Thursday, December 21, 2023

A Toast to Frank O'Hara

Lately, I've been haunted by the ghost of Frank O'Hara.

I found many references to the poet on the website and recent event invites from The Poetry Society of New York. They even sell a Frank O'Hara t-shirt.

Then, last night, I participated in an online workshop, led by New Jersey poet Michael Paul Thomas (you can find information about his future workshops... highly recommended... at his LinkedIn or by following him on Eventbrite).

Out of nowhere, Frank appeared.

Michael read from O'Hara's New York City "Lunch Poems," as he led us through writing and revision exercises. He based the discussion around how we develop a consistent practice in creative work.

"Do we always have to wait for lightning to bolt down our arm to the pen?" he asked, then answered with a description of O'Hara's practice of writing a poem a day during his lunch hours in the city. He simply described the world around him, then leveled it up with a poetic twist.

Michael urged us to write what we saw around us last night. So I did, and I've revised it a bit today.

I offer this poem to you, Frank, in Blogger's best typewriter font. I beg you to accept it.

Now, please stop haunting me.

---------

A Toast to Frank O'Hara on This Winter’s Solstice 

I’m sitting in a house that would otherwise be abandoned.

It’s my grandparents’ old home,

Which is still oddly filled with warmth

On this cold night in western New Jersey.

 

When I was a boy I would walk to the open field in the side yard

And gaze at the stars: the only source of light,

Save for the glow of the house and the headlights

Of a lone, lost, angry traveler bound for Pennsylvania.

Tonight, that sleepy country road is a four-lane highway.

From the upstairs bedroom window, I see spotlit car dealerships

Displaying comically large American flags across what is now Route 46.

 

The back road used to border acres of farmland.

Now, it provides access to the busy warehouses that replaced the farms,

And to the back entrance of TD Bank, whose garish green signage glows

Past the bones of the barn where Nonno used to keep chickens and a cow.

In the backyard, a cell tower looms over the ghost of a small orchard,

Which Nonna used to tend to make homemade wine.

Now, there’s a holiday-lit brewery among the back-road warehouses.

 

The hour is too late to talk to the Sun. When I look to the heavens,

Now, I am surrounded by ever-changing, earthbound constellations.

The stars have fallen from the sky,

And darkness envelops me from above.


Wednesday, November 15, 2023

The Legend of Peter Thonis

Peter Thonis was my boss for 12 years, retiring 10 years ago. Late last week, a family friend called with the news that Peter had died.

As his son Chris posted on Facebook, Peter’s doctors told him he had 3 months to live, given his Stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

 

Peter’s reaction? “You can’t base this stuff off of years-old data. And, as you know, I’m not the norm.”

 

That was 17 months ago. Peter was not the norm; he was transcendent.

 

---------

 

Here are 3 scenes of what it was like to work with Peter Thonis:

 

Scene 1

I try to call Peter on an important matter, and he answers with a whisper. “I can’t talk now,” he says. “I'm in a doctor's office.”

 

I say, “OK, I understand…”

 

He doesn’t seem to hear me, though, because he goes on to explain that he was about to undergo walk-in surgery to repair a stomach scar covering stitches that had never healed properly.

 

“But it's something I'd rather not talk about,” he says.

 

“OK,” I repeat. “I get it. We’ll talk some other time.”

 

Instead of silence, I hear Peter’s dramatic whisper on the other end of the line.

 

“It was a knife wound,” he says conspiratorially. “It was from a fight when I was young.”

 

Scene 2

I walk into Peter’s office and say, “I need to leave work early today. My mother-in-law is coming for dinner.”

 

Peter: “I know what that’s like. Go! GO NOW!”

 

I head toward the door.

 

“Wait!” he calls out, “Unless you want me to think of something for you to do right now, so you have to work late tonight.”

 

Scene 3

Peter arrives at my office door at 8 a.m. to say good morning. We were working in an office tower at 1095 Ave. of the Americas, the same building where my Dad used to work. He’s completely out of breath.

 

“I’m going hiking with my brother this week in the White Mountains. I’m walking up the 32 flights in the morning to get used to climbing again.”

 

Peter spies an unopened bottle on my desk. “Could I trouble you for some soda?” he asks.

 

“Of course,” I quickly untwist the top and hand it to him.

 

“I really hate to do this,” he says, taking a swig and immediately regaining his wind.

