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Founded in 1948 P U B L I S H E D AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O RT H C A R O L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L
Winter 2013
V O L U M E 63.3
E D I TO R- I N - C H I E F
Ma!hew Hotham F I C T I O N E DI TO RS
Lindsay Starck Moira Jean Bradford P O E T RY E DI TO R
Lee Norton N O N - F I C T I O N E D ITO R S
Andrew Aghapour Nick Anderman A RT E DI TO R
Chloey Accardi C OV E R DE SI G N
Philip McFee WE B E DI TO R
Sarah Singer
MO RE O N L I N E AT
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INDEXING The Carolina Quarterly is indexed in the Book Review Index, Poem Finder, Index to Periodical Fiction, American Humanities Index, and the Annual Bibliography of English Language and Literature. Member Council of Literary Magazines and Presses. ISSN 0008-6797. Library of Congress catalogue card number 52019435.
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Contents
WINTER 2013 | VOLUME 63.3
FICTION PHILIP HOLDEN Stranger 12 A . NICOLE KELLY American Girls Are Easy 61 WALTER B. THOMPSON Love Song 99
POETRY BRANDON KRIEG Riddled Territory 9 KATHLEEN HELLEN the radiance of want 53
In the Between 54 Romeo Romero 55 LISA LEWIS
The poems about clothing 56 Seasons Said
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PETER P. SORDILLO Dancer, Turning 80 PETER BALAKIAN Waking/West End Ave./1983 89 DOUG RAMSPECK Field Religion 90
Prayer Book 92 Song of Praise 93 ALAN MICHAEL PARKER Candying Mint 96
Sneaking Out 97 JOSHUA RIVKIN Wonder is a thing to be known in the high dark sky 116
Judd’s Boxes 117 HANNAH DELA CRUZ ABRAMS Men in Spring 118 AUSTEN LEAH ROSENFELD Monologue 119
NONFICTION MARIKO NAGAI Imports, Japan: Women, 1887-1908 35
REVIEW RYAN-ASHLEY ANDERSON Dishonor Your Lips with Talk 132 Jasmine Bailey’s Alexandria
ART SARAH CLEMENT Murakami 8
Within 52 Face 60 Distill 98 Nothern 114 Lean 115 Flow 122 V I LLE ANDE RS S O N Portfolio MYRI AM D I O N Portfolio 81
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Dreyer
VILLE ANDERSSON
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MARIKO NAGAI
Imports, Japan: Women, 1887-1908 Girls board the ship with hopes and promises. Some have le" home on their own in the middle of the night, drunk with stories of the American rich.1 Some have le" home with the blessing of their parents.2 Some have le" because of mistakes or misunderstanding.3 1 “Oteru-san was a person from Ejiri in Shizuoka Prefecture. A wealthy returnee from America was doing business in Ejiri at the time. Young people always clustered about him because he had lots of money and told unusual stories.” When they did, he said, “If one went to America, even children could earn four or five dollars per day, and with a li!le more work one could make up to ten to fi"een dollars in a day…. He said that he could help them get there, since he had acquaintances on ships and any number of friends in America.... On a village festival night, the girls snuck out of their homes and went to Yokohama with his assistance. From there, they said, ‘Sea!le’” (Heigan, “Nijuhachinenkan no Yoga Kaiko” (28 Years of Oversea Shipping) Shinsekai Sept 8 1931). 2 “Hayashi and his common-law wife, who used to be a prostitute, heard about Omatsu, the daughter of a rich Sake brewer in Kanbara, who was interested in going to the US to study. As soon as they heard it, Hayashi, who knew Omatsu’s parents, went over and told lies…. The girl’s family had no idea that Hayashi was involved with prostitution, so when he told them lies about women finding jobs in Canada the day a"er landing, and how he would look a"er their daughter, the family believed him. He took Omatsu to Calgary and made her into a prostitute…. Even now, Omatsu’s parents send her magazines fit for women students like Jyogakusei Seikai (The World of Women College Students) and Jyoshi Bundan (Women’s Literary Magazine) every month. They are praying for the safety of their daughter back in Japan, waiting for their daughter to study hard and come back from Canada as soon as possible” (Kanada no Makutsu [Evil Brothels in Canada]. Tairiku Nippo sha, 1909. P.93-95). 