Why I Haven't Broken Up With New York

This week, I had two moments with The New Yorker magazine.

First, I received a rejection email from their poetry department for something I had submitted, I kid you not, 27 months ago -- which, admittedly, is only less than 4 months in dog years.

Second, I read a thought-provoking essay published by those same bastard hounds. Titled "Why I Have Broken Up With New York," Lina Dunham writes, "Most people accept the city’s chaos as a toll for an expansive life. It took me several decades to realize that I could go my own way."

It's wonderfully written, and Lina speaks from much more experience with New York than I have had. Also, I understand her love of London, by comparison.

But I haven't broken up with New York. I'm still in love.

On visits this past week to the city, I've had the pleasure of people-watching the Manhattan streets from the M50 crosstown bus in the rain, watching an enjoyable film -- "The Penguin Lessons," complete with its homage to a favorite poem, "A Quoi Bon Dire" by Charlotte Mew -- at the Angelika; listening to a friendly and diverse circle of amateur Irish fiddlers and other musicians at the Slainte pub in the Bowery; listening to a nearly private performance of folk covers by Mae & Henry at the new Jameson's on 50th (if you ever see them, ask Henry to play "St. Augustine at Night"); fist bumping Mr. and Mrs. Met in Union Square and meeting Strat-O-Matic founder Hal Richmond at the Mets House; strolling on the new East Side Walkway under the 59th Street Bridge and the trams to Roosevelt Island; and mixing with the crowd huddled around my favorite painting, Van Gogh's "Starry Night," at the MOMA.

Today, I also finally toured the sculpture garden outside the U.N. building. Years ago, it was open to the public, but now there's heavy security everywhere. This season's first guided-tour ticket to view the gardens was at 10:30 this morning, led by a French woman with flaming red hair and oversized sunglasses who apologized profusely that the Rose Garden was not yet in bloom.

I took the photos scattered throughout this post, including the ironic shot of Irish immigrants setting foot in America with the Trump World Tower looming in the background.

On the brief walk from my daughter's apartment building to the U.N., I had passed a giant inflatable rat on the sidewalk outside the German Consulate, as construction workers blowing air horns protested Eurostruct Inc.'s wages and work rules. A block further south, a disheveled man carried a large wooden cross, then held it up in front of the Trump building and started to pray.

I could go at least 27 months in suburban New Jersey without hearing all the languages I heard from 10 a.m. to noon today, without seeing all the art I saw, without seeing anyone -- no matter how loud or disheveled -- on the sidewalks in protest or in prayer.

To me, time in this city moves like dog years in reverse. So many things are possible in so short a time.

Here in New York, despite all its flaws... and in the words of another favorite poem... the world still sometimes seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new.

Experiment in Flash Fiction: Date Night in April

The scene: It’s Date Night at a local BYOB restaurant my wife and I frequent.

It’s relatively empty, so we have our choice of one of the big tables by the front windows, overlooking the firehouse across the street. We like this restaurant. They always serve a salad, with bread and vegetables, with every entrée... and also a side of pasta, ziti in tomato sauce.

There’s another table of four in the same section. Two couples, older white men and their nervous wives, split a single red bottle. They are talking about Medicare costs and their health problems, and the man facing me has his napkin tucked in his open shirt, just below his double chin. He reminds me of my father.

My last dinner with Dad was at a favorite local restaurant, like this one. Midway through the meal, Dad spilled mashed potatoes on his tie, and he was mortified with embarrassment. He looked right at me, hoping I wouldn’t notice. I looked away to pretend I didn’t.

I’ll say this about Dad: He would never wear a napkin tucked into the top button of his shirt, like a child wearing a bib. Except for that, the man in the BYOB was the same age as my Dad was then, with the same thinning hair and the same Mens Warehouse jacket.

As the group of four droned on about money and failing health, it occurred to me that my father’s tieless doppelganger was about the same age as I am now. Maybe just a little bit older. My Dad died in his early 70s, a few days after he spilled the mashed potatoes on his tie.

