Sunday, May 29, 2022

Poem: 'The Andromeda Strain'

It’s springtime,

and I am my widowed mother’s caretaker.

 

In my boyhood home, during a rainstorm on a Saturday afternoon,

I watch a movie Dad used to love.

 

The plot unfolds slowly, without special effects,

like my father's life.


These days, I can’t concentrate on any one thing,

so I search online to read about the lives of the actors.

 

As the wise-cracking female lead lights another cigarette,

I learn she died of cancer nearly 30 years ago in Ontario at age 62.


The cerebral male lead was 84, living in a nursing home in California,

when he died more than 15 years ago of complications from Alzheimer's.

 

That was a year after the director died,

two years before the writer died.

 

A third actor is the "odd man," the dispassionate unmarried male

who can carry out orders about thermonuclear destruction.

 

He too died at his home in California, just weeks ago, at age 91.

He never married in real life, either.

 

In real life, I realize this storm will pass before the ambiguous ending,

so I gather my tools.

 

Soon I will kneel before my father in the sun.

I will tend his garden until the day I die.


Tuesday, May 24, 2022

Short Story: 'The Prophets of Grand Central'


“More people with white privilege are learning about racial dynamics and social justice terminologies than ever before. They are awakening to the fact that their white privilege has protected them… This work is not about those white people ‘out there.’ It is about you. Just you.”
— Layla Saad, “Me and White Supremacy” (2020)

By Bob Varettoni

It was the morning after Kim Kardashian wore Marilyn Monroe’s dress to the $35,000-a-ticket Met Gala, and Robert Anderson thought nothing in the world made sense anymore.

He didn’t belong anywhere. Even here, sitting in a car behind the same couple he shared an inbound commute with for many years.

The car was about to round the corner of the Lincoln Tunnel helix, promising a view of the New York City skyline.

The driver and his wife were Robert’s neighbors in a wealthy suburb of New Jersey. They owned a small business at the South Street Seaport and after driving through the tunnel, they’d drop Robert off in Midtown, blocks from his office, before continuing south.

This long-standing arrangement was about to end. His neighbors had informed him of their retirement plans the day after Russia invaded the Ukraine. The commute had grown longer each day, with roads filled with nastier drivers the longer the pandemic endured. His neighbors had grown tired.

In the dawn gloom, with the car at a standstill in rush-hour traffic, Mrs. Neighbor applied makeup by the light of the mirror on the lowered passenger-side visor. She was prattling about what she had gleaned from media coverage of the Met Gala.

As usual, Robert sat behind her husband. This gave Robert the best view of the skyline as it flickered between the moving traffic in the adjacent bus lane.


The mirror’s faint light and the dirty rear window allowed Robert to catch a reflection of his face superimposed over the skyline across the Hudson River. It was as if he were a subliminal message in an advertisement.

Robert was staring blankly at a kinescope version of New York. The city stared blankly in return. It seemed to Robert that everyone his own age, everyone he had relied on and who had supported him, was giving up.

“I don’t even belong here,” he thought again. The car completed its sweeping turn toward the E-ZPass toll and slowly edged its way into the tunnel.

“Hell, with tiles,” Robert said, once they were under the river. His neighbors didn’t hear since they weren’t paying attention to him.

--------- 

Outside the tunnel, the car made better progress along West 40th Street.

Robert reflected on newly familiar sights. The city was barely recognizable from the one he had fallen in love with during his first rides to work three decades ago.

On Eighth Avenue, they passed the new sleek, silver version of the Gray Lady headquarters. Then, passing Seventh Avenue and into the Garment District, a familiar sight: the giant Needle Threading a Button statute on the corner of “Fashion Avenue” and 39th. Installed in the 1970s, it would soon be refurbished, Robert had read.

Approaching Broadway, they passed a narrow pedestrian plaza named after Golda Meir, the former prime minister of Israel. It was filled with 14 oversized thin-bodied sculptures, in a diversity of colors, with oversized hands. They reminded Robert of aliens from the science fiction stories he read as a boy. They seemed to be waving hello.

