Poem: 'Byzantium in Jersey'

My grandfather, 1969, Budd Lake, NJ

Last week's poetry prompt from Dimitri Reyes intrigued me greatly.

"Today is my grandfather's birthday," Dimitri wrote. "Though he is no longer on this plane, I still hear him in my mind and I honor him through voice & spirit... When doing research into my own Puerto Rican culture and discovering how I was going to traverse 'creation myth,' my grandfather's successes and failures helped fill in the spaces -- fully and honestly."

I listened to Dimitri's poem, "Papi Pichón" ("Father Pigeon"), and the poet invited me to "create my own bird."

So this week I couldn't get my own grandfather out of my mind. He died in 1976, and just in the past three months, I've mourned the death of three other close and extended family members.

I also thought of a favorite poem, one I used to recite to my daughters as a lullaby, about the passage of time. This morning -- thinking of Yeats' bird of hammered gold and gold enamelling, and imitating (poorly) the iambic pentameter and rhyme scheme of "Sailing to Byzantium" -- I wrote the following (although, PS, I'm still debating that next-to-last line... considering "This, my father's father's mysterium"):

Byzantium in Jersey

 

This, my grandfather, in his Sunday best:

a cigarette dangling from its holder,

a tattered suit, a worn Italian vest,

with me at his side, decades less older.

He does not hold my hand. There is no rest.

He lectures as we walk, points my shoulders

toward a butterfly he displays to me

along the shores of Budd Lake, New Jersey.

 

This, a back country road, is my classroom:

milkweed, honeysuckle, red columbine,

hummingbirds, spotted touch-me-nots in bloom,

blue robbins’ eggs, goldenrod, dandelions.

My grandfather names them for me, assumes

I will remember that sparrow, that vine,

the chicony, those edible lilies,

the songs of mimicking catbirds we see.

 

These have all vanished for me.

 

I live in the suburbs, reminisce now

about ancestors. One Sunday, I walk

the Hackensack riverbank in a drought.

During the golden hour, a gyring hawk

directs my gaze to a sun-kissed bough

where a crow blinks back in silence, stalking.

This, I know, is my father’s father’s song

of what is past, or passing, or to come.

"Varry and Kate," my grandparents.
Photo by my father.

 

Poem: 'Grief's Cliche'

I have only one prompted poem to offer today for February, and it was written in March.

Another that I wrote was too personal (naming names). I submitted still another for publication (with the assurance it was otherwise unpublished), and the last of the weekly prompts I received from my poetry Patreon was a reading, rather than writing, assignment.

The prompt for the poem below was simply, "How is your body a mausoleum of flowers?"

"Mausoleum of Flowers" is the title of this poem by Daniel B. Summerhill, and the image had special meaning to me as I contemplated the funeral and burial of my uncle on March 2.

For the past week, I couldn't get this short poem out of my head. I kept thinking of the roses pictured here, the ones gathered in front of the altar of Sacred Heart Church in Clifton and later placed upon the grave at Calvary Cemetery in Paterson. This was my first draft:

Missing You

I pricked my finger on the rose
I cast atop your grave.

My droplet of blood,
camouflaged by the buds
the others threw on you.

Then you were hidden too;
your body, a mausoleum of flowers.

While each of us beheld
the shorn beauty of your life
and pretended we would live forever.

---------

And this is where I landed (revised, 3/24/23):

Grief's Cliche

The rose I cast upon your coffin
is scent-less in the dead winter’s cold.

Thorns, rendered painless;
my fingertips, numb.

Curiously, I see a timid trickle of my blood
mix with the petals already covering you.

Then, lost in red, you are hidden too:
Your body, a mausoleum of flowers.

I exhale. A puff of air dissipates like incense.

My life shorn, my body suspends itself.

Lungs empty, I kill time at your grave.

I crave belief, yet question all truths:

This pretense I am sharing
a final breathless moment with you.

There's No 'AI' in 'Poetry'

Named after The Muppet's Bunsen Honeydew

Silly me.

On a cold Saturday morning in New Jersey, I cuddled up with ChatGPT and asked the artificial intelligence (AI) chatbot a series of absurd requests, such as "write a three paragraph love letter to a penguin."

