The streetlights of my hometown |
Finding myself through my family, my work (PR), and words... thousands and thousands of words.
Sunday, January 28, 2024
Poem: '11 Roses'
Thursday, December 21, 2023
A Toast to 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.
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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, October 18, 2023
Rain Won't Stop Saturday's Paterson Poetry Festival; See You There?
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. 🙂
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.
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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.
Sunday, May 14, 2023
Haiku at Sandy Hook
Emerald City.I can see it from Jersey.There is no wizard.
As Friend ChatGPT tells me, the park is named after the Sandy Hook Peninsula, which is a narrow strip of land that extends for several miles into the Atlantic Ocean. One of the main features of the park is the Sandy Hook Lighthouse, built in 1764 and one of the oldest lighthouses in the U.S. Visitors can climb to the top for panoramic views.
Another popular attraction at Sandy Hook is Fort Hancock, is a former military base that was active from the late 1800s until the mid-20th century. Visitors can tour the old barracks, gun batteries, and other historic structures at the fort.
I can't help myself. Just yesterday, Google Photos randomly sent me this video compilation of the New York City skyline photos from my photo cloud -- many taken from the back of a NJ Transit bus commuting to or from work. Google randomly chose a great Tears for Fears song as a soundtrack too (and assures me it is not a copyright violation :)
Sunday, April 30, 2023
This Is the Way Poetry Month Ends
It ended with a 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
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PS- The photo of Paterson behind Talena on top of this page is a sight that inspired another poem I once wrote... "Scenic Overlook."
Wednesday, April 26, 2023
Poetry Month in New Jersey, 2023
How about some poetry during National Poetry Month?
This coming Saturday, April 29, the wonderful local Word Seed organization is hosting an event at one of the state's "hidden gem" locations -- the Paterson Museum (2 Market St., near the Great Falls). I've posted the flyer here; the free event starts at 5 p.m.
The program will pay tribute to poets no longer with us from the Silk City's past, including Allen Ginsberg and William Carlos Williams.
Last weekend I visited to see the Poetry Month exhibit there and had the whole museum to myself for a few minutes.
I also stopped by the Museum of Modern Art during lunch hour earlier this week in New York and stumbled across the Dial-a-Poem exhibit there.
Of course, I had to dial 917-994-8949. (And you can too!)
I heard a poem by Frank O’Hara (who died in 1966), then John Cage (who died in 1992), then Bill Berkson (who died in 2016). I was afraid to call again and find out who would die next.
Actually, the MOMA exhibit dates back to 1968, when John Giorno began delivering instant poetry through a free telephone hotline in New York City. So everything on the hotline dates back 55 years or so.
As far as new poetry is concerned... from someone still alive... which would be me, for now... I've been following through on my resolution to write weekly prompted poems this year.
Here are three recent original poems. The first, writing about my hometown; and the second and third poems with the prompts in the titles.
I'm also excited about two upcoming prompted poems, but I'll wait until after Saturday to finish those. I'd like some input first from the ghosts of Allen and William.
---------
How to Write the Great New Milford NJ Poem
Before your 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.
---------
Poetic Words Children Need to Learn
Salt-water taffy…
in cardboard boxes
Salt-water taffy, the color of swirling rainbows
Salt-water taffy that you can only buy on the boardwalk at the Shore
Salt-water taffy that sticks to your teeth and gums
Salt-water taffy that your mother loves
Years later, your mother will grow old,
And you will ask her for memories of when you were young.
She will tell you instead she doesn’t want to think of the past
Because it only makes her sad.
She doesn’t remember the salt-water taffy.
Salt-water taffy used to be her favorite.
You need to know that about my mother.
She didn’t always have sad memories.
She knew salt-water taffy wasn’t good for us,
but she loved the taste.
The improbable, magnificent sweetness,
now missing from our lives.
---------
Consider the Inequity in How Lives Were Impacted by the Pandemic
Prompt: Write a poem in 2023 contemplating what challenges persist in the aftermath…
I can’t write this poem
Because three years have passed
For all of us, equally,
Including you.
The only constant in life
Is time’s erosion of inequity…
The numbering of our days.
The defenseless of our nights.
Alive or dead.
In 2020, I counted bathtub Marys
Adorning suburban lawns
During socially distant walks.
In 2023, I still dream of you,
As I might forever.
I have counted every hair on your head.