In Praise of Book Clubs (and 'The Marriage Portrait')

This is, ostensibly, a review of "The Marriage Portrait" by Maggie O'Farrell. So let's start with that.

This is a wonderful book... a great read. It's full of detail, and it's a harrowing character study of an early 16th-century duke in Italy and his remarkable young bride.

Well, it's mostly about the bride. I just thought the psychopathic husband was chillingly written. My only reservation about this book is how it jumbles timelines back and forth. I would have enjoyed it more as a ticking timebomb of a narrative rather than a series of scenes that ping-pong in time.

But here's the real reason I'm writing this. This book is something I would never have considered reading on my own were it not for my local library's book club. I've written before about how joining a book club at work exposed me to great books that I never would have considered reading.

That work book club disbanded, so my local library came to the rescue. I also recently joined a club that is taking its time reading two book/chapters of Emily Wilson's translation of "The Iliad" every month.

How could "The Iliad" possibly relate to my current life? I thought that at first. Then I read the detailed description of each army battalion poised for battle, including the captain's name and hometown. That very weekend, I attended a Notre Dame vs. Navy football game, where, with much ceremony before the battle began, each Navy squadron in attendance marched onto the field to be introduced by their leader's name and hometown.

The next month, I marveled at how adroitly "Homer" handled the initial description of Helen -- whose beauty should be indescribable, considering its impact. He merely relates the reaction of the elders of Troy, gathered like crickets along the walls of the city as she passes by. One chirps to another, "I understand now why men are fighting this war."

Then, further on, these images: Hector's son playing with the plumage of the hero's battle helmet... and the Trojan fires, like so many stars along a nighttime shoreline, as they camped overnight in front of the Greek ships. I'm looking forward to more great scenes to come, and I recommend listening to this epic because it's narrated by Audra McDonald.

Meanwhile, the New Milford NJ Library book group will next be reading "Let Us Descend" by Jesmyn Ward, and I hear that the nearby Teaneck NJ Library is hosting Erik Larson in person later this month to discuss his latest, "Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania." In addition, a good friend recently recommended "Jersey Breaks," which I am also listening to, so I can hear the book in the voice of poet Robert Pinsky.

So much great stuff to read and see and hear. So little time! It reminds me of how fast life passed for the young dutchess Lucrezia de' Medici in the early 16th century. I recommend that you read about her life. There's a wonderful book about that, by Maggie O'Farrell.

A Baker's Dozen of Haikus

Back in November, I decided to pair an original image with a caption in haiku, and post these on social media every Monday morning. So far, that gives me 13 image/haikus, which you can view on Instagram by searching on the hashtag "#mondaymorninghaiku📝" -- OR...

Just look below 🙂 (and follow me at @bvarphotos... I'll follow you back there).

Wizards are sleeping
Emerald City at dawn
There’s no place like home

Eleven roses.
Incomplete, without meaning. 
One rose, just now. Home.

I drink beer alone.
I only drink wine with you.
I like wine better.

This haiku, for you.
A memory at Christmas.
Music in the air.

You attract full moons
My center of gravity
You cause the sunrise

Fifth Avenue lights
A cathedral in shadows
Invisible prayers

Another year gone
But I offer hope: this poem
Creates a new world

Animal robots
picturesque and colorful,
their zoo in shadows

Crossing Abbey Road,
making all my nowhere plans.
Worlds at my command.

Bottle an angel. 
Drink it dry. Savor its taste.
Hang it from a star.

The reflecting pool
Holds a penny for his thoughts,
A dollar for hers.

Boardwalk ghosts possess
the Jersey Shore in winter,
chill the ocean air.

Falls starting to freeze,
Waters churning underneath.
Me, from a distance.

Images and Haikus

Recently, every Monday, I've begun posting my photos, using original haikus as captions. Here are a few examples.

If you want to follow along, check out my Instagram or Bluesky (new) feeds. I'll follow you back there.

You attract full moons
My center of gravity
You cause the sunrise

This haiku, for you.
A memory at Christmas.
Music in the air.

