• HOME
  • ISSUES
  • ABOUT
  • SUBMIT

FOUR WAY REVIEW

AUBADE IN PIECES by Victoria Lynne McCoy

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Victoria Lynne McCoy

Even as I deliver my body
to the subway’s tenebrous mercy,
I cannot un-know this:

each time daylight invades
our limbs, the sun marching
its restless armies up the sheets,
my love will put entire states between us
and there’s no telling
when the map will tesseract
itself to bring him back.

~

Always his breath that first
breaks me. His chest a hum
of lightning bugs. Lethal
little darlings. His fingers
swarm my thighs. He leaves
teeth prints to miss him by—

               Praise this skin
its miracle cells, their blessed
forgetfulness.

~

Under my pillow, a mason jar
where I collect my name
each time it burns his mouth
open, fireflies
in the summer porch of him.

I pin their wings down.

I sing to them of the hour
before the wolf comes.

 

Listen to Victoria Lynne McCoy’s reading of “Aubade in Pieces” below…


 

Back to Table of Contents

Aubade in PiecesFour Way ReviewVictoria Lynne McCoy
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments

MAP (7) by Ye Chun

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Ye Chun

7. Olympia, Washington

The Pacific Ocean shovels coals in the distance.
My drunk friends drop pebbles at me as I lie
on the couch losing water. Be happy, be happy, be happy.
I’m trying to see spring sprout, mountain that smells like green apple,
grass younger than me, to see the pink sweater
I wore when the sun sprinkled pink dust and I practiced
xiang gong to make my body fragrant,
not the speeding lines of the steel tunnel,
a hand gridding its fingers on my ribs.
I’m trying to breathe, to reach water or an address.

In the white house

with white windows

who spends the night?

The dead say: don’t

talk so loud

I can hear you

even before the words are said

In the woods

there is a bird

whose feathers

have every color

in the world

You’ve seen it

You’ve gathered

every name of it

in your throat

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewMapYe Chun
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry, Series
No Comments

MAP (5) by Ye Chun

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Ye Chun

5. Lhasa

Seeds tier in a pomegranate.
Sweat beads convex-mirror corners of a night.
You pick up a piece of coal from roadside,
wrap it in a blue and green checked handkerchief
and give it to me: What makes you feel warm?
In the Himalayas, a snow leopard
spins gold in early morning. I tie a prayer flag
to a balloon and let go. Its little feet step through clouds
and rain falls on the white stupas, the hind-scalps
of prostrating pilgrims who say: om mani padme hum, om
mani padme hum, om mani padme hum…

Buddhakapala

(Skullcup of Buddha)

presides over

twenty-five deities

two hands

holding his consort

(Citrasena)

four hands

his skullcup

chopper

ceremonial staff

and drum

In the dancer’s pose

(ardhaparyanka)

he stands on a corpse

supported by a lotus

 

Ye Chun’s “MAP”, continued…

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewMapYe Chun
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry, Series
No Comments

MAP (4) by Ye Chun

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Ye Chun

4. Shenzhen

Streetlamps imitate stars.
Stains on a hotel ceiling imitate mountains, boats and ruins.
…either do great good or great evil,
the journalist, 23, says. We walk
along the low brick wall into a park. A palm tree
stops us and deepens the ocher of our faces.
A stone bridge shapes an ellipse with its shadow. We
don’t have much to do so we press each other’s body.
Is a compass a moon bringing a finger to its lips?

 

A mosquito net

with a crimson mosquito

A roach crawls beneath the net

onto her right leg

My leg feels odd

she says

It’s broken

her algebra teacher says

It’s broken

her chief-editor says

It’s broken

the legless beggar says

It’s broken

the manager of Human Resources says

It’s broken

her snoring lover says

On the wall a map

of cherries and water paths

 

Ye Chun’s “MAP”, continued…

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewMapYe Chun
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry, Series
No Comments

MAP (3) by Ye Chun

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Ye Chun

3. Zhongzhou, Luoyang


This area is between brown and purple.
All the apartment buildings look the same.
I need to lie down, call out
your name to one of the black-barred
windows. In the most crowded market,
my classmate is selling embroidered pillowcases and lingerie.
If you appear, I’ll make you look at me balancing
the sick little invisible animal
on my head. I love the sweet numbness of dusk—
we glow before vanishing.


