About That Poem: 'Byzantium in Jersey'

My grandfather, 1969, Budd Lake

This is the poem I read at the S.P.E.A.K. open mic in March at the Puffin Cultural Forum in Teaneck, NJ.

I began my reading by reciting from memory the first part of a favorite poem, "Sailing to Byzantium" by Yeats. The workshop before the open mic was about structure in poetry, and I have always appreciated the subtle structure of Yeats' masterpiece -- 10 beats per line with an ab/ab/ab/cc rhyme in each of its stanzas.

I was also pleased to read in Robert Pinsky's autobiography "Jersey Breaks" that "Sailing to Byzantium" was a favorite of his too.

So, with apologies to those two great poets, here's the full text of my homage:

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

to Monarch butterflies in flight toward 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 robins’ eggs, goldenrod, dandelions.

My grandfather names them for me, assumes

I will remember that sparrow, that vine,

the chicory, those edible lilies,

the mew of mimicking catbirds we see.

 

Like the sage I loved, these vanished from me.

 

I live in the suburbs, reminisce now

about ancestors. One Sunday, I walk

the Hackensack riverbank in a drought.

A murder of crows chase a gyring hawk,

then roost in the sun on a golden bough.

Hearing their echoing caws, I pause, stalked.

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

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

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Here's a video of my reading:

Tomorrow Is Yesterday

Like Charlie Brown running toward a kickoff with Lucy spotting the football, I submit poems every year for the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards sponsored by The Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College.

Every year, I never hear anything back. Undaunted, I asked my wife to choose what I should submit this past January. These were new poems I wrote following weekly prompts by New Jersey poet Dimitri Reyes.

She picked out several, but not one of my favorites, "Tomorrow Is Yesterday," referencing a "Star Trek" episode that aired in 1967.

I took another look at it after attending a Tuesday "Poetry Circle" at The Sanctuary in Butler. The evening's prompt was "brave new worlds." I immediately thought of "strange new worlds" and revised my poem a bit (no piece of writing is ever "finished" in my world).

Then I read it this past Thursday at Boonton Coffee's monthly open mic. That's me in the photo, taken by the talented poet Renee. Thank you, Renee, and thank you, NJ Poetry Circle.

Tomorrow Is Yesterday

 

It’s a Thursday night in January 2025,

And I have conjured my father in this poem.

 

Dad is 58 years younger,

And we are in the same living room in New Jersey.

 

He has boldly returned from the dead, 

And we are watching “Star Trek” together.

 

Suddenly, on the liquid dilithium crystal TV display,

Multicolored lights begin to flash. Sirens sound.

 

Dad holds tight to the arms of his chair,

Rocking side to side in an exaggerated motion.

 

We are aboard the Starship Enterprise,

Slingshotting around the sun fast enough to reverse time.

 

Arriving on a Thursday night in January 1967,

The day 2 feet of snow fell in Chicago.

 

My father sits in his easy chair, 58 years ago,

775 miles away from the storm.

 

He is a metaphorical thousand miles away from me

In the same room where I am a frightened boy,

 

Nestled on a worn orange Danish modern couch,

Who now clearly foresees his father’s death.

 

I join my former self there,

Wrapping my small body with a protective arm.

 

I whisper in my ear:

“It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK.”

 

Then a tractor beam envelops me and my past.

Its light absorbs us.

 

My grasp on myself dissolves.

Credits begin to roll, and I am transported

 

By the otherworldly vessel of this poem,

Back to my living room in January 2025...

 

Where it’s snowing in New Jersey.

An implanted image has wormed into my brain.

 

I see Dad, seemingly asleep, in a ghostly chair.

He has become Captain Kirk at the conn.

 

In this strange new world,

He still changes my future forever.

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

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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