DOLOROSA by Molly Rose Quinn
(The Chapel at St. Mary’s School for Girls)
where the pillar falls at the edge of morning the teachers
beg us to tug down our skirts they offer their palms
for our gumballs and your god is here to say that beauty
is easy like cutting teeth and your legs and your legs
and yours and I in the pew wish to scrape down
to nothing cuff myself kneel better and what could be
worthier hair voice and loudly I beg for ascendancy
dear classmates your legs in neat rows pray as you do
with fists up and the sun in here bare pray for safety
the teen saint she is the girl to win it all for I beg my
mariology as she sets the way that girl she never once
begged for sparing she begged for death like wine
she begged the best she supplicated she died this dying
begs for me I give it such pleasure and legs and the pew
and the alb and the bread and all other objects beg to be
candles when you are a candle you can beg to be lit
each of you in the pew you beg to be lit I’ll never shine
bigger as we know teenagers beg to be begged and we do
you girls you begged me to hold you begged me to take
what I took you beg bigger and better and for that
you’ll be queens the chimes chime and bells bell
and dear god I know I can be the greatest girl ever
by anointing all alone and being loved the very best
and she says what is so good about anger god killed
my son for himself I suppose and this halo it’s nothing
I asked for and of course she’ll be lying and your legs
and your legs and yours tanned and the best thing all year.
Listen to Molly Rose Quinn’s reading of “Dolorosa” below…
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Henry Darger, Sacred Heart. ©Kiyoko Lerner 2013 / Artist Rights Society (ARS), New York. (Click to enlarge.)
Molly Rose Quinn selected Henry Darger’s work to accompany her poem and explains: “The girls of Henry Darger’s epic novel, illustrated here in Sacred Heart and elsewhere, were closely derived from popular media (recall the ‘Coppertone baby’ or ‘Morton Salt girl’). The novel itself, undiscovered until Darger’s death, details the girls’ war against child slavery, neglect, and abuse. They are cartoonishly feminine in appearance, divine in their acts, and pure of moral being. The narrative weaves darkly into Christian mythology and Darger’s childhood experiences. My poem, using Mary as its vessel, hopes to crash together female adolescence and religious fundamentalism, therein the inherent mythologizing, fetishism, zeal, envy, lust. I am drawn to these images for their moralizing, their uncertain deviance, their mystic pity, and the great heart’s wink at the literal.”
Please note: Reproduction, including downloading of Henry Darger’s work, is prohibited by copyright laws and international conventions without the express written permission of Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
THE SAW by James Allen Hall
Galeria Hermandad, Toledo
A hand made this, hammered flat a hot length of iron,
cut one side jagged, a row of teeth. The criminal
would be hoisted up, tied inverted, the saw
at his scrotum. The act required two men
before and aft, their breath ragged, flesh straining
through flesh, a saw coming for his eyes. Once
he followed a plainclothes soldier home. Kissed him
open-eyed. Saw the night shredded down to morning.
Saw what was approaching, was breaking in the door
even now: in the closet, a row of uniforms,
legs halved by hanging. The wrack the maiden
the noose the saw. Sierra. I’ll never say it right.
We are standing in Toledo, in dry museum light.
I’m pressing my hands against the stained glass
of the wrong century. In a cathedral down the street,
a row of white pointed pontiff hats, preserved
behind glass, eyeing my wrists. Last night I was suspect,
legs spread. And you, soldier, tied them wide.
I leave my hand in yours and follow you home,
the way I’ve always done, wanting to be wrong
about why you won’t touch the rest of me,
why there’s something that loves me cut apart.
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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.”
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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…