North Dakota Quarterly最新文献

{"title":"War","authors":"Simon Howells","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0028","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0028","url":null,"abstract":"War Simon Howells (bio) 'My mum says you dance like a fairy,' said the girl. We were in my street yet I had the problem. 'Some questions for you,' I said and she pointed her chin at me. Bigger than the rest of her face, it ended like a potato. 'Wha'' she said and I pocketed the t. 'Number one: Who is your mother? Number two: Where has she seen me dance? And number three: How does a fairy dance?' 'Fuck off,' she said. Her blonde hair was nearly white. Nastiness slid across her eyes like cataracts. I expected her to leave but she stayed with her body braced for a war she clearly thought winnable. 'Well?' I said and my street was round me, the houses an army. 'You're a poof, that's what she means,' she said. 'You dance like a girl.' 'Not like a fairy?' I said. 'Or are all girls fairies? Are you one?' It was the questions that did it. She wasn't used to the form. Or she was and she was used to getting them wrong. 'You're weird,' she said. 'And you should peel your chin and make some chips,' I said. I didn't feel good but then she'd forced me low. She went off crying. I walked the green. Houses were on three sides. On the free side, parking spaces. I knew every house. Not the inhabitants. Only houses were worth knowing. And maybe their front gardens. I now turned to Mr Morgan's. He couldn't bear anyone to look at it for long. As if we had a dirty way of looking at things. Rose bushes on parade. Measured borders and a perfect circle in the middle full of little flowers yapping their colours. It was a room, his garden. If anyone so much as breathed on his hedge he raced out followed by his wife, a small woman whose voice was bottled. Even when she was speaking into your face you wondered where it was. A girl came up. A woman really. Today's jeans marked out hips so that women became diagrams. Her legs went on for ages. If you started at the top you ended at her flares and high-heeled boots. If starting at the bottom you ended up between her legs where there was a tremendous flatness. She lived nowhere near but cut through our close. She looked too thin to pause, as if she might snap, but pause she always did. And she always mentioned my dad who I already knew was lovely to women. 'Hello,' she said and her perm wobbled. 'On your way somewhere?' I said. 'Just to the shops,' she said. 'I'm going to the club tonight, though.' 'Oh, yes.' Our conversation a kind of formula. 'I might have an early night,' I said. [End Page 124] 'Babysitter?' she said and I said no. My babysitter, a girl called Veronica, was a horsegirl. She picked up horseshit with her bare hands, something I would never get over. 'Mum staying in then?' she said and I nodded. She thought of my dad wifeless. 'Oh, he's smashing,' she said and despite her heels skipped off. I wandered to the beech at the top of the green. Mrs Tate, a birdy woman, was closing her front door. I could see her hat, round and purple like a sweet. She now walked up her steps holding on to the rail. There was ivy round ","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"25 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954935","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Lying Down","authors":"James Sallis","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0030","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0030","url":null,"abstract":"Lying Down James Sallis (bio) You ever see Always a Dead Body Somewhere, that opening scene panning so slowly along the beach to the poor sucker lying there stone cold gone and done with, with the heron perched on his chest? That's me. That was my breakthrough, the beginning of a long career. I owe a lot to that minute and a half by the water in San Diego. My name's Jeremy Blunt. The studio wants a dead body onscreen, I'm who they call. Before Always, I'd spent twelve years out here trying to make it as an actor. After Always, word got around fast, the way it does, and I didn't have to go knocking anymore. Best in the business, everyone said. Has the experience you need, my agent said. No one does better DBs than me. End of discussion. You better believe, after a quarter of a century out here on sets and streets I have more stories to tell you than I could get through in a solid month. Like the time they set up close to an anthill no one noticed. I got down, doing my thing, dead to the world you might say, and right after cameras started rolling, so did the ants, up and out to find this fine big meal they'd been provided. And it was a long scene. Shows what a pro I was, even then. Or there was that time the director and cameraman, both hungover from last night's party, got into it and wound up pulling prop guns and swords on each other. Or the director who had to show everyone, every scene, how it was to be played, so that his shootings went two or three times as long as others. When it came down to his prepping me, my part being exactly to do nothing, the whole crew applauded as he lay there. He just looked confused. But maybe we can get into that later. The big moments in our lives never come when we expect them. I owe a lot to that San Diego shoot. I owe everything to what I'm telling you about here. We were shooting on the fly and cheap as junk shoes, one of those projects where the director and writer are the same and it looks to be financed off credit cards and deception. We were in a state no one would ever have much reason to come and in a part of the state where even the roads were downright sullen about being there. The whole thing was a mess. [End Page 130] Everyone knew it, and no one would