I was amused by the amusing result, so I tweeted this screenshot of it:

The next morning, I received this prompt on my quest to write weekly poem in 2023:

Can I Call you Rose? Listen to this song -- "Can I Call Your Rose?" by Thee Sacred Souls -- and get inspired to write your own love poem! And start with "Can I call you (fill in the blank)?"

So this is what I wrote:

Love Poem for Dr. Bunsen

Can I call you Honeydew?

I remember the whimsical days,

when my daughters were young,

and they adopted you.

So I fell in love with a penguin.

It wasn’t you, Dr. Bunsen; it was me.

Your beauty and grace in the water are unmatched,

and I cannot help but be drawn to you.

I visited you once at the boardwalk aquarium.

A thick wall of glass cast a glamorous haze,

and you won my heart

with your playful antics, your curious gaze.

Now seven years have passed,

regenerating every cell in my body.

Time has transfigured you too:

You have become my daughters.

I proclaim the same to all of you:

I am fully aware that our lives and worlds

are very different,

but I want to protect you.

I cannot imagine my life without you.

Can I call you Honeydew?

---------

I don't pretend to be a poet, but inspired by AI, "Love Poem for Dr. Bunsen" contextualizes a random prompt, a generalized bond between fathers and daughters, and specific personal memories to create something that didn't exist until now.

Posted here, I expect it will be scanned by Google's cloud and become part of something larger. Whether the poem is good or bad is subjective, but at least it's authentic and unique.

That's what I crave more than anything else: not to be boxed in, or characterized, by my age, gender, job, race, residency, past purchases, or by the thousands and thousands of other data points the cloud has collected about me.

I rage against this machine. I don’t pretend to be a poet, but I refuse to be an algorithm.

January’s Poems: Devastation, Gorilla Monsoon, and Groundhog Day

Images generated by DALL-E 2

I’m writing poems based on prompts every Sunday from New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes. Although I’ve taken some liberties with the prompts, I hope to continue this throughout 2023 and post these poems monthly. I’ve already posted my first and second poems here. Following are the other poems during this five-Sunday month.

—————————

The prompt: Write about something you’ve been devastated about.

POEM 3: Diary of a Sociopath

 

I’m a boy playing minigolf

in rural New Jersey along Route 46.

It’s the site of a strip mall now.

 

My playmates, young Sheryl and Eddie,

were neighbors then.

Their house, a used car lot now.

 

It was Mother’s Day then.

 

Tires screech.

A car horn blares.

A sudden, sickening thud of metal on metal.

A woman screams.

 

I miss my short putt.

 

Minutes pass,

and we witness her death.

The children in her car are silent.

Her dog wails.

 

Sheryl and Eddie are speechless.

I grow restless.

I rearrange my stance over a bright yellow, dimpled ball

and aim for the mouth of a clown.

 

Can I have a do-over, I ask?

—————————

The prompt: Write a poem using these words: mule; monsoon; traveled.

POEM 4: Ode to Gorilla Monsoon

 

We traveled through seven man-made holes

in the mountains of Pennsylvania.

Heading west, Dad squinted behind Saratoga Ray Bans:

The last cold warrior, the Republican JFK.

 

Dad was behind the wheel of our black Chevy Impala,

his hands recklessly at 12 and 6.

He said it gave him more control,

as Hank Williams crackled “I Saw the Light” across WINB AM.

 

Beads of sweat formed on Dad’s clean-shaven cheek,

releasing the incense of Old Spice.

Our car leaked smoke from his Micronite-filtered Kents

rising from a half-inch crack in the driver’s side window.

 

Arriving from New Jersey at dusk,

we parked in front of a modest house atop Mount Pleasant,

and my uncle rushed to place cinder blocks

behind our low-slung wheels.

 

The next morning, amid cornstalks on a hillside,

my cousin and I wrestled, diurnal primates at play.

His hero was Bruno Sammartino,

and I was a poor substitute for Gorilla Monsoon.

 

I am not a fighter.

