RADIO TRANSMISSIONS IN MORSE CODE (m+39) by P.J. Williams
m+39
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.—- —-. .-.-.- —-. —.. .—- —.. / .–
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] noise [
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… .- .-.. – / . .- -.-. …. / .-. .- .. … . -.. /
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[end]
Origin: 30° 55′ 28.1634” N, 85° 44′ 19.9818” W
I’m trying to say
Hell is untied & empty /
My stomach again
a carcass in place
of prayer / Each new fire is salt /
each raised palm a sun
dial / But still these words
an attempt to speak softly /
the tilting zenith /
or
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RADIO TRANSMISSIONS IN MORSE CODE (m+11) by P.J. Williams
m+11
…– ….- / …– —– / …– ….- .-.-.- ….. ….. ..— ..— /
-. –..– / —.. —.. / ….- ….. /
..— —– .-.-.- ..— .—- ….- / .–
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…. . .- -.. … .– — .-.. .-.. . -. /
… .. -. -.- .. -. –. / … — /
] noise [
… — — -. / .- … .-.. . . .–. / …. — .– /
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…. . .—-. … / –. — -. . / .– . .- -.- -. . … … /
] noise [
.. -. / — — ..- -. – .- .. -. / .– .. -. -.. … /
.– .- .. … – / -.. . . .–. /
.. -. / — — ..- -. – .- .. -. /
.– .. -. -.. … / …. .- .-. .–. /
.– .-. . -. -.-. …. . -.. /
] noise [
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.–. .-.. .- … – . .-. /
— …- . .-. / .- -. / . -.– . .-.. .. -..
] noise [
[end]
Origin: 34° 30′ 34.5522” N, 88° 45′ 20.214” W
How many millions
headswollen / sinking / so soon
asleep / How loss is
tongued / no / no / he’s gone /
Weakness in mountain winds / Waist
/ deep in mountain winds /
Harp wrenched silent / Moon
torqued down tight & full / plaster
over an eyelid /
or
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RADIO TRANSMISSIONS IN MORSE CODE (m+3) by P.J. Williams
m+3
…– —-. / ..— ….. / .—- .-.-.- —-. —-. ..— /
-. –..– / —.. ….- /
….. ….. / ….- —– .-.-.- —– —– –… ….- / .–
…. .- …- . /
..-. — ..- -. -.. / … …. . .-.. – . .-. /
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] noise [
.- – / – …. . / -.-. .-. — … … /
— ..-. / – — -. –. ..- . … /
.–. .-. — .–. …. . – … / …. .. … … .. -. –. /
] noise [
— ..- – / .- -. — – …. . .-. /
… …. .- .-.. .-.. — .– / — — -. … – . .-. /
— -.– / — .– -. / ..-. .-.. .- – – . -. . -.. /
— — ..- – …. /
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– …. . / — .- -. / .. -. / – …. . /
.– .- -. .. -. –. / — — — -.
] noise [
[end]
Origin: 39° 25′ 1.992” N, 84° 55′ 40.0074” W
Have found shelter in
questions / at the cross of tongues /
prophets hissing out
another shallow
monster / My own flattened mouth /
my hours of silent
speechless / If it should
thunder / If I was the man
in the waning moon /
or
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INTRODUCTION TO RADIO TRANSMISSIONS IN MORSE CODE by P.J. Williams
“These poems are from a larger project called Zero Sum, and they come from a section of the manuscript in which the speaker survives a cataclysmic event. Over the days and weeks following, he overhears on his radio these Morse code transmissions in between the interference and static. He translates them as best he can and organizes them into poems.
I don’t want to over-explain them because they rely a little on the unknown as something that would be characteristic of the post-apocalyptic world, but there are a few things that may be helpful to know. The first is that each stanza is a haiku. I chose that form because it is so old and the project is concerned with what survives over time—and often times what doesn’t—and also because the form makes me think about language in a way that also seems appropriate for the world in which they are written (a spare, barren sort of language).
The titles—“m+3” and “m+11” and so on—tie back to the name of the event that brings the world to an end. The event is called The Miranda. Miranda is the character in The Tempest who has the famous “brave new world” line, and the poems themselves actually started with language borrowed from The Tempest; but, they’ve gone through so many revisions now and put into this form that that may not be recognizable anymore.
Everything else I sort of want to leave up to you to experience how you will experience. Obviously you are free to google the GPS coordinates and find out where those transmissions are coming from. Those locations were chosen for a reason, but I sort of want that reason to be open for interpretation.
Thank you to Four Way Review for publishing these and working with me on pairing the sound clips of the Morse code transmissions coming through with the poems themselves. I think that’s a really exciting way to experience the work.
I’m really honored to be a part of this issue. I hope you enjoy.”
Begin the series by clicking here…
or
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NEW YORK TO PHILADELPHIA by Lynne Procope
Well I’m not supposed to see you looking
I’m not supposed to stare straight into your eyes… – Lucero
Let’s say Philadelphia’s a city constructed entirely of door knobs,
one great opening, one endless turning into something new.
Your voice is on the phone, love, is a rocks glass overflown
with whiskey and burning. Your thumbs slip from keypad
to six string, your thumbs are the teeth of wild city cats.
I’m only ice. I’m inanimate without your mouth. I’m cracking.
Let’s say New York does me in. This city’s riddled
with pothole metaphor, with stay. These streets are slipping
in upon themselves. Everything is so hungry. My legs
stumble under all this – give in. There was a plain precision
to your hands, and each was a thousand and each owned
a fist of hunger.