A block further, the car approached the southwest edge of Bryant Park, a corner named after the inventor Nikola Tesla. Out of habit, Robert shifted sides in the back seat, positioning himself for an easy escape before his neighbor turned right to head south on Fifth Avenue.

Robert had an ulterior motive in sliding closer to a view of the sidewalk. Some part of him anticipated the temporary backup in traffic in the middle of the long block between Sixth and Fifth. Here, outside the former American Radiator Building, Robert tried to catch a glimpse of the receptionist in the grand lobby with 30-foot ceilings.

This woman had red hair, in curls, and she often wore floral-print dresses. Her desk faced West 40th Street. It was as if she were on display through the large ground-floor windows.


Once, long ago, she had seen Robert in the car watching her. She winged her elbows, shielding her eyes with her hands to cut down the glare and get a better view. Then she smiled at him in return.

Today, this lobby is a shell of its former self. Gutted and plain. In 2022, it is an uninspired annex to a Gothic Art deco black-bricked skyscraper that had inspired a Georgia O’Keeffe painting in 1927. If Robert had looked up at the setback terraces above the lobby’s base, he would have still seen gold-accented allegorical sculptures of matter transforming into energy.

Instead, Robert looked where he used to see the red-haired receptionist. Both she and her ornate surroundings were long gone. In fact, he could barely see through the large front windows, now plastered with signs identifying the site as a community college.

“What community?” Robert wondered, this time in a whisper.

Hoping for an angel, he found only a ghost.

Then Robert was in motion again, riding past a row of blue rental bikes bearing logos of a bank, until his car pulled over on the corner of Fifth Avenue. He slipped out the back seat, outside the former Knox Hat Building (a quaint Beaux arts structure now subsumed by the headquarters of another bank) and wished his neighbors well.

Happy birthday, Mister President,” sang Mrs. Neighbor.

“Thank you!” he replied, surprised and touched that someone had remembered.

---------



Robert began the familiar 10-minute, half-mile trek to his soulless office, dubbed Commerce Place, at Lexington Avenue between 43rd and 44th streets.

Walking north on Fifth Avenue, he passed the marble lions of Patience and Fortitude guarding the front entrance of the main branch of the New York Public Library. The street sign called it John Bigelow Plaza, after the historian who had edited the complete works of Benjamin Franklin.

At the start of the pandemic, the library decorated the lions with oversized hospital masks. But, these days, masks were optional, and Robert noticed that most on the already-crowded sidewalk, including the statues, were maskless.

Most everyone was also younger than him too. They walked while staring at phones or talking to others through wireless earbuds. Or, like Robert, sometimes talking to themselves.

One hurrying white man, who reminded Robert of himself when he was younger, tried to walk right through him from behind, as if Robert were a ghost.

Minutes later, minutes older, he was standing in the shadow of One Vanderbilt, a massive skyscraper that had opened during the pandemic. Robert had been one of the first to tour its observation deck. Its ground floor was home to yet another bank, and its lobby featured three untitled statues of what again reminded him of aliens from space. These elongated, silver-bodied sculptures were armless, not as welcoming as those in Golda Meir Square.

Opposite that was Robert’s favorite building in New York: Grand Central Terminal.

He neared its southwest corner entrance on 42nd Street under the watchful eye of the gold-leaf Vanderbilt Eagle, a 3,000-pound iron statue perched on the viaduct that circles the terminal. A marker outside the entrance explains it is one of 12 such eagles that formerly graced the roof of the original Grand Central Station in 1898.

“F*ck America! God bless my dick!”

This startled Robert. He hadn’t noticed the wild-eyed man wearing sandals and a dirty red t-shirt.

The man was approaching passersby in front of the entrance. Most simply averted their eyes and kept walking. He flailed his arms and shouted again.

“F*ck America! God bless my dick!”