I ate a mule kick on my cousin’s follow-through,

as Dad watched in the distance.

He flicked his cigarette to his feet and turned his back on me.

 

I was always a sucker for a sucker punch.

I woke this morning

threescore years and precisely 338 miles away,

with a phantom pain in my side.

 

I am the Survivor Series antihero.

And I remember everything.

—————————

The prompt: With Groundhog Day upon us, read this poem by Len Lawson and write your own poem where the speaker repeats the same day over and over again.

 

POEM 5: Groundhog Day in Ramsdale

 

In the month of January,

I wrote a poem every week.

 

Prompted by a poet,

each day I wrote more words for you,

but I have not gotten anywhere yet.

 

In the month of February,

I will wait for your return:

I’m still in love with you.

 

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

 

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

I’m still in love with you.

 

Repeat, editor, till the month is full.

—————————

PS: Here's a visual poem — "Groundhog Day 2023" — with images of the NYC skyline from the Lincoln Tunnel helix on my morning commute via bus during January:

Poem: 'Mysteries of the Rosary'

This week's poetry prompt was simple:

Go through your phone’s camera roll and pick a random photo. Capture each detail with words and phrases, descriptive words for what you see, what the photo is of, where it’s from, etc. Think of these various details as a collage and put together a new poem.

I have thousands of photos on my phone: 61,023 as of earlier this week, to be exact.

So I downloaded a free app called "Stumble." Developers Ritchie & Mason enticed me with the first line of the app's description: "Take a serendipitous walk through your photo roll."

My life can use some serendipity.

Once installed, I pressed the "Stumble" button, and a photo appeared from a March 7, 2021, visit to The Met Cloisters. My wife and I had stopped to look at what we've previously discovered was the same favorite exhibit which we had both first seen years before we married.

I had seen this extraordinary rosary bead during a high school field trip, then years later accompanied by a friend who was an artist. I later took my young children to see it. Years later I returned alone, before returning again with Nancy last March.

I even tried writing a poem about this once before, but I like this one better:

Mysteries of the Rosary

I am a pilgrim.

Each decade of life,

I return to New York

to behold an intricately carved

boxwood prayer bead

the size of a snowball.

It depicts Christ’s crucifixion.

The museum piece,

hollowed and exposed,

never changes.

My spirit, 

hollowed and exposed,

diminishes in return.

My prayers

have been autonomous circles

of desire and intent.

Nothing more than empty shells.

Behold this dying man.

I see everything now.

Salvation is in the details.

My New Year's resolution: write a prompted poem each week in 2023, encouraged by New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes.

Poem: 'Lost Cat'

I'm going to try to write a prompted poem each week in 2023, encouraged by New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes. We'll see how this goes. 🙂 The first prompt? "Write a poem about lost or forgotten things."

The type may be a bit small. Forgive me. It's meant to fit on a single page, so I can tack it to a telephone pole.

A Lesson in Poetry, Thanks to Marianne Moore

This is the story of my first public poetry reading.

I love hearing poems read aloud by their authors in real life. That and listening to musicians perform are two things that always rekindle my sense of wonder and reaffirm my faith in humanity.

Having recently attended both the Paterson and Dodge poetry festivals in New Jersey, I was energized and excited by the poets I heard. The experience inspired me to write a trilogy of poems that share the theme of looking back at my life and family.

Just for kicks, I decided to share these poems in public, out loud, during the open mic portion of a poetry reading at the Fort Lee Public Library this past weekend. There were a few other men approximately my age who also read, including one who read a poem about an imaginary conversation with the poet Marianne Moore.

So I was emboldened to walk to the mic in front of the room and read the set of poems below. The crowd of perhaps two dozen was attentive, and applauded, and I felt pretty good about the experience.

At the end, as I gathered my coat and notebook, an older gentleman hurried toward me. There was joy in his eyes, and it was as if he couldn't wait to tell me how much he enjoyed my poems. I thought, "I have a fan!"

He shook my hand vigorously and smiled warmly. He said, "I bet you didn't know that Marianne Moore loved baseball and was a big fan of the Dodgers!"

I smiled just as warmly, admitted I didn't know that, and thanked him for the information.