3 “I am a daughter of a farming household in Amakusa. Around 1889-1890 a smoothtalking man appeared on my island. This man came to sell sea products processed in Nagasaki, and in the town he o"en told interesting tales. His stories were about foreign lands. Salmon was plentiful near Vladivostok; as children played in boats, the salmon jumped into them. Children used pearls and coral as toys on the beaches of Southeast Asia. Gold nuggets were waiting to be picked up on the riverbanks of America. I got close to him at my grandmother’s house. He tried to persuade me to go on a trip to Nagasaki. The distance between my home and Nagasaki was no more than the space between the nose and eyes. Since it took less than an hour by small boat to go there, I got on a boat with him one moonlit night. He took me to a seamen’s inn in Nagasaki and fed me a nice meal. On the next day, I went with him to look at…a large steamship called The Oceanic bound for America. Boarding such a huge ship for the first time, I walked the decks enjoying the new experience. Then the man introduced me to a seaman on the ship. The seaman was about 37 or 38 years old, probably from Kyushu, and very good humored. He jokingly said, ‘Why don’t you go to America on the ship?’…Just as I was half thinking about wanting to go and half worrying, the passengers quickened their pace as a noise like the clanging of a bell sounded. The ship had hoisted anchor and had le" port. The man with whom I had come was nowhere to be seen. ‘Since the ship is on its way,’ the seaman said, ‘I’ll take you to America. Don’t worry at all’” (Shakuma, MARIKO NAGAI
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Girls board the ship in Yokohama Harbor, carrying passports bearing their names, or not. Some board the ship illegally, but they are well taken care of, or so they hope.4 The rich women give them an explanation or two about the different name— you are my daughter, you are my niece, they don’t issue passports if you aren’t kin—and the girls believe them. Girls find themselves married to strange men they have never met, but when told that the Japanese government doesn’t issue passports to single women, they nod.5 What do they know about laws? What do they know about rules? They are only girls. They only want to go to America, where the land groans with gold and promises, where girls can become more than they can in the narrow archipelago of their origin. For twenty days they curl up from seasickness, cradling dreams of the future. They say, When I get to America—a prayer, a prophesy, hope. When I get to America, I can learn English. When I get to America, I can buy everything I want. When I get to America, I can be rich. When I get to America, when I get to America. They lull themselves to sleep listening to the waves lapping against the boat, to people’s snores, to the spools of rustling silk, the crates of tea, women for cheap sex and men for cheap labor. These goods are necessary to the expansion of America—to tame the land, to feed the men domesticating the west, to the creation of an empire. or Bunzo Washizu, “Rekishi Inmetsu no Tan” (The Erasing of History) circa 1922. Oka Papers, box 134, Folder 6, Japanese American Research Project Collection). 4 Yokohama, June 1893: “A man named Fujiwara was a cabin boy on the Empress of China, a Canadian Pacific Railway Line offering a regular service between Yokohama and Canada. This ruffian has made enormous profits by smuggling prostitutes for brothel-keepers in foreign countries. On the 25th of April he purchased several barrels, packed women into them, and loaded the barrels into the ship. On the 10th of May, he arrived in Vancouver and unloaded the barrels by deceiving customs officials. However, just as they le" the port, four or five policemen seized the barrels” (A le!er of Consul Tatsugoro Nose, August 30,1895, Japanese Foreign Ministry Archival Documents (JFMAD) 3.8.8.4, Vol. 2). 5 “At first, a Japanese procurer and his wife appear in person at the prefectural office to receive their passports. Then the procurer’s wife gives her passport to a girl, having her memorize all the information on it so that she can answer the harbor police’s questions. In another case, a girl goes on board with a procurer’s wife as a person seeing her off…when the ship starts sailing, the procurer’s wife disappears in the crowd and gets off the ship” (A le!er of Consul Tatsugoro Nose, August 30,1895, JFMAD 3.8.8.4, Vol. 2).