The man defiantly shook his dreadlocks and stood right in front of Robert, almost touching him.

“F*ck America! God bless my dick!” the man shouted, louder and with more urgency.

“Jesus!” Robert exclaimed, then hurried past, hands covering his face, since the raving stranger was unmasked.

Robert escaped into the terminal and joined a crowd walking down a long brick-tiled ramp. This led first past a wide marble-arched entrance to the dining concourse, and then to a similar entrance to a grander place: Grand Central’s main concourse.

The sight of it brought to mind his 7th birthday and his first visit to Yankee Stadium. His dad had elaborately tipped a cigar-chewing fat man in a ticket booth on 161st Street in exchange for field-level seats. Emerging through an archway in the concession area, holding his dad’s hand, Robert’s first view of the impossibly green, expansive baseball field gave him goosebumps. How could something be real and, at the same time, bigger than life?

Grand Central’s concourse evoked the same feeling, and Robert took in the moment.

Before him, in the great hall, he saw a flock of commuters dressed in various disguises. Some could barely hide their claws and teeth amid the anarchy of the poor and the homeless. Masked, elderly wanderers looked lost and walked tentatively, heads down, like geese on thin ice. Itinerant travelers wore distracted faces.

Robert looked to his right, toward a corner ticket booth like the distant one at Yankee Stadium. Brass bars separated buyer from seller, and it advertised “Official Grand Central Terminal Guided Tours.” These had ceased when the pandemic started, and perhaps would never resume.

Enshrined in front of the ticket window, a man slumped upon a cart full of his possessions. Robert recognized him, a familiar beggar. His forehead rested squarely on the marble countertop, and he was fast asleep. With nowhere else to rest unobtrusively at this hour, this was his temporary home.

Instinctively, Robert averted his gaze.

The West Balcony to his left, he had read, was a replica of the Grand Staircase at the Paris Opera House. Robert had never been to Paris, but years ago, in a moment of romance on this balcony, he had kissed another red-haired woman who still haunted his dreams. On the vaulted ceiling above them, dimly lit motionless stars with images of the zodiac outlined in faint gold paint had conveniently suspended time.

The concourse ceiling was an odd, self-contained universe. Its mural jumbled east and west, so the constellations were in reverse of their proper order. When Robert had visited the observation deck at One Vanderbilt next door, he looked down on this very spot to imagine the heavens from God's point of view.


This morning, Robert began his diagonal walk across the concourse, from beneath a double-reverse image of Orion toward the immortal winged horse Pegasus. Along the way, he passed the four-sided opal-faced brass clock above Grand Central’s circular information booth. He skirted the East Balcony, which was now a retail showroom filled with upscale electronics manufactured by suppliers who violated Chinese labor laws.

A line had formed at the foot of this stairway, with people waiting for the store to open. Robert observed three tourists from the Far East and a man in a weathered VFW baseball cap. The veteran wore shorts, displaying a prosthetic leg, and he nursed coffee from an Anthora ­­— a blue, white and gold Greek-themed paper cup that read “We are happy to serve you.”

Last in line was the man Robert perceived as the younger version of himself, the one who had nearly knocked him over in front of Patience on Fifth Avenue. The man was engrossed in his cell phone, watching a news video of Marilyn’s ghost, dyed blonde, posing on a red carpet.

---------

Robert Anderson’s birthday journey was near its end.

He entered another marble-vaulted hallway that would lead to an exit, with his office across the street on Lexington Avenue. This Graybar Passage derived its name from Elisha Gray and Enos Barton, founders of the electric company that had originally leased the adjoining Art deco building.

He slowed his steps. The acoustics here made it an attractive venue for street musicians. This morning it echoed with the words of a young woman.

She was sitting on the marble floor, her back against the wall, next to upscale bodega signs for coffee and cold beer. She had surrounded herself with plastic tote bags filled with books.

Despite wearing a short black skirt, the woman splayed her legs, with the toes of her white sneakers pointed toward the ceiling. Her black tights were embossed with white skeleton bones, corresponding to the legs of her hidden flesh. Her lips were vibrant red.