I had sensed, before this last supper, he was nearing the end of his life. He had so many ailments: heart attacks, hip replacements, high blood pressure. He had quit smoking when my daughter was born, but before that, he had spent five decades smoking two packs of Kents every day.

The man wearing the bib addressed his group. “Let’s get the f*ck out of here,” he said, taking a last swig of his red wine as if he were a Viking, and dabbing his mouth with the folded end of his tomato sauce-stained napkin as if he were a princess. His shirt, protruding over his stomach, was clean and brilliantly white.

Dad would never swear like that, even among friends.

I didn’t finish my dinner completely. I try to watch my weight and no longer overeat. Plus, I like having a nice lunch with what I take home from the restaurant the day after Date Night. I typically save the pasta, which my wife never touches, and half of my entrée.

The next day, while eating lunch, I spilled a forkful of ziti over one of my favorite blue shirts, a Haggar in Motion stretch top. I feverishly tried to remove the stain with cold water and a washcloth from the bathroom. If my daughter saw me wearing this shirt right now, she might be unable to guess what I had done.

But I still see the ghost of the red stain. Over my heart, I see something that can’t be removed.

I am embarrassed for myself for the spill. I didn’t have a napkin tucked at my neck. I am like my father.

I fear my imminent death.

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.

---------

Here's a video of my reading:

My March Into Hell During March 2025

I've spent the first half of March 2025, more or less, at the side of Virgil and Dante, beginning with the read of a fascinating autobiography by America's former poet laureate -- who translated "The Inferno" three decades ago. I admire Robert Pinsky greatly, and I was pleased to learn that my local library's book club planned to read a modern novel loosely based on Dante's descent into Hell.

The novel disappointed me. I had read such wonderful reviews of the author. So I went back to listen the original "Inferno," which I first read in college. And then I found I had descended even further.

Hopefully, I will emerge this week to see starry skies again, with Venus in both the morning and evening skies.

Jersey Breaks: Becoming an American Poet by Robert Pinsky
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A friend recommended this book. It didn't disappoint! I listened to the Audible version so I could hear the poet read it, but then I bought a hard copy so I could go back and reflect on my favorite passages in a more tangible way. Oh, and it inspired me to watch Season 13, Episode 20 of "The Simpsons," which is also wonderful. Thank you, friend.

 

Let Us Descend by Jesmyn Ward
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I felt stuck in the mud trying to get through this book. Thin, hard-to-follow plot, with words that seem to scream, "Admire the writing here!" I appreciated the references to "The Inferno," so this has at least inspired me to reread the original work by, as the author puts it, "the Italian." Also, it was helpful to discover something about myself: not a fan of "magical realism."


The Inferno of Dante by Dante Alighieri
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Having read and enjoyed Pinsky's "Jersey Breaks" and being a lifelong fan of John Cleese, what could go wrong with this audiobook version?

Well, three things: 1. the production is a bit muddy, especially in the first hour or so... it's as if Cleese is reading with marbles in his mouth.

2. It's an abridged version of "The Inferno," and that isn't entirely made clear up-front.

3. Some of the translation seems... weird... like encountering "incontinence" as a reason for winding up in Hell (yes, I know, there's another, far less recognizable meaning of the word, but). And, here, for example, when we're suddenly (due to abridgment) on the verge of the 9th Circle, and we encounter a spirit with a wound "split from his mouth to his farting place" and who speaks with a comical Scottish accent. In fact, Cleese's voicings are problematic throughout. I kept thinking, "There's a penguin on the telly!" whenever he'd voice a spirit in a familiar Monty Python affectation.

Oh, well, if you really want a harrowing version of Hell these days, check out the new Netflix series "Adolescence." It's much more nuanced and arresting than this translated classic.

View all my Goodreads reviews

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 a discussion of Erik Larson's "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.