search of a truth that could both fit and widen my concerns, I had bypassed the law, which I knew to be two-faced and brutal.

And inaccessible.

Unlikely to grant me any leeway.

Enough to stop me in my tracks and ponder the injustice of being outlawed, because there had been no sign that entry was prohibited. Obviously, I was supposed to possess an instinct, to intuit that I would be out of place here, unwanted.

Interlopers unwelcome. Humanities aside.

Ignorance is no excuse.

Although I had been in the company of others, who unphased continued on, I alone felt unjustly belittled by that vehement but harmless reprimand. Despite my hide, I was stung.

Later I realised that I could not have been the only one of my kind to have unwittingly strayed from my confines and into this privileged domain of the powers that be. The tide of incoming drifters must have proven more than the Law Court’s rarified atmosphere and its custodians’ irritability could countermand.

After several semesters of redevelopment and pedestrian detour, elaborate masonry and ominous glass doors sectioned off the blessed Law Faculty from the main thoroughfare. It, and all it stood for, became less susceptible to inadvertent visits from the hoi polloi.

by Bev Blaskett

 

 

 

 

Divider image: https://www.igb-berlin.de/en/hippopotamus