say it. The script was still getting cooked. We'd come in mornings and everything from dialog to the roles themselves would have been changed. The one thing we did not do was reshoot, anything. No money for that, so whatever got onto film stayed there. Made for some interesting continuity, not to mention transitions. Guys would be talking in a room, full daylight, then they'd go outdoors and it was dark. Or the director, editing, would lard in filler, patch-over shots of the set through a bottle of seltzer or a windowpane with rain running down it as characters spoke voiceover. That sort of thing. The female lead was one of those with a nose that could hide behind a demitasse spoon and eyebrows plucked away to make ample room for expertly drawn new","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"76 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954958","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Liberation: Shiv Tattva, and: Liberation: Summit, and: The Goddess Incarnates, and: Cow Dust Hour, and: Emancipation","authors":"Nidhi Agrawal","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0020","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0020","url":null,"abstract":"Liberation: Shiv Tattva, and: Liberation: Summit, and: The Goddess Incarnates, and: Cow Dust Hour, and: Emancipation Nidhi Agrawal (bio) Shiv Tattva On some days,I am Sati.On some days,I am Parvathi.You created me and filled me withMaya (Illusion).Set me free.I offer my sins (Pap) and piety (Punya)At your feet to becomeEmpty and hollow.Will you become Gunagrahin (Acceptor of gunas) to consume my righteousness?I ask you,Will you become Hara (Remover of sins)To cleanse your creation?I am your Sati,I am your Parvathi.You have to liberate me from the cycle ofBirth and Death,Only then,Shiva Tattva will blossomBetween us, Shiva! Summit Enough of preying on my flesh.Sucking my bloodWon't take you to heaven.When your fervor devour is done,Kali will consume you. [End Page 75] The Goddess Incarnates At midnight, on a seat of five skullsI worship the slayer of illusions,The Maharaja (King) gifted me thirty—threeAcres of rent—free earth, 1I have planted seeds of your devotion (Bhakti)In the soil of my bones to perform corpse rituals.The world calls me mother—crazy and love—mad,Your status comes alive in my skeleton,Oh, Mother Kali! Tell meIf the Goddess incarnates. [End Page 76] Cow Dust Hour I dwell on the ferocious cremation groundsYearning for my Mother Kali!She carries waxing gibbous on her forehead,The Sun grows larger in her right pupil,The Moon drips from the two corners of her left eye,She burns the demons in the catacomb of her three eyes.You cannot carry her consort in your palm,He keeps her love and fury in the ocean of his heart. I am restless, this longing to meet myMother will swallow me.Oh, Mother! I have transposed to a ghoulYour disciples are my friends now.They claim,Between the day and night–When twilight rises to the throat of the sky,The hours of Sun and darkness make love,There is no period of half—light,I will meet you at,The time of Union. [End Page 77] Emancipation My eyes brim with the weight of dusk,Emotions conflagrate in my heartBurning the corpse without fuel.This dawn I am returning to my houseTo constellate my belongings. The entrance is clouded by theScattered scars of my childhood,Every drawer is sealed with the secrets ofMy disappointments.Today, I let go of my failures and riseFrom the floor,As soot rises from the throat.With every effort to clean the houseMy spine travels to the nucleus of my brainShowing me the way to the bedroom. At the bedroom's door,I stand startled by the view.The Mother Goddess is coming togetherWith the God of Mountains,Consuming my form and liberating meFrom prison. Nidhi Agrawal nidhi agrawal has a background in communication design in health, media and entertainment spaces. She strongly feels that poetry is a deal of joy, she is the author of the poetry collection, \"Confluence\". Her work has been published in California State Poetry Society, University of Tennessee, Chronogram Media, Yale University, South Asian Today, Indian Periodical, Spill Words Press, Rising Phoenix Review, and Setu Journal","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"162 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954927","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Author Biographies","authors":"","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0046","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0046","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"25 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954953","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Rockabilly","authors":"Audra Burwell","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0005","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0005","url":null,"abstract":"Rockabilly Audra Burwell (bio) Short skirts and tucked shirtsGreased hair and hips that flareThat's the rockabilly way Polished cars and vintage barsCherry-red lips and leather whipsThat's the rockabilly way Full throttle with teeth pressedAgainst a sparkling coke bottleThat's the rockabilly way Cigarettes tucked behind the earMen slouched and cavalierThat's the rockabilly way Peekaboo tattoos and high-heeledShoes, mink shawls hanging in hallsThat's the rockabilly way Neon lights and bloody brawl fightsCheckered diners all things finerThat's the rockabilly way Summer heat pounding on a blacktopSpeakers pulsing and shaking nonstopThat's the rockabilly way Pin-up curls adorning fiery girlsPainted nails and netted veilsThat's the rockabilly way [End Page 13] Audra Burwell audra burwell is a Creative Writing major at Fresno State University, aiming for a Master of Fine Arts degree with a