Volume 1 2009
Editorial: Emily Dickinson Meets Erato
Welcome to the new and definitive incarnation of Many Colored Brooms. Our moniker honors Emily Dickinson’s imagery in a poem about a remarkable sunset. She portrays a sun plunging into colors, personified as a housewife, sweeping away the day, with many colored brooms, even spotted ones – I see both leopard and Dalmatian varieties in my mind’s eye. One gets the sense that this sunset lady is really a goddess, and at least momentarily she is one of the Muses, probably more Urania of the heavens than Erato.
A Guest Editorial Preface
I never married Poetry. I’ve slept with her many times, engaged wonderful romps with her, and understand the passion and lust to be found with her; I know her allure, her charms, her slutty side. I admit I’d marry her in a minute, if I could, but she’s a lover who appears haphazardly, turns the world on it’s side, makes the very floorboards rock . . . then one morning I awake to find her missing. She’s beyond my control, and once she leaves, I wait years for her return. So far, she always returned; but only when she wants.
Awake Erato
“As if we could be good classical Greeks incarnated in postmodern times, we shall feature an invocation at the doorstep of every issue.” Maria Jacketti.
Poems
Japanese poems, translated by Dennis Maloney & Hide Oshiro
Three Poems
We met on the roof
for six of the eight days
of a nine day affair
the ninth day
allocated for the time to
write this down
I worked in the mail room
for an import/export bank in downtown
she was brought in as a temp for a
secretary who got pneumonia and
we met on the roof
and she asked me
to fuck her from every [...]
Master Choreographer
Master choreographer, consummate artist that you are,
You pirouette into my life, a whirling dervish all aflame.
In one, long, whispering glissade, you glide into my arms,
Then slide into my heart with practiced ease and grace.
Your technique is perfect; your steps, so effortless.
From tour jeté, you sweep into a rond de jambe,
And lift me up in a [...]
Ariadne III
As the soul is lost
I try to find remnants of the thread
A superman smiles grey in his beard
He wonders when they first appeared
I search my mind
attempt to recall
when this started
the beginning of it all.
As I drink your words
breathe your touch
hear your perfume
you feel ever-present.
Fishing in the Inkwell
I would love to ski
over your hills
to slalom
around your indentations.
I would love to walk
with my fingers
over the inside of your legs
I want to scout
your wettening well
I want to write your name
in my fierce fully fuelled flesh
it will make us
hungry for more…
One Sip of You
Just as Athena had the suitors
“wandering in their wine,”
one lip-sip of the essence of you
dizzied me into a frenzy,
and I still spin in a world
you wove for me, with roses
teasing bees in the wind,
red-berried mountain ash
offering orgies to raucous ravens,
and clouds spewing down
mountains like lava.
You have blinded my mind,
but your voice still sings
to me like [...]
Our Nest Eggs
With you, now, I am content, a robin at rest
in the nest of the eggs of our future,
and I whistle to the warm heavens
at how well you and I have survived
those frigid icicle nights, the hot angry days,
and now these budding hours, each time
our voices cooing with warm breezes,
and our eggs nestled under, crackle
in expectation [...]
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