THE KING OF LOWMANSVILLE by Christopher Prewitt
Peasant stars hanged from wires
above their king, my brother,
sleeping in his crib.
Out of silver trim
and a nail gun,
the church made for him
a crown of thorns
for the Easter pageant.
We liked to play dress up.
He would play a cow
and I, a butcher.
At Easter I was the cross.
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Cecily Brooke, “The King of Lowmansville.” (Original Drawing)
Christopher Prewitt solicited this original drawing by Cecily Brooke to accompany his poem. The poet explains: “I like that Brooke has attempted to capture every moment in the poem in this illustration, and I selected this illustration because it evokes the sadness and the strangeness of the world of the poems in the Lowmansville collection. There is something to the fact that the King is examining his pageant crown of thorns, and I am especially fond of the features of the cow costume, particularly the eyes.”
SOMETHING HE DID by Jennifer Whitaker
On a day cold enough to remind him of home,
my father, whisky-warm, dragged from the shed
the kerosene heater, sending the mangy dogs
to the fence line. The overfilled tank, the choke
of kerosene soaking ragged into the wood floor,
he coaxed the heater to hot blush
with a single match and finally slumped to sleep
next to the trailing hair of its heat, its burning chest,
its hot mouth gagged with rags.
Listen to Jennifer Whitaker’s reading of “Something He Did” below…
Now, listen to Jennifer Whitaker’s discussion of “Something He Did”…
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IN THE CAPITAL by Michael Bazzett
It is a hillside town: houses stacked
like pottery on shelves. From the window
you see two schoolgirls walking uphill
holding books to their chests, white socks
drooping in the heat. The man painting
the water tank of a building across the valley
has descended to the shade to eat his lunch.
The tank waits impassive as a farm animal,
contemplating the buttery hue of its belly.
Wash is strung on lines like pinioned wings.
The old man on the balcony across from us
is twisting his shirt in heavy ropes to wring
the sunlight from its folds. A small basin has
been positioned below to catch the stream.
What trickles out is cloudier than expected,
a pale yellow liquid the color of young corn,
but it is also faintly luminous and it is this
mundane detail that you will later remember.
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RADIO TRANSMISSIONS IN MORSE CODE by P.J. Williams
m+3
…– —-. / ..— ….. / .—- .-.-.- —-. —-. ..— /
-. –..– / —.. ….- /
….. ….. / ….- —– .-.-.- —– —– –… ….- / .–
…. .- …- . /
..-. — ..- -. -.. / … …. . .-.. – . .-. /
.. -. / –.- ..- . … – .. — -. … /
] noise [
.- – / – …. . / -.-. .-. — … … /
— ..-. / – — -. –. ..- . … /
.–. .-. — .–. …. . – … / …. .. … … .. -. –. /
] noise [
— ..- – / .- -. — – …. . .-. /
… …. .- .-.. .-.. — .– / — — -. … – . .-. /
— -.– / — .– -. / ..-. .-.. .- – – . -. . -.. /
— — ..- – …. /
— -.– / …. — ..- .-. … /
— ..-. / … .. .-.. . -. – / … .–. . . -.-. …. .-.. . … … /
.. ..-. / .. – / … …. — ..- .-.. -.. /
– …. ..- -. -.. . .-. / .. ..-. / .. / .– .- … /
– …. . / — .- -. / .. -. / – …. . /
.– .- -. .. -. –. / — — — -.
] 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 /
m+11
…– ….- / …– —– / …– ….- .-.-.- ….. ….. ..— ..— /
-. –..– / —.. —.. / ….- ….. /
..— —– .-.-.- ..— .—- ….- / .–
…. — .– / — .- -. -.– / — .. .-.. .-.. .. — -. … /
…. . .- -.. … .– — .-.. .-.. . -. /
… .. -. -.- .. -. –. / … — /
] noise [
… — — -. / .- … .-.. . . .–. / …. — .– /
.-.. — … … / .. … / – — -. –. ..- . -.. /
-. — / -. — /
…. . .—-. … / –. — -. . / .– . .- -.- -. . … … /
] noise [
.. -. / — — ..- -. – .- .. -. / .– .. -. -.. … /
.– .- .. … – / -.. . . .–. /
.. -. / — — ..- -. – .- .. -. /
.– .. -. -.. … / …. .- .-. .–. /
.– .-. . -. -.-. …. . -.. /
] noise [
… .. .-.. . -. – / — — — -. / – — .-. –.- ..- . -.. /
-.. — .– -. / – .. –. …. – / ..-. ..- .-.. .-.. /
.–. .-.. .- … – . .-. /
— …- . .-. / .- -. / . -.– . .-.. .. -..
] 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 /
m+39
] noise [
…– —– / ….. ….. / ..— —.. .-.-.- .—- -…. …– ….- /
-. –..– / —.. ….. / ….- ….- /
.—- —-. .-.-.- —-. —.. .—- —.. / .–
.. .—-. — / – .-. -.– .. -. –. / – — / … .-
-.– / …. . .-.. .-.. / .. … / ..- -. – .. . -.. /
] noise [
. — .–. – -.– / — -.– / … – — — .- -.-. …. /
.- –. .- .. -. / .- / -.-. .- .-. -.-. .- … … /
.. -. / .–. .-.. .- -.-. . / — ..-. /
] noise [
.–. .-. .- -.– . .-. / . .- -.-. …. /
-. . .– / ..-. .. .-. . / .. … /
… .- .-.. – / . .- -.-. …. / .-. .- .. … . -.. /
.–. .- .-.. — / .- /
] noise [
… ..- -. / -.. .. .- .-.. / -… ..- – / … – .. .-.. .-.. /
– …. . … . / .– — .-. -.. … / .- -. /
.- – – . — .–. – / – — / … .–. . .- -.- /
] noise [
… — ..-. – .-.. -.– / – …. . / – .. .-.. – .. -. –. /
–.. . -. .. – ….