She was reading aloud from one of her books: “More people with white privilege are learning about racial dynamics and social justice terminologies…”

She looked up as Robert approached. Their eyes met. He kept walking, and she kept reading. After a few indecipherable words, she increased her volume and Robert heard, “This work is not about those white people out there.” One pause. “It is about you.” Another pause. “Just you.”

Robert did a double take. He glanced back to see the young woman, head down, her face buried close to the open pages of her book. She seemed oblivious to her surroundings, and they seemed somehow to be alone. He stood dumbly for a second beside a storefront window advertising the next generation of wireless service, then headed again for the exit.

A heartbeat later, he was bumped from behind.

Robert felt something warm against the back of his neck. He let out an inarticulate cry. He thought he was being mugged and flinched to withstand another attack.

When none occurred, he reached behind him in the mugger’s direction, but grabbed only air. He turned to see a pair of skeleton legs retreating toward the main concourse. The woman’s hurried footfalls made no sound, and she was reaching behind her head to gather her ponytail, which had come half undone.

Frantically, Robert fingered his neck and felt a sticky substance.

He looked down at his hands and saw proof of life and evidence of where he belonged.

When he examined the red on his fingertips, he found lipstick where he had expected to find blood.

# # #


Saturday, May 7, 2022

Sorry I Haven't Written Lately - Happy Mother's Day!

After last year's flurry of activity during National Poetry Month in April, I haven't posted on this blog lately. What a difference a year makes, in so many ways.

In April 2022, I wrote all of one poem, but I can't print it here because "this is a family publication" (as a recent viewing of "All the President's Men" reminded me).

I plan to post soon about my hometown, its 100th anniversary celebration, and the odd history of our local Burger King. In the meantime...

---------

Even though I haven't written, I did at least call my mother every day in April.

And now that it's Mother's Day Eve, I can post my favorite photo of her and me... the one where I'm grabbing a handful of her hair with a maniacal smile on my innocent face.

There are better old photos of Mom. Like this one of her mugging for the camera in Clifton, NJ, in the 1950s. But I'm not in any of those!

I've posted here before about Mom's extraordinary beauty, and she still looks and acts much younger than her years. She turned 90 a few months ago.

Mom doesn't like the impermanent beauty of cut flowers. Over the years, I've given her just about every other kind of Mother's Day gift and probably every "Peanuts"-themed Mother's Day card that Charles Schulz ever produced.

For this year's gift, I've signed Mom up for a Storyworth account. This is a service that, once a week, will email her (aka "me") a question about her life, which we'll answer by email (after I ask Mom about it and record her thoughts). At the end of a year, these 52 stories will be bound into a keepsake book.

My daughters gave me this gift last Father's Day, so I'm almost finished answering a year's worth of questions about myself. In line with the Mother's Day theme, this week's question about my own life is, "What is a favorite memory of your mother?"

My answer will be about the parish festivals years ago at St. Stanislaus Kostka Church on Lanza Avenue in Garfield, NJ. It was my mother's family parish when she grew up, and all the Masses there were in Polish.

A favorite memory of my childhood was watching Mom and sisters in traditional peasant dress, joyously dancing polkas at the annual parish festivals.

With a big smile on her face, she would beckon me to join her. Even then, I was the world's worst dancer. I hopped around with Mom on the temporary stage in the church parking lot. Her skirt billowed, accordion music blared, and the crowd sang and cheered.

For me, was a fleeting moment of pure delight.

Thanks, Mom. You'll always be a handful, but you've always encouraged me to join in the dance.

May 2022


Sunday, April 3, 2022

What's in a Time Capsule?

Top, from left, former mayors Ann Subrizi,
Frank DeBari and Roger Lane join current
Mayor Mike Putrino in unfurling and raising
a 100th anniversary flag today.