Then, turning and turning, I slouched towards home.

Elegy in a Living Room

I lie alone in my boyhood home,
on a faux-leather sofa, 
a curiosity from the 1970s 
my mother won’t surrender.

The suburbs are Sunday-silent. 
I shut my eyes and begin to float… 
Up a lazy river by the old mill run, 
the stardust of a river in the noon day sun.

A worm burrows into my head.
My father’s favorite song lingers in a dream,
as I nestle in the worn cradle of the armrest
where he drew his final breath.

Roman Holiday

When I was a teen,
my uncle led me up stone steps of a forbidden tower
to a parapet, with a panoramic view of St. Peter’s Square.
We were trespassing, and I was afraid of heights.

I told him I preferred to see the world with my feet on the ground:
Looking up at the Sistine Chapel ceiling,
Seeing my grandmother feed pigeons in the piazza,
Seeing the cool smooth marble of the Pieta inches from my eyes.

When I was a boy, I had seen Mary’s young face from afar,
behind bullet-proof, ceiling-to-floor plexiglass
on a dimly-lit moving sidewalk,
jostled by tourists at the World’s Fair.

As a teen, free from my Roman chaperones,
I was Jesus Christ, risen from the dead.
I was the only person in the world viewing, in a stolen moment,
what Michelangelo had carved from a single stone.

In such dizzying proximity to perfection,
I understood the desire to destroy it.

And yet I have lived my life as an innocent man,
never seeking to avenge my younger self.
I am Zacchaeus, and this page is where I hide.
This piece of paper.
This poem.

Unopened Prayers

I own a prayer book
that reminds me of Nonna,
the way she would recite from her hymnal
while rocking in her front-porch chair.

She whispered a string of sibilant “s”-s,
audible only to young boys and house cats.
The words themselves were beyond my reach
as my grandmother conspired with God.

So I’ve saved this book,
but I’ve never opened it.
Instead, I hold it aloft and pretend I am young,
blowing seeds off a dandelion.

Lips pursed, facing the sun,
I watch particles rise from the dead
and float to the heavens.
My only prayer, this incense of dust.

Poem: 'Roman Holiday'

Michelangelo's Pietà, St Peter's Basilica (Creative Commons)

This month, I was able to attend two poetry festivals close to home, the Paterson Poetry Festival and the Dodge Poetry Festival in Newark.

I listened to some incredible poets, including (two favorites) Rashad Wright in Paterson and Sandra Cisneros in Newark. Thank you to Talena Lachelle Queen and to the Dodge Foundation for coordinating such wonderful, life-affirming events!

In Paterson, two poets were especially kind and signed books for me: Elijah B. Pringle III and Catherine Doty.

I attended Cat's prompted workshop, where she asked us to think of details of a place we remembered vividly and also of a special hiding place. I combined the two prompts into the poem below. 

Roman Holiday 

When I was a teen,

my uncle led me up stone steps of a forbidden tower

to a parapet, with a panoramic view of St. Peter’s Square.

We were trespassing, and I was afraid of heights.

 

I told him I preferred to see the world with my feet on the ground:

Looking up at the Sistine Chapel ceiling,

Seeing my grandmother feed pigeons in the piazza,

Seeing the cool smooth marble of the Pieta inches from my eyes.

 

When I was a boy, I had seen Mary’s young face from afar,

behind bullet-proof, ceiling-to-floor plexiglass

on a dimly-lit moving sidewalk,

jostled by tourists at the World’s Fair.

 

As a teen, free from my Roman chaperones,

I was Jesus Christ, risen from the dead.

I was the only person in the world viewing, in a stolen moment,

what Michelangelo had carved from a single stone.

 

In such dizzying proximity to perfection,

I understood the desire to destroy it.

 

And yet I have lived my life as an innocent man,

never seeking to avenge my younger self.

I am Zacchaeus, and this page is where I hide.

This piece of paper.

This poem.

---------

10 Slices of Life in New Jersey

Wesley Lake, Asbury Park

Last week (Aug. 29-Sept. 3), I had fun taking over the Jersey Collective Instagram account. And you can too! There's a story pinned to that site with more information about how to apply; another story pinned there will take you to more information about the new "New Jersey Fan Club" anthology.