] noise [
[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 /
m+46
…– –… / ….. —– / ….. …– .-.-.- …– ….- …– -…. /
-. –..– / —.. ….. / ..— —.. /
.—- .-.-.- ….. –… ….- ….- / .–
.– …. .- – / …. .- .-. — — -. -.– /
] noise [
. .- -.-. …. / -… — -.. -.– / .- /
… -.-. — .-. . / — ..-. /
] noise [
-… — -. . … / -.. .- .– -. /
— ..- … .. -.-. / … — .-.. . — -. /
] noise [
… …. .- .–. . … / .-. . -….- ..-. — .-. — /
. .- -.-. …. / … . .- / .. – … /
. .-. — -.. . -.. / … …. — .-. . /
] noise [
.–. .- – .. . -. -.-. . / .- .-.. .-.. /
] noise [
— -.– – …. … / …. .- …- . /
— — – …. . .-. … / — -. -.-. . /
.- / .–. …. — . -. .. -..- /
] noise [
-.-. .-.. .- .–. .–. . -.. / .. – … /
.– .. -. –. … / — ..- – /
— ..-. / – …. . / .-.. — ..- -.. /
] noise [
.– .. -. -.. … / .-.. — .– . .-. . -.. /
– …. . / .– — .-. .-.. -..
] noise [
[end]
Origin: 37° 50′ 53.3436” N, 85° 28′ 1.5744” W
What harmony / each
body a score of bones / Dawn
music solemn / shapes
re-form / Each sea &
its eroded shore / Patience /
all myths have mothers /
Once / a phoenix clapped
its wings out of the loud winds
& lowered the world /
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RADIO TRANSMISSIONS IN MORSE CODE (m+39) by P.J. Williams
m+39
] noise [
…– —– / ….. ….. / ..— —.. .-.-.- .—- -…. …– ….- /
-. –..– / —.. ….. / ….- ….- /
.—- —-. .-.-.- —-. —.. .—- —.. / .–
.. .—-. — / – .-. -.– .. -. –. / – — / … .-
-.– / …. . .-.. .-.. / .. … / ..- -. – .. . -.. /
] noise [
. — .–. – -.– / — -.– / … – — — .- -.-. …. /
.- –. .- .. -. / .- / -.-. .- .-. -.-. .- … … /
.. -. / .–. .-.. .- -.-. . / — ..-. /
] noise [
.–. .-. .- -.– . .-. / . .- -.-. …. /
-. . .– / ..-. .. .-. . / .. … /
… .- .-.. – / . .- -.-. …. / .-. .- .. … . -.. /
.–. .- .-.. — / .- /
] noise [
… ..- -. / -.. .. .- .-.. / -… ..- – / … – .. .-.. .-.. /
– …. . … . / .– — .-. -.. … / .- -. /
.- – – . — .–. – / – — / … .–. . .- -.- /
] noise [
… — ..-. – .-.. -.– / – …. . / – .. .-.. – .. -. –. /
–.. . -. .. – ….
] noise [
[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
…– ….- / …– —– / …– ….- .-.-.- ….. ….. ..— ..— /
-. –..– / —.. —.. / ….- ….. /
..— —– .-.-.- ..— .—- ….- / .–
…. — .– / — .- -. -.– / — .. .-.. .-.. .. — -. … /
…. . .- -.. … .– — .-.. .-.. . -. /
… .. -. -.- .. -. –. / … — /
] noise [
… — — -. / .- … .-.. . . .–. / …. — .– /
.-.. — … … / .. … / – — -. –. ..- . -.. /
-. — / -. — /
…. . .—-. … / –. — -. . / .– . .- -.- -. . … … /
] noise [
.. -. / — — ..- -. – .- .. -. / .– .. -. -.. … /
.– .- .. … – / -.. . . .–. /
.. -. / — — ..- -. – .- .. -. /
.– .. -. -.. … / …. .- .-. .–. /
.– .-. . -. -.-. …. . -.. /
] noise [
… .. .-.. . -. – / — — — -. / – — .-. –.- ..- . -.. /
-.. — .– -. / – .. –. …. – / ..-. ..- .-.. .-.. /
.–. .-.. .- … – . .-. /
— …- . .-. / .- -. / . -.– . .-.. .. -..
] 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
…– —-. / ..— ….. / .—- .-.-.- —-. —-. ..— /
-. –..– / —.. ….- /
….. ….. / ….- —– .-.-.- —– —– –… ….- / .–
…. .- …- . /
..-. — ..- -. -.. / … …. . .-.. – . .-. /
.. -. / –.- ..- . … – .. — -. … /
] noise [
.- – / – …. . / -.-. .-. — … … /
— ..-. / – — -. –. ..- . … /
.–. .-. — .–. …. . – … / …. .. … … .. -. –. /
] noise [
— ..- – / .- -. — – …. . .-. /
… …. .- .-.. .-.. — .– / — — -. … – . .-. /
— -.– / — .– -. / ..-. .-.. .- – – . -. . -.. /
— — ..- – …. /
— -.– / …. — ..- .-. … /
— ..-. / … .. .-.. . -. – / … .–. . . -.-. …. .-.. . … … /
.. ..-. / .. – / … …. — ..- .-.. -.. /
– …. ..- -. -.. . .-. / .. ..-. / .. / .– .- … /
– …. . / — .- -. / .. -. / – …. . /
.– .- -. .. -. –. / — — — -.
] 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.