I say there was a night we swallowed the city in cobbled slices
we took the city in, one sharp sheet of glass and scaffold at a time
and our drunk breathing and the frost on the sweet gum trees.
Your hands were a thousand and then they were only two.
I was a dozen women or just this one. I was a woman
you were missing. You were all night and all of a day even after
we pulled the city down, even after all the rest of you
was trembling, even after all the rest of you was gone.
LIFT by Muriel Nelson
Doubt seems to be in.
The worry drill whirs
where the dote is.
Where the face was
a vacancy. And yet
the ear is occupied
waiting, for there are
other root canals, so you (mis)heard. No doubt the fire’s hunger whirls
its roar and weather down your
ear while eating sky and licking
daylights off dry trees. Just as
you think you get the picture a
huge sun puts tongues in cheek
and pushes its round belly from
your table. Sets awhile. Your
breath is rising. A tree that you can feel leans toward a mountain. It is
still. The mountains sleep just now. Their dark breasts. You breathe.
In the night above these mountains, the tiny plane your son is flying
lifts. It lifts on air you breathe. It disturbs the air ahead of him and
then the air you think you just breathed out, not him. You breathe.
The phone’s still silent. Breathe.
Listen to Muriel Nelson’s reading of “Lift” below…
SPELL I by Mary Lou Buschi
After Louise Glück
1.
Somewhere, my brother is traveling—
The right side of his head
a red-clawed tulip
swallowing the cold.
2.
Where to look—
down the long expanse of each train car
rocking through a dimly lit tunnel
dark buckling around me
as the car rises up above a city.
When did I last hear my voice?
3.
What was it like?
Fast, bright—tinfoil between my teeth
And then nothing—for a while.
Listen to Mary Lou Buschi’s reading of “Spell I” below…
Michelle Butler, “Transfiguration” (2012); encaustic on board
Mary Lou Buschi’s poem influenced this encaustic painting by Michelle Butler. The artist explains: “The poem struck me as a moment of transition, so I wanted to represent the push- and pull-forces… beyond our control when we are in transition. The… ominous grey of struggle [is] gently pulled into turquoise — a color that universally symbolizes healing. The movement of the pigment in the wax and layers is evident so you can see and literally feel the journey.”
HOOK ECHOES by Kevin Heaton
Sunshowers spit-shined the shark’s
tooth that gutted Kansas’ only diamondback.
You were just a puff adder feigning rattles—
scavenging rat droppings with field mice
in bales of switchgrass.
I want tallgrass.
I want a thunder god with flashes of ego—
a two-storied sod house near an artesian well—
flag-side-up roses.
Wall clouds that squall more than hook echoes.
I want storms made out of water—rain that doesn’t flinch
at dust—ballsy wheat—flaxen—fully-headed—two fresh
holstein heifers, & slow-churned farm butter.
I want forty ripe acres of Amish maize—two mules,
& a bullmastiff named Shep who eats corn snakes.
I want to break a green feather bed with a Dundee man.
THE DANGERS OF TIME TRAVEL by Gerardo Mena
You wake up in the future and realize that everyone has evolved. People now have the head of a blue jay and the body of a shiny machine that whirs softly as its insides spin. You see two bird heads that look like your parents, but, of course, that is not possible.
When they see you they cry and shake their heads slowly with disappointment because you are not like them. I’m sorry, you say, your voice rough and hard from one thousand years of sleeping. We are all dying, they sing, their voices like glockenspiels.
Below, watch Gerardo Mena’s original video for “The Dangers of Time Travel”…
MOLES by Matthew Haughton
Something had to be done about the moles;
labyrinths stretched from the garden
down to the hollow. Give moles an inch
and they’ll burrow up to your door.
So we dug holes in their paths and filled
them with old coffee cans. Bleary eyed,
dirty noses raised, down in the can
they’d be covered in silt like coal-miners
pulled from a cave-in. If you weren’t cruel,
you carried them over to the woods
to knock them out of the cans. Mad as piss,
they’d shovel off in the light to other pastures.
Listen to Matthew Haughton’s reading of “Moles” below…
BOY IN A FIELD by Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick
Boy in a field understand The lame
Hearted go to him mouth filled
Broken He brings the horses
Of his grandfather His hands wheat
Heavy I have seen him Monster himself
With river-sickness and a girl His mother
Maybe as a girl It is hard to say
Her story Tell it He is afraid The lame
Hurt too Hearts in the coal filled even
The horses’ lungs He will bring them
I have seen him afraid of himself
His river-sickness Bring him
Horses Tell her story The girl broke
His wheat-heart It is hard to say Why
He is afraid Maybe a girl hurt too
Go mouth filled Black lung-wings
He will bring the lame I have seen
Him monster himself I understand
Why Tell him I love Bring him
Listen to Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick’s reading of “Boy in a Field” below…
Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick took this photograph and chose to pair
it with her poem because it embodies “a sense of abandonment and
at the same time, anticipation for things not-yet-lost.”
TOWN OF THE BELOVED by Allison Seay
We rested on a blanket by the water
where I combed the sand and spoke your name gently
You slept but I was not tired and never have I studied
the fullness of a back not even of the dying
propped on their sides as I did yours then
I tried to mimic your breathing though I did not close my eyes
at least not for long instead I kept a kind of vigil
swatting for you what seemed a thousand nameless insects
See it was afternoon the ocean warm to boredom
boat oil and pelicans and I thumbed through a book
while I waited for you to stir to apologize but for what
for disappearing for leaving me to distinguish alone
my desires to want you or want to become you
Wake up please wake so that I might tell how it is
I can for you sit all day in a field of sand
Listen to Allison Seay’s reading of “Town of the Beloved” below…