I've loved raising a family in New Jersey and currently live in Bergen County. About five years ago, I started a Found in New Jersey Instagram account to document the eclectic beauty and whimsy of life in the Garden State.

Below are my recent @foundinnj guest posts at Jersey Collective. It's my own "top 10" list, of sorts, with things to like about New Jersey.

- 1 -

Above are two images of Wesley Lake, with a distant view Ocean Grove from one of my favorite places: Asbury Park.

To get there, I drove down the Turnpike, past Linden's iconic roadside Citgo storage tanks (made world-famous by the opening credits of "Sopranos" episodes), to the Parkway, stopping along the way at the Jon Bon Jovi rest area.

At the Asbury Book Cooperative on Cookman Avenue, I attended one of Project Write Now's Tuesday evening "Write Out Loud" events, open to all.

I read this essay I wrote for one of their classes. I figured, "What better place to talk about Springsteen?" and I was touched to see the audience snap their fingers in appreciation. PWN has great writing courses/events for all ages, and the Asbury Book Coop sells copies of "New Jersey Fan Club" at the front counter. Check it out! Go during the day (after 11:30) and you can ride an Asbury Park Pedal Boat on Wesley Lake too.

- 2 -

More from Asbury Park, from visits over the past year. I like the place most when it's haunted, before and after hours, when the boardwalk is empty and streets outside the Wonder Bar and Stone Pony are quiet. I often visit with friends from Black Glass Gallery for photo meetups at sunrise. Check out the Black Glass Gallery Instagram account, where many of the best photographers from Asbury Park and around the state contribute photos from New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York.

- 3 -

58 years ago today (Aug. 30), the Beatles toured New Jersey in the back of a fish truck (a limo would have been too conspicuous) before performing that night at Convention Hall in Atlantic City. You can look it up (thanks, Weird New Jersey).

Today, such a magical mystery tour might take them to American Dream Mall in East Rutherford, where they (and now YOU) could ride in an air-conditioned cabin on the Dream Wheel, a 300-foot Ferris wheel, or stroll through an indoor rival to an Octopus' Garden, or film ski scenes for "Help!" at an indoor slope in the middle of summer. I'm not generally a fan of malls, but this one makes me feel about 58 years younger.

Pro tip: check out IT'SUGAR, the three-story candy store there.

- 4 -

What's your favorite place to view the New York City skyline from New Jersey?

Recently, I saw it from the top of the Ferris wheel at American Dream Mall (the top photo above, #nofilter).

Just about every day I sneak a photo while riding in a New Jersey Transit commuter bus (driver's side on the way in to work in Manhattan; passenger's side on the way home to New Jersey) on the Lincoln Tunnel Helix in Weehawken.

I've also seen the city's skyline from as far away as the beach at Sandy Hook.

When driving, the view often appears suddenly, as if approaching Emerald City. I've seen it from Route 17 heading south in Bergen County, Route 80 heading east in Hackensack, and... a favorite... Route 3 heading east in Nutley. I should pull over for that!

- 5 -

Fireworks and baseball are two favorite things.

I recently attended a Somerset Patriots game at TD Bank Ballpark in Bridgewater, where there were post-game fireworks DURING a distant thunderstorm (photo above, right). You can see the threatening clouds in the photo, but I'm pretty sure it was a Brett Baty HR that ignited the storm. The minor league season is short, but there's a final Patriots home stand you can attend Sept. 13-18 (with fireworks on the 17th).

Meanwhile, in Montclair, I attended a fireworks night (photo above, left) following a Jersey Jackals (love that name) game in July. Their season already over, the Jackals announced recently that the team WON'T be returning next year to Yogi Berra Stadium on the Montclair State University campus.

I'll miss seeing them there, but maybe there will be baseball to see in 2023 at a refurbished Hinchliffe Stadium in Paterson?!?

Teams to see on my bucket list: the Jersey Shore BlueClaws, Trenton Thunder, and Sussex County Miners.

