This Is the Way Poetry Month Ends

It ended with a howl!

This is a photo taken April 29, 2023, of Talena Lachelle Queen, the poet laureate of Paterson, NJ, reading Allen Ginsberg's virtually unreadable "Howl" at the Paterson Museum, where Ginsberg once read his poetry decades ago.

Although National Poetry Month has ended, "Paterson's Poets: Voices From The Silk City" will remain on exhibit there (at 2 Market St.) through June 24.

As the museum notes: "Since its founding in 1792, Paterson has been home to many poets. Still more have visited Paterson and been enthused by the beauty of the Great Falls or the ingenuity of the city's residents. This exhibit celebrates and honors the poets who were not only inspired by Paterson, but became a part of our community, whether they lived, worked or played here."

On intriguing display features "The Bulldog Poets" of School No. 4, a group founded by ESL teacher Joseph Verilla in 1994. Their motto: "No bull, just dog." According to the exhibit, poets Kamarra Fabor, Leslie Graham, Shernese Myers and La-Chaka Price drew from their experiences with crime, drugs and family struggles, and won acclaim at the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival in 1996. Earlier this month at a museum event, four members of the group re-created a photo from the '90s. Thanks to Chris Fabor Muhammad of yourcreativeforce.com for letting me re-post it here:

As for me, I'm ending poetry month with another prompted poem (with the prompt as the title), a little longer than usual, although not at all inspired by "Howl." 🙂

---------

What Have You Learned from the Study of Other Languages?

 

I studied Classical Latin, taught by “Father Bone Ass”

at a Catholic university called “Our Lady of the Lake” in French.

My professor was also my dormitory’s rector

charged with the enforcement of “parietals,”

which has nothing, and everything, to do with biology.

 

His name was literally “Banas,” a common word root for “being unbearable”

in the Tagalog dialect in the Filipino language.

Not quite “unbearable,” either.

“Banas” is a mix of sweltering humidity and annoyance

specific to the Austronesian climate.

 

Father Banas had a dry sense of humor.

He of course knew his crude, banal nickname,

although “Bone Ass” is untranslatable in Tagalog.

My professor bore our boorishness with a patient smile.

He taught Catullus, a poet who is untranslatable in English.

 

Which Father Banas also, of course, knew to be true.

 

We struggled in translation.

As an inside joke, he gave our class advice from a modern poet.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko had said that translations are like women:

The more beautiful they are, the less true.

Or Russian words to that effect.

 

What I heard in English studying Classical Latin inspired a love of poetry,

the way Yevtushenko inspired a generation of young Russians

in their fight against Stalinism during the Cold War.

I am not a fighter, or a lover.

I am an observer.

 

I watched as Catullus’ poems for Lesbia

sank deeper and deeper into perversity.

The poet had no Latin words for the passion he sought to express.

“Odi et amo” encapsulated a messy entanglement of obsession and desire,

of love that strains against calcification in verse.

 

Of “love” only poets can begin to untangle.

 

And then I wondered, what is “perverse”?

I was born and raised in New Jersey,

on land the Dutch stole from the Lenni Lenape

and named after the Delaware Indian word

meaning “between the mountains and the water.”

 

Once Father Banas sat at my breakfast table

when he saw I was eating alone in a campus dining hall.

He was always kind, and he knew I was homesick,

alone on the shores of St. Mary’s Lake,

missing my life between the mountains and the waters.

 

He told me he missed his brother, a missionary in Bangladesh, “The Land of Bengal.”

The Indo-Aryan suffix “Desh” derives from the Sanskrit word for “land,”

now combined with a geographical, ethnolinguistic and cultural term

referring to the eastern part of the Indian subcontinent at the apex of the Bay of Bengal.

We spoke of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets.

 

We conspired, “breathing together” about the refuge of art.

 

I last saw Father Banas at his funeral at the grand basilica on the shores of the lake.

A “basilica” is not a “cathedral,” but a church accorded special privileges by the pope.

It houses an “ombrellino,” a silk canopy striped in papal colors of yellow and red,

and a “tintinnabulum,” a bell atop the pole carried in procession on special occasions,

and somewhere within, a basilica also displays the crossed keys symbolic of St. Peter.

 

The funeral of Father Banas, like the future pluperfect of my own,

was not a special occasion, save for the procession of his brother priests.

I remember the reading from the Book of Wisdom:

how the souls of the departed darted about

as sparks through stubble,

 

And how we the living… every one of us, even the poets…

raised our voices in formulaic prayer,

professing the word “thy” three times during the “Our Father,”

invoking the ineffable power of intercession

that “your” does not possess in modern English.

 

This is how I learned that everything simple is complicated.

Words are translations of nuances we universalize and neuter.

Forgive me the length of this poem.

I considered all these words carefully, today,

alone at my breakfast table:

 

in homage to the hallowed life of Father Banas,

in praise of the trespasses of Catullus.

--Bob Varettoni, 4/30/23

---------

PS- The photo of Paterson behind Talena on top of this page is a sight that inspired another poem I once wrote... "Scenic Overlook."