specialization in poetry. Her work has been published by Palaver, Deep Overstock, Carcinogenic, Snapdragon, EBer & Wein, Serpentine, and Superpresent, as well as appearing on the Do Fiction Podcast. Copyright © 2023 University of North Dakota","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"100 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954931","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Coal Camp","authors":"Elizabeth Pope","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0027","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0027","url":null,"abstract":"Coal Camp Elizabeth Pope (bio) 1 In the crook of Slaughter Hollerleans a blue house in the branch where God grew a wife. She'd dangle along banksidedamp as a mermaid pooling the gloom of creek across her knuckles, coaled as a fishstrewn stagnant on embankment. Home was never a place she thought to leave. 2 She met her husband, blackened, splintered on Fireside—skunkdrunk with sun, wet parched neck, raw, crude, radiant as a cut. She witnessed this before—tarmac motes, oil rings rainbowed at coal tipple slurry. So much night without stars. Her waterface was a stomach chewing and churning, her lust—a pot rising to boil. His was the tarnished light, catching, raining the bottom scorch. 3 Their house was built upon what her husband brought back from War—a sound dark, quiet as the mine. A silence that ruined himas it sometimes does. She supposeda shade tree flowered inside him, [End Page 121] flowered until it gnarled, roots boreclaws into his sun, and he became the dark. 4 Her haunted husband was put to surveying the vein of the gorge. She thought it fitting for him to harvest buckets of remedy—coal as the lamp to quench his silence. He didn't pick at it like the rest of men mining for blackstar, shucking away, fingering gunpowder, searching for seedlingsdumped down there to grow. He didn't pick at it like a scab. He ran it, stuck dynamite in its side, and burst Julythe way kids poured vinegar and baking soda in a sealed jar and shook it, the way it shattered. He shook them when it shot dusty clouds on the ceilingthat never rained down. 5 She gathered the chicks born every April, homeless henspecking boot-mashed yolks. Put her ear to so close to clapboard it made her body drumlike closeline rattle. The house blackened, the creek, the stone, all the linen sheets turned ash. When her husband built this house, never did she fathom the sounds of shatter.Forests twisted arthritic into muddy scarecrow, into kites, into root stools. Into anything hands folded over. [End Page 122] 6 She recalls running downstream from that haunted sink.The bright blue morning floating down to baptize, steady as a stiltwalker. 7 Abandoned old house where everything once mattered.The dog-tired,sunk porchspokethe ancient omen: abandon all hope. Words she wore as a cotton dress unraveling thread. He wore the distant sun when evening swept over his water eyes,and his spirit was drunk enough to rise a shaky boat acrosshis stormface. 8 When her heirloom lilies bloom, she thinks of death and summerwild and bright like tigers, the names she labored,thirst—this ache to travel. [End Page 123] Elizabeth Pope elizabeth pope is a poet from an Appalachian coal-town in the mountains of Southeastern Kentucky. Her honors include an Emerging Artist Award from the Kentucky Arts Council, and her poetry appears in Euphony Journal, Rock River Review, The Fourth River, New Madrid, Appalachian Heritage, and elsewhere. Copyright © 2023 University of North Dakota","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"62 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954956","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Handing Down","authors":"Jim Tilley","doi":"10.1353/ndq.2023.0007","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ndq.2023.0007","url":null,"abstract":"Handing Down Jim Tilley (bio) The target market must have been small—not many coffee drinkers want to start the dayholding a ceramic cup that makes all thosehigh school word problems in math look trivialcompared to the scribblings in thin white lineson the outside of the gray-green mug,not merely algebra and geometry, but calculusno less, and not even the more straightforwarddifferentiations, but multiple integralsunder changes of variables. Does any of thisrender the coffee tastier? No—that's the roleof chocolate powder, almond milk creamer,and vanilla oat milk mixed in proper proportions.The saddest part is that all these equations were easy to comprehend forty-five years agowhen my neural pathways were still pliable,not friable. Now, when I view the surfaceof the double cone, x-squared plus y-squaredequals z-squared, I think only of vanillasoft-swirl ice cream at the local Dairy Queen,a name that sounds rather odd in these times.But the real problem for me is to figure outin whose young hands I can place this preciousmug before I'm gone, someone to appreciatewhat's on the outside as well as the inside,to start the day with a fresh brew and a mindopen to the possibilities these equations allow,which, for too long, I've been unable to see. [End Page 16] Jim Tilley jim tilley has published three full-length collections of poetry (In Confidence, Cruising at Sixty to Seventy, Lessons from Summer Camp) and a novel (Against the Wind) with Red Hen Press. His short memoir, The Elegant Solution, was published as a Ploughshares Solo. He has won Sycamore Review's Wabash Prize for Poetry. Four of his poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Copyright © 2023 University of North Dakota","PeriodicalId":500629,"journal":{"name":"North Dakota Quarterly","volume":"100 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134954938","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}