- 6 -

Where's your favorite New Jersey park?

Looking back to winter (feeling wistful during this summer's heat and draught), I visited two personal favorites.

New Bridge Landing, on the River Edge/Hackensack border, includes several historical buildings, particularly a red barn that's picturesque in the snow. The site is maintained by the Bergen County Historical Society, which is hosting its annual Baron Beerfest there on Sept. 24.

I also visited snow-covered Grounds For Sculpture in Hamilton Township, where ticket sales are currently open for its Nov. 2022-April 2023 nighttime lighted exhibits.

More recently, thanks to NJ Spots, I found a new (to me) park to visit: the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in New Vernon, with well-kept walkways through beautiful greenery. NJ Spots is a great resource for exploring New Jersey!

- 7 -

Thursday is #DateNight, and while all these places may not be date-worthy (depending on your relationship status), all are wonderful, in a New Jersey sort of way.

Here are four possibilities: Rutt's Hutt in Clifton, Pizza Town in Elmwood Park (which is not closing, as rumored; it's just under new ownership... although, sadly, Tavolino Pizzeria in Wallington closed its doors Sept. 3), White Manna Hamburgers in Hackensack, and the Summit Diner.

Press of Atlantic City file photo

Earlier this week, I posted about the Beatles' visit to Atlantic City in 1964. There's an (infamous) photo of them holding a giant sub sandwich from the White House Sub Shop... so that's on my wish list too.

All these places are perhaps guilty pleasures. What places are on your Date Night list? Asking for a friend :) 

- 8 -

I posted this on a frightful Friday, facing the unofficial last weekend of summer (although the meteorological end of summer was Sept. 1). I'm wondering: What are your favorite haunted places in New Jersey?

Here are three places I've dared visit:

The Devil's Tree tree stands alone in the middle of a large field off Mountain Road in Bernards Township. It remains standing because anyone is cursed who tries to cut it down, according to local legend.

The Devil's Tower is located on Esplanade Road in Alpine, where a jealous lover leapt to death in 1922. As every schoolgirl at nearby Academy of the Holy Angels will attest, if you drive or walk backward around the tower three times, you will face the actual Devil.

Along "Annie's Road" in Totowa, you will see roadside memorials for the ghost of a teenager (sometimes called the "vanishing hitchhiker"), dressed in white, killed late night in the 1960s by a pickup truck as she tried to find her way to safety along unlit Riverview Drive. Local legend says she had fled her boyfriend's car after an argument on Prom Night.

PS- if ANYONE can tell me exactly how to find the Gates of Hell in Clifton (I've looked twice), I'd appreciate it.

- 9 -

Months ago, I caught a double rainbow over Paterson at the scenic overlook at Garret Mountain Reservation.

I like to visit Paterson when checking in on Mom, who lives nearby. Yesterday, I stopped by the Great Falls to see the Passaic River aglow with algae. I also strolled by adjacent Hinchliffe Stadium, now a full-scale fenced-in construction site (and future home of the Jersey Jackals?) where Dad played semi-pro baseball in his teens.

Need an occasion to visit NJ's 3rd largest city? I recommend the Paterson Poetry Festival, Oct. 1-3 (more information available at Word Seed). Allen Ginsberg grew up in Paterson, and the Poetry Center at Passaic County College sponsors an annual awards event in his honor every February.

Below is a poem I wrote inspired by the view from Garret Mountain. Forgive me, Allen.

A post here about the evolution of this poem 

- 10 -

Church buildings can provide quiet inspiration, and they often have wonderful stories to tell. I wrote about that as a contributor to "New Jersey Fan Club," so here's another shameless plug for that book.

About this image: Someone told me there had been crosses atop the two majestic front spires of St. Patrick's Church in Elizabeth, but that the crosses needed to be removed in 1961 due to damage from the vibration of low-flying planes at nearby Newark Airport.

Call me Doubting Thomas, but I didn't actually believe that until I visited there this past winter while a plane was landing!

This ended my week posting at Jersey Collective. At @foundinnj, I'll continue to post sights from around the state and, every Sunday, another image of another church.

See you there?