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SARAH CLEMENT
Within
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K AT H L E E N H E L L E N
the radiance of want A li!le light le" on despite the orange comfort of a couch, the windowed sun, the afghan kni!ed warm and plum, all leg-length covered-up—you thought this was a poem about the lumens, the hours blooming in the bulbs, the cycling—he’s gone… to Carolina for the week. To Baltimore forever. It could be that the last light in the window is the burn, jerked or chained, what you have forsaken screwed to sockets. You know. That bu!on that you mashed. That flip. That switch, regret:: the light you can’t look into without squinting.
K AT H L E E N H E L L E N
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MYRIAM DION
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ALAN MICHAEL PARKER
Candying Mint Strip thirty good-sized leaves. Wash them, and pat dry. Paint the leaves with eggwhite and dredge in fine sugar. Let stand upon a wire rack. Buber writes, “man’s final objective is this: to become, himself, a law—a Torah.” The granules glimmer upon the mint, hard dew, a gli!ery, sweet finish to a fine night and a flourless chocolate cake with a li!le raspberry sauce. I know that it’s my job, but Rabbi, I worry (maybe I like worrying) on behalf of the persistent mint, really just a weed: spicy, ragged, alive. To grow toward the sun—it’s like listening— and who doesn’t need to aspire? Yes, Rabbi, the lesson’s true: to become a law means to know God, but who could be ready for that? Rabbi, try the candied mint: it’s heaven.
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WALTER B. THOMPSON
Love Song One Wednesday in August during Max’s lunchtime gig at the Nashville International Airport, he spo!ed a woman who put a song in his head. Since he usually kept his gaze pointed down, towards the hideous blue carpet, the first things he saw were the woman’s boots: red leather, covered in light brown streaks of mud. Max Bowers spent most days on a li!le wooden oval not four feet in diameter next to Hank’s Beer Shack, just outside the security gates of the C terminal. At a gig like this, Max thought, it was hard not to see every person coming out of the terminal as a walking insult. They didn’t look up. They kept their eyes focused on the signs directing them to baggage claim, or they sought out loved ones and ran to hug them. Max’s audience, on a good day, amounted to one or two businessmen at the nearest table at Hank’s who occasionally looked up from their baseball game to give him an easy clap. The owner of Hank’s, who paid Max, had said it was important for him to remember that he was Nashville’s welcoming commi!ee. He carried the burden of the city’s image on his shoulders. Above the tiny stage hung a banner depicting Mocky the Mockingbird, official mascot of the Nashville airport, flying across the clouds in a pilot’s outfit and carrying a banjo. “Welcome to Nashville, y’all,” read the speech bubble floating beside Mocky’s beak. Max stared at the rest of the woman in the boots as he half-sung the final lines of “Don’t Rock the Jukebox.” She was tall, almost sixfoot. Wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, tight country jeans. She was looking at an airbrushed poster that depicted the Nashville Skyline with the heads of Hank Senior and Hank Junior hovering above it. There, Max thought, is a woman to write a song about. He looked again at her muddy boots, and a rhyme jumped into his head with the resolute thump of a kick drum: She came into the bible study, her eyes were blue and her boots were muddy. A"er finishing “Don’t Rock the Jukebox,” Max set his guitar down and walked straight across the terminal to where the woman was standing. She wore a black leather jacket, and he touched her lightly on her elbow. WA LT E R B . T H O M P S O N
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She spun around, startled. She had bags under her eyes. It must have been a long flight. For a few seconds she searched Max’s face for some recognition. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m no one you know.” “What do you want, then?” she asked. Her accent was Nashville through and through. A local girl. “I just wanted to thank you. I saw you standing here, and I decided to write a song about you. That’s all.” The woman laughed and shook her head. “This town, I swear, it’s something else,” she said, and walked away. ———— Forty minutes later, Max was thundering fi"y miles per hour down Murfreesboro Pike in his Bronco, struggling to hold the tune in his brain and find words to match. So far, it was fast and sharp, a real country song, a bona-fide Top Forty-type hit. Max just knew it. The opener was clear: a gentle li!le bass riff picked up by two fiddles and a guitar and then the singer, from the first word, already neck deep in the passion of what he wants to sing about. Murfreesboro turned into Lafaye!e Street as Max sang the first few lines out loud in the car. He matched his voice against the drone of the air conditioner that blew full-blast. She came into the bible study, her eyes were blue and her boots were muddy... He felt as if something that had been hiding inside him—a small, fierce li!le rodent—had suddenly woken up and was now scratching around. He pulled his car off the road under the Interstate 40 overpass and several cars honked as they swerved past. Max had begun making music at age seven. For a time, his father had played organ, banjo, and guitar for an old-timey church revival band called The Lonely Sheep Assembly of God, and Max spent most of his childhood in the tour bus, following his father’s fingers up and down the frets, absorbing. They’d traveled up and down Alabama, playing in tents and churches and basements, with friends and
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REVIEW
DISHONOR YOUR LIPS WITH TALK JASMINE BAILEY ’S ALEXANDRIA Following the success of her chapbook, Sleep and What Precedes It, winner of the 2009 Longleaf Press Chapbook prize, it was no surprise to find Bailey’s first full-length book of poetry, Alexandria, to be a mature, well-cra"ed collection. Alexandria does not seem, like so many other first books, to be a compilation of all the pieces the poet has wri!en up to this point that happen to fit nicely between two covers. Rather the collection feels as if it emerged from start to finish in one poignant, pregnant breath, inspired by the fecundity of nature, the mourning that begins exactly the moment before goodbye, and the loss that readies the heart again for future failure and future triumph. Bailey leads in with the quote, “It stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken,/made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt,/in a form we have no words for, and you live on it,” from Carnegie Mellon PA P E R , Phillip Levin’s, The Simple Truth, which prepares 7 2 PA G E S the reader for truths that are at once personal and universal, but never simple. They’re wri!en into small stories that one couldn’t possibly read without remembering, “…old lovers the mind has worn down like a coast…” of their own, or forge!ing, “…one who I once believed would be my children’s father.” Levin’s quote is followed by a bit from Constantine Cavafy’s The God Abandons Antony, which mentions the name Alexandria, for which the book, and its closing poem, are titled. “…go firmly to the window/ and listen with deep emotion, but not/with the whining, the pleas of a coward…say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.” It feels like a warning, or a disclaimer. To read on is to risk remembering a long-forgo!en goodbye, to feel a pang in your gut from a blow you thought you’d recovered from. RYA N -A S H L E Y A N D E R S O N
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In the first of three sections, Bailey regards her primary subject, a lover, with all the naiveté , hopefulness, and ardor required to flirt with a love that history predicts, although flashing and golden, is sure to bleed into the past like all the rest. These pieces are as gentle and quiet as the opening of a bloom, and as sweet and tender as the first tentative bite into wild fruit. The poems found here are ripe with the imagery of spring and summer, innocent love, and the renewing effects of water, but Bailey foreshadows what’s to come with mentions of le!ing go and changing seasons. She closes with “My Viardot,” and “Evidence of Autumn.” In “My Viardot,” she writes, “I should count the gray strands/in your hair from between my fingers./ Animals should start/at our screams. Something names this/other than love, something so remote/it can be obeyed but not believed./ Your body goes to Russia,/the dream of my hands still clutching it,” and as the season changes, so does the emotional and natural terrain in section two, which begins with “Migration,” a poem lamenting the end of summer and how the changing season takes everything in the garden with it. The struggle present throughout Alexandria is a familiar one, and it makes itself especially apparent in this section. With the knowledge that all things are fleeting and that none of us have a bit of control in this whole mess of life, we live swept along by a tide that only answers to the moon. It brings us in to shore and then, just when we think we’ve got our toes gripped firmly