 
 
Lay out the grid

of roads and wards:

Align the northern part

of the western wall

the middle stretch

of the eastern wall

and a road that comes

in Gate VII

turns west

and heads south

nearly reaching

the course of the Luo

Align the other roads

the southern part

of the western wall

most of the northern stretch

and the surviving part

at the southern end

of the eastern wall

 

Ye Chun’s “MAP”, continued…

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewMapYe Chun
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry, Series
No Comments

MAP (1) by Ye Chun

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Ye Chun

1.Niujie, Beijing

When the earth shakes, hunching grandma
picks me up, cousin’s uneven leg shadow-puppets
the window. The sky lowers like father’s raincoat
till the old lady carried out by her son
drums on his head: Let me die at home, let me die.
We live in a tent, eat government bread
and play on a monkey-hill. The world stays
a cotton ball in big sister’s bleeding nose.
Worms swim in my belly, warm air rubs my soles.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Elizabeth Schoyer, Napoleon’s Collection, 2005
Oil on canvas and mixed media

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

“The image of spider web and cocoons in ‘Niujie, Bejing’ came
from Napoleon’s Collection, painted by Elizabeth Schoyer, whom
I studied with at the University of Virginia. In fact, the poem
sequence grew out of an art exercise for her class. For the exercise,
we made a map of the place we grew up. In the sequence, each
poem is a place and consists of two stanzas — the one on the left
pockets traces of experience; the one on the right serves as sort of
notes on the experience. Together they work like lines of latitude
and longitude to locate the experience.”-Ye Chun
               


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Draw a spider web

with small cocoons

Draw one cocoon

of hymenoptera

one of polyp

of cynodont

one with a man inside

the man with a bird

in his belly

(its singing is its gyration)

with a bomb in his head

(its ticking its nutrition)
 
 
Ye Chun’s “MAP”, continued…

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewMapYe Chun
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry, Series
No Comments

FOR BLOCKED AFFECTIONS by Sarah Johnson

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Sarah Johnson

A cold flux of the humors can produce heaviness in the tissue, which leads to a blocked affection. The resulting fluids pool in the feet, causing sluggishness. The effect of spirits and devils on this disorder cannot be overlooked. Their natures are various, and their motives obscure. I had a spirit who gave me good dreams and stomach-worms.

A blocked affection makes a man tedious. He is driven to decode his friends’ addresses, convinced of the malice behind each ciphered word and look. A cache of innuendo shines in the light of his diseased fancy. Odd items become significant. Some patients can’t endure mention of a wet towel or a ribbon, from a secret antipathy.

Hooked on the barb of this distemper’s devil, the suffering man must heed its muttering. He shuns company and hoards his pleasures, fearing others’ mockery of his chosen amusements. He suspects even his doctor wishes him ill. He avoids medication on a pretext, being wary of arsenic.

The treatment shouldn’t fully clear the distempered humor. As in bloodletting, draining too much of its chill vitality will worsen the imbalance. Suspicion has sometime a good cause. (Wasn’t my friend a swindler after all?) Anyone may develop blocked affections. If you clasp someone’s hand and his fingers are cold, suspect him of it.

 

Listen to Sarah Johnson discuss “For Blocked Affections” below…

Sarah Johnson’s work was influenced by Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy, published in 1621.

 

Back to Table of Contents

Blocked AffectionsFour Way ReviewSara Johnson
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments

MR. BOSWELL PEELS AN ORANGE by Sarah Johnson

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Sarah Johnson

My wife’s marmalade is the best I’ve had. She peels and crushes
the oranges herself, and for days
the house smells of oranges’ beaten golden pulp. Under her persistent hands,
the fruit submits. It becomes a vivid concentrate,
textured with rind. Stored in jars,
it will keep for months.
                Johnson used to make a drink for himself
at our Club, with water and muddled oranges. With a spoon he crushed the segments
down in the glass. Fishing out the peels, he put them quickly
in his pocket—it seemed he didn’t want to be discovered, though his dirty coat
smelled guilty as oranges. I made a bet with a lady,
who didn’t think me man enough
to ask him why he kept the pieces. It was one of his obscure compulsions.
                My store of notes was still growing
in those days, rising in ragged pillars in my stonewalled study, away in Scotland
where I’d compile them. Johnson’s voice, unmistakable, kept sounding
through me. When he died, I was in Edinburgh. He left me nothing.
                On the morning I dared
to ask him, I stood over his writing-desk, my pen ready. I saw the peels
in a neat stack atop his diary. Under pressure, my friend admitted
his great liking for orangepeel. I noted down his strange unwillingness
                 to answer freely. Each peel was scraped and dried,
and cut into thin pieces. What he did with them next, he could not be prevailed upon
to tell. Firmly as always, he pressed my expression into vigor
and correctitude: he could not be prevailed upon,
even by his dearest friends, to tell. My pages smell of citrus, still.