 

“Wait!” He waves the plastic bottle in front of him. “Is this diet Coke?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good!” he exclaims, hurrying off.

 

30 minutes later, I get a phone call from Peter.

 

“Was there an 8:30 meeting?” he asks.

 

“No, you canceled that last week.”

 

“Good, because I was on the 8:30 call, and no one was there.”

 

---------

 

These scenes do not portray Peter’s excellence in actually doing his job.

 

This is a photo of him with our friend and co-worker Valerie Vedda. The occasion was when Peter received the Communicator of the Year Award from IABC-NJ (International Association of Business Communicators) in 2006. Peter’s formal obituary outlines his many other career accomplishments, but here’s one real-life example of his work ethic:

 

On Veterans’ Day weekend 22 years ago, I was mildly annoyed during a day off to interrupt my leaf raking at my suburban home to return a message from Christine Nuzum of Dow Jones. It was about possible phone service problems. I logged in to work and discovered it was in light of the crash of American Airlines Flight 587 in Queens. In the short time it took me to get back to Christine, I also discovered that she had reached out to Peter simultaneously, and he had already responded.

 

Peter had been hiking on a mountaintop in southern New Hampshire. The wind-chill factor approached minus 20 degrees, but he had stripped away three layers of protective clothing to get to his pager, find his cell phone, and dial her back without his gloves on.

 

When it came to Public Relations, he single-handedly prevented multiple media disasters over the years.

 

Here are 5 representative, if unorthodox, PR lessons I learned from Peter Thonis:

  • Regarding crisis communications, the most effective operating philosophy can be summarized in one phrase: “Go ugly early.”
  • Regarding leaks to the media, the advice is this: “A leak isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If it isn’t material, it may be just interesting.”
  • “There’s a thin line between being a ‘thought leader’ and becoming a ‘poster boy.’”
  • “You can’t say the word ‘jerk’ to the Daily News and not expect to be quoted.”
  • Regarding a fallback PR position on just about anything… When in doubt, your standby sound bite should always be, “Bring it on.”

Peter was also able to make tough decisions with ridiculous ease. He once described this side of his management style. He said, “You know, Bob, you only have to shoot one person, and it will never happen again.”

 

By far, his best quote about PR came in the middle of an otherwise meandering, boring meeting. Out of nowhere, he suddenly said this:

 

“Our goal shouldn't be to find a better way to tell the same story. Our goal should be to find a better story to tell.”

 

---------

 


As for the person, here are 10 facts about Peter (never call him “Pete”) Thonis:

  • He couldn’t say the word “surreptitious”
  • His favorite finger food at a reception was pigs in a blanket
  • At one time in his life, he was recruited by the CIA
  • He allegedly had the ability to stuff an entire orange in his mouth
  • He once sat at the bar at Kennedy’s (now closed) on West 57th Street and watched an entire baseball game (Peter was a huge sports fan) with Bill Murray -- but only because he was clever enough not to acknowledge who Bill Murray was
  • He had a pathological hatred for the New England clam chowder as served in the Verizon Center cafeteria, fondly recalling how his Mom made chowder from fresh ingredients
  • He once made a map for my family to follow that highlighted a week’s worth of activities on Cape Cod, adding the warning: “Avoid Hyannis”
  • He could, and would, show you how to use a wristwatch as a compass
  • He was an expert limerick writer
  • Peter and I both, unbeknownst to each other at the time, took violin lessons in late middle age

In truth, that last point is one of the only things we had in common.

 

I could never match Peter’s strength or confidence… or empathy. I recall his big heart. I recall his comforting embrace of a tearful co-worker as we all stood in stunned silence from our panoramic 32nd-floor view of the burning World Trade Center towers on 9/11.

 

I recall his support at the funeral home in Totowa, NJ, and his patience and kindness to my family after my Dad died. Peter revealed that he was filled with anger that his own father had passed away in his 50s.

 

I also recall only one day in our 12 years together that he did not show up where I expected him. When I asked Valerie about it that day, thinking he was perhaps unreachable because he had lost his 7th… or 8th… or 9th Blackberry device, she confided that Peter had taken off in his car for New Hampshire in the pre-dawn hours to attend to a health emergency involving his best friend.

 

---------

 

By coincidence, I had lunch with Valerie and her husband earlier this month in New York City. She spoke fondly of visiting post-retirement Peter at his mountainside home (that, when described, seemed akin to the setting of “The Shining”).