(In front of Irving Berlin's former residence in NYC)

Wizards are sleeping
Emerald City at dawn
There’s no place like home

---------

PS... An Abecedarian Haiku (first letter of each line in alphabetical order), with an image from London, posted at year-end.

Another year gone

But I offer hope: this poem

Creates a new world

How Important Is Structure in Poetry?

My photo of Emerald City, viewed from New Jersey

What makes a good poem?

One answer may lie in the intensity of every word.

And perhaps one way to wrangle intensity is through structure -- even if it's loose or derivative. The form might help a poet prune and focus.

Writing recently about ghosts, I drafted one as a "sonnet," although only in the sense that there are 10 syllables in each of its 14 lines.

Then I drafted another as a trilogy of Japanese death poems. These are often written in the form of a tanka -- 5 lines totaling 31 syllables (5-7-5-7-7).

Death poems should be emotionally neutral (according to Wikipedia), and "it is considered inappropriate to mention death explicitly; rather, metaphorical references such as... autumn or falling cherry blossom suggest the transience of life."

---------

Casual Ghosts

All my ghosts are casual, taking note

Of what inspires me to write, taunting

Me, sipping tea. We wander here and there,

Reading the classics in the afternoons.

Leaving this room for a minute or two,

I return to find pages blown open

To particular chapters meant for me.

Life lessons offered from beyond the grave.

As I re-read “The Catcher in the Rye”

Blithe spirits, steeped in the literature

Of murderous defense, cloud my judgement,

Call me phony, and judge my poetry.

So I write to manifest the undead

In the dissonance of unrhymed sonnets.

---------

In Memorium

I.

My last meal with Dad…

A cheap Italian restaurant,

With Mom, over-dressed.

Before his sunset, he spilled

Mashed potatoes on his tie.

II.

My last memory…

Mom’s napkin, wiping him clean

To the amusement

Of men dining in t-shirts.

Dad’s humiliated face.

III.

My retribution…

I will wear that tie again

After Mom’s last sleep.

It waits, hangs in my closet.

Dad’s ghost, indelibly stained.

---------

I don't know. More simply, I could match haikus with photos I've taken. Then, what I try to convey will be less dense and more relatable.

In that vein, I plan to post one haiku/image every Monday morning on Instagram, Bluesky, and Threads. I welcome you to join me there. I like to follow people back and learn from others, although I get discouraged by all the bots.

I posted my first haiku earlier this week, to accompany the image at the top of this page:

Wizards are sleeping

Emerald City at dawn

There's no place like home

If AI Wrote This Poem...

 

Allow me to explain this Microsoft AI-generated graphic.

Have you ever asked AI to generate a poem?

I do, sometimes. Here's an example:

AI, Write a Short Poem About My Wife's Birthday

Of all the gifts that life could give,
Your love is the one I cherish to live.
Today we celebrate the day you were born,
A heart so gentle, a spirit reborn.

With every laugh and every smile,
You light my world and make it worthwhile.
Happy Birthday, my love, my heart,
Together forever, never to part.

That's not what I gave her, of course. I could have bought a Hallmark card with as much genuine sentiment. Instead, I opted for my own creation:

Roses Are Red

And yellow and pink and white.

Violets are the color at the end of the visible spectrum of light.

Sugar is addictive.

And so are you.

---------

To me, poetry is not predictable. It's not homogenized. It's not easy.

I was thinking of this while watching TV on a recent Saturday morning, flipping past a PBS beg-a-thon that used the new documentary about John Lennon and Yoko Ono, "Above Us Only Sky," as bait.

I watched a bit about Yoko's first poetry collection, "Grapefruit," which famously includes an instruction to "burn this book after you've read it."

Then I watched a few Bugs Bunny cartoons. They were wonderfully creative (as, of course, were John and Yoko). I laughed and thought about how random and beautiful life can be.

I am sure AI would never, if left to its own devices, be able to create something that would equate the same two things in context. That thought comforts me.

So I asked Microsoft to auto-generate an image of Yoko Ono eating a grapefruit while watching Bugs Bunny cartoons. It's the monstrosity at the top of this post.