I posted on Facebook today about the opening event in New Milford, NJ's 100th birthday celebration:


Of special interest to me was the unearthing of time capsules buried behind the flagpole in front of Borough Hall for the town's 75th anniversary in 1997.

What's in a time capsule from 25 years ago?

Among artifacts were aerial photos of the town, and neighbors are already making plans to update those photos today using drones. Also of interest: old advertisements and giveaways from local businesses, the Fall Preview issue of TV Guide, family photos, photos of town events, and a single-spaced typewritten page detailing the good works of three neighbors.

This was signed by Kent Raptopoulos, and it concluded: "You who are reading this in 2022 please pause and think of us for a moment and remember to be a good neighbor and build your own warm memories."

Two things especially caught my eye.


The first was a cigar case, proclaiming "It's a Boy!" It was placed there by current borough attorney Kevin Kelly after the birth of his son.

The other is a baseball signed by Sanjek Korrey.

One of the event speakers said it had been handed to her 25 years ago by a boy who said, "Here. This autographed baseball will be very valuable after I become a major leaguer."

I'm fairly certain Sanjek Korrey will not be on a major league roster when the baseball season opens later this week.

But Sanjek, wherever you are, I admire your spirit. You are an all star in my book.

1920s favorites served at today's reception: Baby Ruth bars and
pineapple upside down cake.

Saturday, March 12, 2022

2 New Books Inspired by New Jersey

Author Fred Rossi reads from "Jersey Stories" last weekend
at Halo Roasters in Springfield.

Last weekend I stumbled into a book signing.

I had stopped for a cup of coffee before heading home after taking church photos in the Springfield area (more about that later).

It was fate.

Fred T. Rossi, a writer and journalist since the 1980s (in other words, the better version of my PR self), was standing in the corner, telling stories about New Jersey.

Fred is the author of "Jersey Stories," published last year and subtitled: "Stories you may not have heard about people and events in New Jersey history."

Here are just a few of the questions answered in his book:

  • What did Mundy Peterson from Perth Amboy do that made history 150 years ago?
  • What was it like the night that Martians invaded New Jersey?
  • What was it like having Albert Einstein as a neighbor?
Of course, I bought a copy. You can too: email jerseystoriesnj@gmail.com for information.


My favorite chapter, "Let's Make a Record," describes what it was like when a teenage Bruce Springsteen from Freehold recorded his first songs. There's another interesting chapter about how New Jersey towns got their names. And then there's a chapter about the Addams Family creator who lived in Westfield.

Right now, in the aftermath of today's bomb cyclone and with "Jersey Stories" as a reference, I'm toasting the birthdays or actor Gordon MacRae, born this day in 1921 in East Orange, and astronaut Wally Schirra, born this day in 1923 in Hackensack.

---------

Now, about those church photos.

I post photos of churches every Sunday on my @foundinnj Instagram account, and I wrote about that as a contributor to a soon-to-be-published book about the Garden State.

The book, "New Jersey Fan Club," is scheduled for release on June 17 by Rutgers University Press.

It's (quoting the editor, Kerri Sullivan, founder of the popular @jerseycollective Instagram account) "an eclectic anthology featuring personal essays, interviews, and comics from a broad group of established and emerging writers and artists who have something to say about New Jersey. It offers a multifaceted look at the state's history and significance, told through narrative nonfiction, photographs, and illustrations."

After seeing the list of talented contributors, I'm immensely proud to be even remotely associated with this anthology. You can find links to purchasing information on Kerri's website.

Anyone who preorders or places a library request for "New Jersey Fan Club" can get a free sticker as a thank you for the support. Simply place an order before June 17, and email a request with proof of purchase to newjerseybookproject@gmail.com.


Thank you, Fred. Thank you, Kerri. You've brought some sunshine to this cataclysmic weather.

And here's to you, Gordon and Wally. As long as we in New Jersey have anything to say about it, you will never be forgotten.

Monday, February 28, 2022

A Dozen Roses for New Jersey


'Tis the cold late afternoon of the last day of the cruelest month of the year. (Sorry, T.S. Eliot, you were always wrong about that.)