around some plot of sand, it drags us out again. We can only hope that we’ll return once more, with memory intact enough to recognize it the next time we see it. In “Delphi,” Bailey describes the detachment necessary to appreciate people, experiences, and places, despite the knowledge that everything is transitory. She does so with a ma!er-of-factness that feels like acceptance with, “I do not know everything—who and how/you loved in the final tally. I know/ what the trees in front of me are doing…” The final section in Alexandria pays particular homage to Bailey’s muses and literary coconspirators, and amalgamates ideas from the other two sections to present pieces which range from lush and bucolic, to rife with loss. Lines like, “The gleam of semi-permanence,” “…
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the lilac will not reopen,” and, “…the winter sunset is briefer than a laugh,” alongside self-conscious lines such as, “…we should have taken pictures/to prove now/it happened,” and, “How to accept all those/we cannot do for:/one man who needs badly/a kiss, another dying/for a good meal,” coalesce in the final, title poem, to insist, with potent imagery, that, as Frost said, “Nothing gold can stay.” The first two stanzas of the final poem, Alexandria, assert the futility of striving for legacy: “I wanted to affirm/that all were equally invited/to the world/and my li!le table in it,/to leave/no bruise upon the grass,” only to unspeak this, that so much of the collection hinges on, in the very last stanza: “New islands will come later,/but it’s the dying ones/I love.” Both self-conscious and rebelliously triumphant, Bailey writes in “Hiking the Lake Placid Trail,” “I know a li!le more than I used to/ and I still don’t care if you turn out to be/a common thief.” A!empts to set free are thwarted by the ego, which is compelled to a!ach and hang on, remember, and keep. Perhaps this is the conflict that every piece of art and writing struggles with. Alexandria begs the reader to consider loosing herself from that needy ego which makes things precious and memories heavy and marries us to them both. — Ryan-Ashley Anderson
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Founded in 1948 P U B L I S H E D AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O R T H C A R O L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L
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Q U A R T E R LY S U P P O R T E R S
Contributors
Winter 2013
V O L U M E 63.3
H A N N A H D E L A C R U Z A B R A M S is the recipient of a 2013 Whiting Writers
Award and the author of The Man Who Danced with Dolls. Her work has recently appeared in, or is forthcoming from, Cedars, Waccamaw, Off the Coast, and Mayday Magazine. Other awards include a Rona Jaffe Writers Award, a North Carolina Arts Council Grant, a Hartshook Fellowship, and a Byington Award. She is currently working on her memoir, The Following Sea. Abrams lives in Wilmington, North Carolina where she currently teaches in the Department of English at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. R Y A N - A S H L E Y A N D E R S O N is a graduate of UNC-Ashville’s Creative Writing
program. She does freelance editing, teaches kni!ing, and blogs atwww. ryanashleyanderson.com. She is currently writing a kni!ing pa!ern book. V I L L E A N D E R S S O N lives and works in Helsinki, Finland. He graduated from
the Finnish Academy of Fine Arts and has shown his work in numerous solo and group exhibitions. P E T E R B A L A K I A N ’ s recent books of poems include June-tree:New and Se-
lected Poems 1974-2000 (HarperCollins) and Ziggurat (U of Chicago 2010); his memoir Black Dog of Fate won the PEN/Albrand Prize for memoir and was issued in a 10th anniversary edition. His new book Ozone Journal will be published next year. He directs Creative Writing at Colgate University. S A R A H C L E M E N T is an artist/illustrator with a love for color, whimsy and
detail. She is a graduate of Langara College and Emily Carr University of Art and Design (BFA 2010). Her work takes cues from the natural world and honors careful cra"smanship. She has exhibited in Canada and Germany, including solo exhibitions in Vancouver, and most recently, Berlin. K A T H L E E N H E L L E N is the author of Umberto’s Night (2012), winner of the
Washington Writers’ Publishing House poetry prize, and The Girl Who Loved Mothra (2010). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Le#ers & Commentary; Barrow Street; Drunken Boat; Evergreen; New Le#ers; Prairie Schooner; Sycamore Review; Witness; among others. Awards include first-place poetry prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review.