 

Excuse all the movie references, but Peter was a bit of a film buff. I’ve had other bosses who loved movies… notably, earlier in my career, Tony Pappas.

 

I began writing this on November 10th, the 5th anniversary of Tony’s death. He was another larger-than-life boss who led media relations for New York Telephone (later NYNEX). I’ve likened Tony to Peter O’Toole’s swashbuckling character in the 1982 movie “My Favorite Year.”

 

I never thought I’d work for anyone like Tony again. Until I met Peter Thonis.

 

Both, foremost, shared a love of exquisite writing.

 

Both had great, though differing, tastes in movies. Tony liked foreign films and “The Godfather” franchise. Peter was more of a fan of “Igby Goes Down”-type films and had an irrational love of Godzilla movies.

 

One of Peter’s favorite movie scenes was from 1997’s “As Good As It Gets.” It’s when Jack Nicholson compliments Helen Hunt by saying, “You make me want to be a better man.”

 

That statement, that scene, resonated with Peter, who always strove to be better.

 

I’ve thought of this often these past few days. It’s inspiring.

 

I’ve also thought of a post-credit scene to give these words a fitting ending:

 

In 2012, Peter sent everyone on his Christmas list, including his Mom, packages from Wine Country with a note, “Enjoy every moment of the holidays.” But someone hacked into the order and changed the message to “Enjoy every f**k’n moment!”

 

Such simple, profound advice, no matter how it’s phrased. Who knows what the future holds for any of us?

 

I only know what Peter Thonis, the legend, would have to say about that:

 

Bring it on.


Moonlight in Chatham during a family visit inspired by Peter

Monday, October 30, 2023

Middletown NJ Photography Exhibit: My Reflections

Below are my four contributions to the photography exhibit hosted by the mighty Black Glass Gallery on the theme of "reflections." The opening reception (which is always fun) is Friday, Nov. 3, from 6-9 p.m. at the Middletown Arts Center, and the exhibit will be on display until after Thanksgiving. Hope to see you there! (I'll be arriving a little later, because "traffic to the shore on Friday night" is always traffic to the shore on Friday night... even in November.)

Captions in haiku.

One Vanderbilt

Mirrors in the sky.

Crowds multiplied, divided,

rarified, alone.


Trump World Tower

Vanishing fortress,

haunted by neighboring clouds,

surrounded by ghosts.


Museum of Modern Art

Visiting MOMA,

two lovers reimagine

Rene Magritte’s kiss.


Jersey City

I’m head over heels.

You turn my world upside down.

I never forget.


Here are four others on the same theme, not on display in Middletown but (of course) on my Instagram accounts: @bvarphotos and @foundinnj đź™‚


Wednesday, October 18, 2023

Rain Won't Stop Saturday's Paterson Poetry Festival; See You There?


Rain won't dampen the conclusion of the annual Paterson Poetry Festival, scheduled for Saturday, Oct. 21.

I just heard that due to the inclement weather, the venue has been moved from the steps of Court House Plaza to International High School, at 200 Grand St. in Paterson... where there will still be vendors and food trucks and poetry from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.

It's a resilient bunch, and Allen Ginsberg would be proud.

You can read more about the festival by following Word Seed Inc. on social media. It's a great organization, led by Talena Lachelle Queen, Paterson's Poet Laureate since 2018.

At last year's event, I met some wonderful people, including poet Dimitri Reyes, representing CavanKerry Press. Since January, I've been trying -- "trying" being the operative word -- to write poems following weekly prompts from him.

Dimitri is encouraging and supportive. I love the music in his poetry and his readings, and I look forward to hearing and meeting more poets on Saturday.

The past two prompts from Dimitri this October have been:

1. "Spend some time thinking about 2 poems and 1 song that you really enjoy. Read the three of them together and see what conversation they're creating. Try your hand and putting these different lines together into one poem."

2. "Read this wonderful essay by Franchesca Melendez about Sami Miranda. Listen to his poem as well. Write a poem about any of the faces illustrated by Miranda."

See my attempts below. Anyone can be a poet!

Kinda. đź™‚

See you in Paterson on Saturday?


---------

Annabel Brightside Alone

From childhood’s hour,

I have never been as others were.



I never, I never

understood the destiny

calling me.


This mystery that binds me still.



The sick lullabies

I intoned, reciting the poetry of Poe

to our children.


As if I were a child too.



My all-consuming jealousy,

this demon in my view,

has taken control.