A few weeks ago, I posted a valentine to New York City (where I work), and I wanted to end the month on a heart-warming note, posting some love here for where I live (New Jersey).

New Jersey has its charms, and here are a dozen images from February 2022 to prove my point.

First, some perspective: entering the gates of St. Peter's
Greek Catholic Cemetery, off Passaic Street in Garfield, 
and then looking back at the chapel, yesterday at dusk.

Two historic locations after a snowstorm, Feb. 13:
Dey Mansion in Wayne and the iconic red barn
at Historic New Bridge Landing in Hackensack.

Two views of the NYC skyline at sunrise from
an NJ Transit commuter bus: left, stuck in NJ Turnpike
traffic; right, from the Lincoln Tunnel helix.

Two more from New Bridge Landing during a "birthday
party" for George Washington on Feb. 27: left, the actual new
bridge; right, historic re-enactors play music and dance. 

Two artistic reinterpretations of images via iPhone apps:
left, the Vince Lombardi Rest Stop in Ridgefield Park;
right, an AI mashup of an image of the Jersey shore.

One former church, left, now the Art Center
of Northern New Jersey in New Milford, and the current
St. Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Church in Passaic...
on the evening of the Russian invasion.

Monday, February 14, 2022

A Valentine for New York City


I captured the image above while sitting in the back seat of a New Jersey Transit bus, stuck in traffic on the NJ Turnpike, during the morning commute to work last week.

I didn't mind the delay. It gave me time to enjoy the sun rise over the New York City skyline.

I returned to the office in February, after an Omicron-imposed work-from-home hiatus, and I've realized over the past two weeks just how much I missed the city.

Here are two Instagram posts with some context:
 

And here are three more images from just one day: February 2, 2022.

This is a footbridge over the FDR I hurried across at daybreak. It was Ground Hog's Day, of course, and the image here is over-exposed. I didn't see my shadow:

This is Grand Central Terminal a little later that morning. It's one of my favorite places in the city, and February 2nd also happened to be its 109th birthday:

This is St. Patrick's Cathedral even later that same morning. Police had begun gathering on Fifth Avenue (I had crossed Park Avenue accompanied by officers from San Francisco) for the funeral of NYC police officer Wilbert Mora. He was only 27 and had been shot and killed along with officer Jason Rivera while responding to a domestic disturbance on January 21.


New York is complicated.

It isn't like anywhere else.

I love that it has depth and substance and beauty, even when drained of color.

“To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.”

Scene from the 1979 movie, "Manhattan."


My view from the same location, returning on Feb. 12, 2022.

Sunday, January 30, 2022

2 Poems: Experiments in Creativity for Fun, Not Profit

Ghosts playing chess in New York City
 
Poetry is a monetarily thankless pursuit.

This past weekend in 1845 the New York Evening Mirror published "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe. "It was a huge sensation," writes The Writer's Almanac. "Abraham Lincoln memorized it, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote a fan letter to Poe. He was paid $9 for 'The Raven,' and it was extensively reprinted without his permission."

Yet as monetarily thankless pursuits go, I find poetry more rewarding than, say, sports betting (where seemingly all Internet advertising directed at me insists my interest should lie).

I must be the wrong demographic for poetry. I admire Emily-in-Paris Peyton Manning, and question the Caesars-Sportsbook Peyton Manning who shills for a business based on customers losing money.

Lately, I've stumbled upon poetry in unlikely places. Listening to music this past week, I'm been enchanted by Lin-Manuel Miranda's outstanding lyrics from Disney's "Encanto" and Taylor Swift and, an old favorite, Paul Simon.

"Miracle and Wonder," an audio book of recent Malcolm Gladwell interviews with Simon, examines the intriguing premise that there's a type of creativity that improves with age. Not to diminish the conceptual breakthroughs of young artists, another type of creativity requires experimentation over time based on an accumulation of knowledge. Writing earlier on this topic, Gladwell examines a study of how Picasso produced his greatest works at the beginning of his career, and Cezanne at the end.