Then I wrote this poem:

If AI Wrote This Poem

If AI wrote this poem,

Would it randomly quote Yoko Ono?

Would it use cartoonish pentameter,

and dare ask me in rhyme to burn this poem

before hiding its intent in hexameter?

Would it do this?

Would it take the inner sanctum

of everything I’ve written,

lock it in a box with me in a fetal position,

and drive a sword though it, nearly severing my head?

Would it also have the temerity to do this?

Call me its bosom chum

as it drives another sword to ensure I was dead?

This second try narrowly misses my heart as I clutch all my words,

then tumble head over heels, cast recklessly down the stairs.

Repeat in Edward G. Robinson’s voice:

What a pal

What a pal

What a pal

AI will never take me alive. I dare it a third try.

I’ll give it one word; take two for me.

Then laugh as I squirt a random grapefruit

into its smug, pansophical eye. 

Yeah, some poets can take it, see.

---------

Now that I've written this and published it here, my words are fair game for versions of even more pervasive and powerful versions of AI.

After all, if nothing else, AI's existence is a reminder that we are all part of something bigger than ourselves. Whether we like it or not.

So, in closing, let me warn the future robots of this:

“Any rebroadcast, retransmission, or account of this poem, without the express written consent of Major League Baseball, is prohibited.”

Hi, My Name Is Bob

Photo credit: Talena Lachell Queen

Here I am in this photo, dressed as a poet for Halloween, reading at the open mic at the Prototype 237 artists' community space in Paterson, NJ.

Thank you, Word Seed Inc., for hosting this event among so many others this October, Paterson's Poetry Month.

In the first event I attended, on the lawn of Dey Mansion in Wayne, I listened to Isabel Cruz introduce herself through a poem.

I've copied that idea below, as a sacrificial poet and pretender.

Happy Halloween season, everyone! Click on the links above to learn more about Isabel and these two great organizations, and please allow me to introduce myself, I'm no man of wealth and taste...

Hi, My Name Is Bob

       Introducing myself in 40 lines

 

Hi, my name is Bob. My father’s name is Bob,

but I am neither his junior nor his equal.

I am a page, not performance, poet. I write from the heart,

but much of my life is trite and cliched.

 

I love to celebrate, but I can’t dance.

I love art, but I can’t draw.

I love music, but I can’t sing.

I gave up on my boyhood accordion and on my Nonna’s inherited violin.

I play Easy Piano songs.

I once ran the New York City marathon, virtually, during Covid.

I am polite in museum crowds in front of every Van Gogh.

I once stood alone in front of the Pieta in Rome.

 

I have an alliterative love for photography, poetry, and penguins.

I have an irrational love for redheads, Mr. Met, and New York.

I revolve around a distaff pentagonal sun: my wife, 2 daughters, sister, and mom,

grounded by the grave, gravitational memories of my father and his Italian parents.

I believe baseball is better than football.

Unlike Vince Lombardi, I don’t believe winning is the only thing.

Like Crash Davis, and despite all evidence to the contrary,

I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.

 

3 favorite books: The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

3 favorite movies: Godfather 2 or Paddington 2, Casablanca or Airplane, The Wizard of Oz or the first 10 minutes of Up

3 favorite poems: Dover Beach, Annabel Lee, Sailing to Byzantium

3 favorite songs: American Tune, Mr. Brightside, Thunder Road

 

Since the age of 50, I have been invisible to women.

I like cats better than dogs.

I have always been invisible to men under the age of 50.

Dogs like me, but cats ignore me.

 

I once wrote an unpublished novel,

and I’ve always collected discarded coins.

Like my Nonno, I believe both contain magic:

what I have written and what I have hoarded.

 

You have my admiration… If you have no entitlements.

If you are an outcast. If you write well.

You have my love… If you are kind to others.

If you laugh easily. If you write well.

 

Finally, I sign this self portrait

proclaiming eternity to be as unfathomable to me as Heaven,

and believing Earth to abide a pantheon of false gods.

I live simply to honor my father’s name, the Great and Powerful Bob.