Even now, as I approach my tomb.



Eyes open, seeing the price I paid,

I covet the angels.

They remind me of you.


My darling, my life, my bride.



It started out as a kiss.

How did it end up like this?



---------




Illustration by Sami Miranda

Greetings From Budd Lake

It’s Taco Tuesday at Buccaboo’s Burritos,

where poetry isn’t for sale.


It must be prompted,

summoned from the ordinary.


It must be earned.

So I consider your face:


Your eyes closed,

allowing me to see your pain.


The fluorescent highlights in your golden hair

mocking this red October.


Your exasperated expression

trivializing my attempt at transcendence.


Forgive me, Senora.

Forgive these lunatic scribblings,


freezing time on the margins of this receipt,

conjuring your apotheosis. 

Monday, July 10, 2023

Things to Do When You're Invisible

Coney Island boardwalk; I was one of the NPCs

I have reached the age where I am invisible to most people.

I recently roamed the Coney Island boardwalk, after struggling to wash up in a Maimonides Park restroom because my hands could not activate any of its motion-sensitive faucets, happily taking cell phone photos without anyone seeming to notice, or care.

I felt like an NPC, a non-player character in a video game. Everyone else was a participant; I was an observer.

The funny thing is, when I was a boy, I thought invisibility was the world's greatest superpower. It would allow me complete freedom. I could do whatever I wished without consequence.

I realize now, after all these years, how mistaken that is. Invisibility can be fun sometimes, but on the whole, it is the curse of the marginalized.

The one true superpower is the ability to stop time.


Tiny statues in a prayer garden near home

Last week in my hometown in suburban New Jersey, I nursed a serving of shaved ice at a new shop in one of the borough's strip malls. Of course, none of the young attendants or patrons were paying attention to me.

So I watched, unnoticed, as one of the employees adjusted the satellite radio providing the background music. She stopped at a station playing the opening bars of "Your Song."

I do not believe, from her reaction, that she had ever heard this song before. Not the original, anyway. It's more than 50 years old, from another generation and culture. Even the seemingly inimitable voice of Elton John, who just this weekend concluded his farewell tour in real life, was almost unrecognizable in its clarity and immediacy.

The young woman was mesmerized. After another minute, she said aloud to no one: "Wow! This is really good!"

And just like that, Elton John's song had suspended time.

That's what excellence does. The creators who conjure these moments possess Superman's power to pause and even reverse the earth's spin on its axis, keeping us all a little further from death.

That's the superpower I long to possess.

Walking home that evening, I wandered through the church grounds where our family has its name inscribed on a brick in the pavement by its front entrance -- as if that were permanent. The pastor was walking his dog. I waved to him, but he evidently didn't see me... or he ignored me, assuming I was (as I am in the confessional) just a random trespasser.

I continued through the neighborhood, wondering how it stays so light out so late these days, when I was startled by rustling branches in the tall, landscaped bushes at my back. Something hit the ground with a thud that was substantial enough to feel under my feet.

I turned and saw a deer. It stopped and stared at me. Or through me. It didn't run away.

I took its photo and turned for home. I knew that at least I could write about it all.


---------

How to Write the Great New Milford Poem

 

Before you start,

You must accept you are invisible.

 

You live in the suburbs.

People walk dogs past your house,

In front of your white picket fence.

Sometimes they stop and peer

Into your dining room window,

Pointing in your direction,

As if they’ve seen a ghost.

 

They don’t know you can see them.

You do not participate in Little League baseball,

Or Junior League football.

Your children left home long ago.

 

The town pool has closed without warning.

Its parking lot, empty; its grounds, overgrown.

Your family used to swim there.

The Burger King is still open.

Decades ago, the borough attorney

Protested the “Home of the Whopper” sign

Because he said it insulted Italian Americans.

Your children used to eat there.

 

Begin now by offering a prayer to Bertha Reetz

At her abandoned stone in the French Burial Ground.

Remain calm when you hear gunshots

From the range behind the Recycling Center.

The police are shooting blanks, scattering the deer

In your town’s only remaining sliver of woods

Along the Hackensack River.

 

Gather the scraps of your neighbors’ families:

Sticky, dirt-crusted Dairy Queen napkins and cups

Littering the curbside along River Road.

Cross the street to the garbage can

At the bus stop outside Canterbury Village.

Use extreme caution. You are invisible to traffic.

 

You return home alone.

You start to write a poem.