CONTRIBUTORS
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P H I L I P H O L D E N is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction. His non-fiction has
been published in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Australia. His short stories have been published in Canada, Singapore, the United Kingdom, Hong Kong, and more generally in cyberspace. A . N I C O L E K E L L Y earned an MFA from the Programs in Writing at the Univer-
sity of California—Irvine and is a Kimbilio Fiction Fellow. B R A N D O N K R I E G is the author of a poetry collection, Invasives, forthcoming
from New Rivers Press in 2014, and a chapbook, Source to Mouth (New Michigan Press). He is a founding editor of The Winter Anthology and lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. L I S A L E W I S ’s books include The Unbeliever (Bri!ingham Prize), Silent Treatment
(National Poetry Series), Vivisect, (New Issues Press), and Burned House with Swimming Pool (American Poetry Journal Prize, Dream Horse Press). She directs the creative writing program at Oklahoma State University and serves as poetry editor for the Cimarron Review. M A R I K O N A G A I is an Associate Professor of creative writing and Japanese
literature at Temple University, Japan Campus in Tokyo, where she is also the Director of Research and Study Abroad Academic Coordinator. Her collection of poems, Histories of Bodies, won the Benjamin Saltman Prize from Red Hen Press, and her first collection of stories, Georgic: Stories won the 2009 G.S. Sharat Chandra Fiction Prize from BkMk Press. Her other books include Instructions for the Living (Word Palace Press 2012), Dust of Eden (Albert Whitman & Co, 2014) and The Promised Land: A Novel (forthcoming Aqueous Press, 2016). A L A N M I C H A E L P A R K E R is Douglas C. Houchens Professor of English at David-
son College. He is the author of seven collections of poetry, including Long Division, winner of the 2012 North Carolina Book Award, and three novels, including The Commi#ee on Town Happiness (Dzanc Books, 2014). He has been awarded three Pushcart Prizes, the Fineline Prize, the 2013 Randall Jarrell Poetry Award, and the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America; his poems have been anthologized widely, including in The Best American Poetry and elsewhere. New work is forthcoming in American Poetry Review, the minnesota review, Moon City Review, The Pinch, Smartish Pace, and Puerto del Sol. He directs the creative writing program at Davidson, and also teaches in the University of Tampa low-residency M.F.A. program.
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D O U G R A M S P E C K is the author of five poetry collections. His most recent
book, Original Bodies, was selected for the Michael Waters Poetry Prize and is forthcoming by Southern Indiana Review Press. Two earlier books also received awards: Mechanical Fireflies (Barrow Street Press Poetry Prize), and Black Tupelo Country (John Ciardi Prize). Individual poems have appeared in journals that include Kenyon Review, Slate, Southern Review, Georgia Review, AGNI, and Alaska Quarterly Review. He teaches creative writing and directs the Writing Center at The Ohio State University at Lima. J O S H U A R I V K I N ’s poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in The
New Yorker, Slate, The Southern Review, The Kenyon Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, Best New Poets, and elsewhere. He has received fellowships and awards from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Inprint-Brown Foundation, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Poetry Society of America, as well as a travel fellowship to the Krakow Writer’s Seminar, and a Wallace Stegner Fellowship in Poetry from Stanford University. He is a Poetry Editor at the Los Angeles Review of Books. A U S T E N L E A H R O S E N F E L D holds a BA from Stanford and an MFA from
Columbia. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Gulf Coast, the Indiana Review, the Los Angeles Review, AGNI, the Antioch Review, Salmagundi Magazine and elsewhere. She has taught at Columbia University, the College of Staten Island and the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York. She lives in Brooklyn and grew up in Los Angeles. P E T E R P. S O R D I L L O is a physician and cancer researcher, who also has graduate
degrees in philosophy and physics. He frequently writes on scientific and philosophical topics. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Connecticut Review, Bellevue Literary Review and Potolnac Review, among others. He lives in New York with his wife and children. W A L T E R B . T H O M P S O N is the 2014-15 Halls Emerging Artist Fellow at the Uni-
versity of Wisconsin. He is a native of Nashville, TN. His work has appeared in The Bicycle Review.
CONTRIBUTORS
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