 
 
Listen to Sarah Johnson discuss “Mr. Boswell Peels An Orange” below…

 

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewMr. BoswellSarah Johnson
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments

THE PRINTER by Jenny Doughty

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Jenny Doughty

All day he labours, polishing the plate
(small, nondescript, whose eyes illuminate

his workman’s face), picks up the burin, starts
to etch out in reverse all but the heart

of what he sees, carves worlds in words,
carves tigers, devils, chimney-sweeps and birds.

Varnish and ink and acid-bath stand by,
then, day’s work done, he walks in Peckham Rye

and sees the new-leaved trees through tired eyes,
each leaf a green-winged angel on the sky.

William Blake’s print of “The Tyger,” one of the works that inspired Jenny Doughty’s poem. Image courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

 

Back to Table of Contents

Four Way ReviewJenny DoughtyThe Printer
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments

BURGESS FALLS, TENNESSEE by Owen Lewis

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Owen Lewis

to J.W.L.

Where the waters cut the gorge cut strata of soft stone where granite
resists and holds itself against the water

where the waters drop in sheets across the rock steps then plunge
in white cascades

like moving ice the liquid of glacial rumbling froths and pounds stone
a heavenly and timeless pressure

the pull of the spin of the moon the star rise the unfathomable magnetism
of polar caps stretching the planet

there beside this monument of the elements we sit
father and daughter in the misted air

miraculous as geology, as history in stone that survives
that we have survived our lives.

Water is clear and moves and you see through turbulence
the struts and buttresses

granite and shale holding up the pounding of dropping water
the skeletal arches cradling

the pounding heart and still peer with the unchanged look of a wordless
infant watching

now with words across time where air and water and stone
become ideas

a woman writes philosophy where elements of truth and ethics,
the construction of worlds, are ideas

living off the page as real as the water falling and the mists rising
here capturing light

where surgent waters have cut away the earth
we sit centuries below the surface.

There’s light and reflection, sound and respite from sound
and a moment’s pause together.

The silver-bottomed leaves of the nearby willows turn to tell us more
about the mists and breezes that pass

as if all the lives that have made us packed into the helixes
of our genes come unsprung

dozens of relatives are watching us murmuring questions
in many languages the rabbi

the pharmacist from Minsk the dime-store merchant from Brooklyn
the venetian blind maker from Jersey

all with held breaths perplexed trying to explain
the origins of this scholar

who has hiked through a gorge with her father in Tennessee—
oh child.

 

Back to Table of Contents

Burgess FallsFour Way ReviewOwen Lewis
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments

AS IF I WERE ANYTHING BEFORE by Damian Rogers

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Damian Rogers

Not all rocks
are alive. Or
so I’ve read.

Someone I love
is struggling, her thoughts
caught in a net.

Her face is full of grace,
her body evergreen,
her heart sharp

as the Canadian Shield.
I’m in Sudbury.
It’s snowing.

The pine trees looked lovely
as I drove
the treacherous roads.

I’m ill-equipped
for this. I sit
by a fake fireplace

that frames a true flame.
I have been crossed
by two crows today.

This tapestry depicts
the biggest bummer
of the new century.

She said you’re hurting
me. She said you’re
not a child.

 

Back to Table of Contents

Anything BeforeDamian RogersFour Way Review
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments

YES, I’M A WITCH by Damian Rogers

Sunday, 30 September 2012 by Damian Rogers

For Yoko Ono

I dreamed there was a storm.
When it cleared the sky said here

is a half glass of water
to see the seasons through.

When I was a little girl Mother
said I could be anything.
I said a rabbit.

White hare running             through white air.

Stand at the stove and heat milk.
Dream of white rabbits dancing
on white chairs in white snow.

Say yes to sleeping in a see-through dress.
Yes to a pair of scissors for the people
who cut holes in my clothes.
I’ll sit here and watch you do it.

I looked up at the night
and saw the moon.
I said Are you cold?
Do you need a blanket?
Oh no, she said. No, no, no.

When I woke up there was a mountain
and I was a cloud floating beside her.

How do we get back down?

Iron your mind out
like a clean white bedsheet.
Hang it on a clothesline.

Call it the sky.

 

Listen to Damian Rogers’ reading of “Yes, I’m A Witch” below…

 

Back to Table of Contents

Damian RogersFour Way ReviewI'm a Witch
Read more
  • Published in Issue 1, Poetry
No Comments
  • 19
  • 20
  • 21
  • 22
  • 23


    TOP