“This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death”
Emily Dickinson

Whether karma or kismet, I find myself swept by Maria Jacketti, or Emily, into an affiliation with this periodical. So it might be the proper time for confession. As much as I admire Professor Jacketti, I must confess I’m an Emily junkie.

‘Junkie’ is an over-used word thrown around by us old fogies to exaggerate any unexplained fascination with a topic, but allow me to relay my confessional, then let’s see if I truly qualify as a junkie.

Several years ago I completed a business trip in Boston, and discovered I now possessed a day to myself. Any self-respecting businessman might find a hundred other things to do with a free day in Boston, but this addict realized I could readily make the trip to Amherst – Emily’s hometown – and get back in time for my flight.

I showed up for the morning tour of the Dickinson homestead, to learn I did indeed hold a slot on the tour . . . as the sole participant. The college intern who took me through the house knew less Dickinson lore than I did myself, but it seemed fine with me – just to see the furniture Emily used, stand in the same spaces she inhabited, go upstairs to her bedroom and touch the four poster and her desk, all this thrilled. Well, maybe not on par with the Beatles arriving in America . . . but close . . . although I admit I didn’t scream or faint. Still for me to stand at the top of the same stairwell Emily refused to descend while her editor friend, Samuel Bowles, demanded her presence from the bottom, made me feel kindred with Samuel, and I too wanted to yell out for her.

After the tour I asked the intern for directions to the Dickinson family plot; I knew she rested within easy-walking distance, since Emily instructed – before her death – her coffin must not appear on the sidewalks or streets, so the funeral procession went from the home to the cemetery by way of the backyards. And I made it there quickly, soon to present myself at the wrought iron fencing surrounding the plot. There stood the unassuming stone I sought, nearly as tall as myself, proclaiming the words she directed to be chiseled, “Called back”. I felt an odd wonderment, in the presence of the actual remains of a great poet.

I thought I might reach out and touch the top of her stone, then berated myself for being a groupie. ‘Act like a grown man, for godsake,’ I chastised myself. But as I stood staring at her, I soon broke down, “What the hell will it hurt?” I reached out my hand to caress the top of the small monument . . . and the very instant I touched the stone, a substantial church bell blurted a loud toll, causing me to jump back, scan the cemetery for witnesses, and abruptly focus on a large tombstone heralding the surname, WARD, my own name.

It scared the bejesus out of me. And I hurried back to Boston, to the safer realms of corporate business . . . far, far away from the disquieting world of poetry.

So if I’ve established my credentials as a junkie, I’ll go on to modestly describe our current issue: We started the periodical with four poems by Michael Lee Johnson, who asks what does the poet know of suffering? Quite a bit, we learn; we then follow with Gale Acuff who conjures a childhood evening when Ed Sullivan is juxtaposed with a UFO. Next we find Gigi Marino’s excellent treatment on sexual power. Judith Skillman follows with five poems most reflective of this issue’s tribute to Urania, the muse of astronomy, then two poems with mythology themes from Tricia Crawford Coscia.

Santiago del Dardano Turann skillfully used the laurel as metaphor; then Nyuka Anaïs Laurent draws a wondrous arc acoss the solar system. Rose Grimaldi offers a poem on the glowworm, followed by Agnesa Lamaxhema’s sublime answer to her question, you’ll never deny my existence, right? We end the poetry with one by Irish poet Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa, and also a few poems by the co-editors, Jacketti and Kelley.

This edition’s interview is one I conducted with our own Warnborough professor, Maria Jacketti, diving into her favorite topic, Magical Realism, among other startling revelations, almost as startling as hearing the bells toll at Emily’s gravesite.

Ward Kelley
Indiana
July 2009