I write poems simply to try to contribute something. Steve Jobs once said that people express their appreciation to the rest of humanity by creating something of worth and putting it out there.

Below are two latest efforts I've submitted to poetry contests. Which I never win. I'm like Charlie Brown running to kick off with Lucy holding the football. I always wind up flat on my face, but then I'll try again next year, against my better judgement. Perhaps, with more experimentation, someday I will create something of value.

I revised the following poem based on a prompt from Paterson, NJ's poet laureate Talena Lachelle Queen. During a virtual poetry workshop earlier this month, she read the poem "On the Other Side of the Door" by the late Jeff Moss, best known as a composer and lyricist on "Sesame Street." It's largely a young adults' poem, beloved by educators -- and, hey, Taylor Swift even wrote a song with the same name.

It inspired me to write a few lines that improved a poem I had written last year, based on a photo I took at the height of the pandemic lockdown (the image posted at the top of this page). Here's my submission to the 2022 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, sponsored by The Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College:

100 Words (Exactly) About Writing 

 

On a blank page, 

I can do I anything. 

 

I am bold. 

The way you always wanted me to be. 

And I can make you love me. 

And you would never leave. 

 

You would never leave, 

And I would never wonder. 

Because I create new worlds, 

And conjure you at will. 

 

Here we are at dusk in New York: 

 

We are ghosts, 

Playing chess in a vest-pocket park. 

Phantom dogs roam at our feet. 

Occasional cars form shooting stars 

Along the FDR. 

 

On a blank page, 

I wait forever for your next move. 

On a blank page, 

I never lose.


---------

Arno River, 50 years ago

Below is another experiment, based on something I wrote years ago. I submitted it to the "100 Days of Dante" poetry contest, sponsored by the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing with the Society of Classical Poets.

My original sonnet had stanzas loosely suggesting Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell. I was inspired to revise several lines last week when I discovered the first photos I ever took (now fading 35mm slides), from 50 years ago.

Dad had let me borrow his camera, and my little sister and I were with my grandmother and uncle in Italy.

One day we visited Florence, and I (unknowingly) took blurry photos of the Ponte Vecchio, where Dante, who began his own epic journey in middle age, saw young Beatrice in the late 1200s. He fell in love with her at first sight. She died soon afterward of The Plague, but she inspired his writing forever:

Dante in Reverse

 

Adam was a madman; and paradise,

a fraud. In only this do I believe:

the rhythm of your heart. Oh Beatrice,

your eyes alone could prove infinity.


It is our love that has unraveled all.

It haunts my sleep. At first, a stolen glance,

with stars beneath my feet. And then, I fall

from you toward earth -- my dream, a graceless dance.


Before I land, my senses gain control.

Alone in bed, I fear the rustling sound

of insubstantial leaves, like wind-swept souls.

My heart (alive or dead?) seems strangely bound.


This is the slow, uneven beat of Hell:

I have loved you always, but never well.


Friday, January 21, 2022

Using 6 Words (and an Image) to Tell a Story

Sunset, facing East, reflecting off Queens.

I'm fascinated by six-word stories. (I consider hyphenated modifiers two words.) 

Entire website ecosystems promote the practice.

There's a masterclass for hopeful practitioners.

Then there's me and my photos. Following are twelve six-word captions. There's more at #6wordcaption on Instagram.


Reflecting on First Avenue's infinite possibilities.

Returning home in March 2020, forever.
 

I stood alone, surrounded by history.

Gazing at Bethlehem's Star over Teaneck.

 

Suspended between NYC and New Jersey.

We all used to be puppies.

 

Mom, waiting for me to return.

I will never understand my cat.

 

Morning drama at the East Balcony.

Found a waterfall on 51st Street.

 

Pedal swans waiting for tonight's storm.

My grandfather's workshop, which never ages.