Among the poems I wrote each day during National Poetry Month in April is the following trilogy poem set… where else?… in New Jersey. I consider this my “retirement poem,” as I wander the state these days without any 9-to-5 commitments:

My Days as an Idle King (A Trilogy)

1. Odyssey in Rural New Jersey

I begin a 10-hour journey
Past the intersection
Where my first girlfriend lived.

I recall, decades ago,
How my heart would skip a beat
At the magical right at the light.

Today, a half-man guards
The driveway of a neglected shop.
He wears protective goggles,

Under a logoless baseball cap,
His hands buried in the pockets
Of worn and baggy black clothes.

A sign overhead heralds
My arrival to “DENT WIZ”
In block red letters,

Except for a faded shadow
In shape of the fallen letter “N.”

2. Sussex County

Past neglected farm buildings
To the north and west
Stands an abandoned church.

Surrounded by abandoned graves,
And a traffic sign:
“Thou shalt not park here.”

Past “here,” I cross a one-lane bridge
Leading to Fairy Tail Forest,
Theme Park and Venue,

Shuttered until Memorial Day,
With only one other car,
A Cadillac for sale, in the lot.

I continue travels on Route 206,
Past the now-gated stone ruins
Of St. Paul’s Abbey.

To Yetter’s Diner,
Which serves breakfast all day.
Eggs over easy, bacon, rye toast.

What Dad would have ordered,
If he were alive.

3. Ulysses, Made Weak by Time

Returning home,
My cats don’t acknowledge me.

Stretching and yawning
In the dying slivers of sunshine

Where they passed their day,
Warmly ignoring me.

Until their stomachs remember
It’s time to eat.

I have no suitors to slay,
I am only a hero

To the tiny mouths I feed.

“My Days as an Idle King” refers to the opening lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” This isn’t my first attempt at a poetic trilogy set in the Garden State. Nor is it my first swing at a pretentious title or subtitle.

I’ve played with and re-edited the following poem over the years… in the spirit of French poet and philosopher Paul Valery, who famously said, “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.”

The subtitle of “New Jersey Trilogy” really belongs to “Lolita,” a favorite book… before I had daughters. I plead “maturity,” both in having another view of the book these days and in shamelessly using its subtitle. T.S. Eliot once wrote, “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” Or, as interpreted by Steve Jobs years later: “Good artists copy; great artists steal.”

The final stanzas below are set in a favorite place, overlooking a favorite city, immortalized by a favorite poet, William Carlos Williams, who remains a favorite poet as I “grow old and grey and full of sleep.”

New Jersey Trilogy, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male

1. Thunder Road Revisited

SCENE: Annabel, my wife of 35 years, scans People magazine after sunset in our suburban living room. A song begins: six verses and a bridge.

Under the spotlight
of a table lamp,
Annabel sprawls across her favorite chair.

Her right leg hangs over the armrest,
like Hyman Roth in “The Godfather: Part 2,”
a movie we saw long ago when we lived across the river.

On this night, Annabel is reading
that Julia Roberts’ favorite lyrics
are from a Springsteen song.

Show a little faith,
There’s magic in the night.
You ain’t a beauty but, hey, you’re alright.

“He could only have written that
when he was young,” says Annabel.
“It’s filled with irrational passion.”

I cross the room.
My wife raises a curious brow.
I turn out the light, revealing an ordinary night.

I bow to steal a kiss
and take Annabel by the hand.
“Baby,” I say, “let’s go for a drive.”

2. Gatsby in Paramus

A year after Annabel died,
I wait alone for my eye exam in the showroom
of Cohen’s Fashion Optical at the mall.

Surrounded by 100 sets of spectacles,
I begin to write a poem
about my life and my bride.

Then a man with a blood-stained hole in his back
rises from the dead,
sits right beside me, and peers over my shoulder.

“It’s about my darling Annabel,” I explain.
“I know,” the man replies, his breath stinking of death,
“But I wouldn’t ask too much of her…”

He gestures toward a flickering spectral shade
under a fluorescent green Ray-Ban display.
“I’ve learned, Old Sport, that you can’t repeat the past.”

“Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can,”
I cry, incredulous and defiant,
in the face of 200 vacant billboard eyes.

Why, I possess the power to conjure

when I write.
When I write,
when I write,

Annabel’s ghost can be revived.

3. Scenic Overlook at Garret Mountain

This is a dangerous place to stand:
Cliffside in Paterson, in the descending dusk.

Past the highway at my feet, across the Hudson,
a dizzying view materializes in the Emerald City skyline:

I see… a housefly… alight…
on my Annabel’s thigh.

It’s 18 miles and 40 years ago,
yet through the window of memory,

I clearly see my bride languidly napping in the bedroom
of our old apartment in New York.

The fly rubs its hands, obsessed, plotting its next move,
until shooed in a flash by a dismissive twitch of her flesh.

Decades disappear, just as fast,
as cars on Route 80 flee to the West.

I show a little faith.
I face to the East.

Blinding orgastic lights cast shadows
on that fresh green breast of the new world.

I catch my breath on this precipice,
with wounds dark and deep.

40 years later,
filled with irrational passion for Annabel.

I still watch her while she sleeps.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

That was the prompt at The Writers Circle today, Medium’s virtual meetup where I met writers from around the world.

My response was that I write to make a difference in my life, and to keep from becoming irrelevant and invisible. As I get older, I find writing to be liberating.

When I open up, I find that other people can relate, so I feel as if I am at least contributing to a greater good in that way. Writing has helped me meet a diverse group of people outside of my business connections. Often, I feel I am contributing simply by supporting someone who is sharing or crying out through their own writing or art.

I have no other talent in the arts: I’m horrible at playing music or singing or dancing or painting. But I can write a bit. And I hope it helps others as much as it helps me.

This past weekend, I made my debut as a “featured poet” at the invitation of Paterson, NJ, poet laureate Talena Lachelle Queen. So, yes, that’s me as a “poet” in the photo above, holding an image of my late grandmother.

The event was tied to an exhibit for local photographer Fred Levine, at a coffee shop in Little Falls, NJ. Proceeds from photo sales benefited Word Seed , a Paterson-based nonprofit whose mission is to give voice and support to writers of every age and skill level across diverse communities.

Here’s a sample of what I shared:

I also use photography as a form of expression. On my Instagram page — @bvarphotos — I post an image and haiku every Monday. Haikus are simple three-line poems — 5/7/5 syllables. For example, here’s one of Fred’s black-and-white photos, coupled with a haiku of mine:

The sincerest prayers
Come from the back of the church,
Not from the altar.

Recently, I read a man say about his wife: “If I had met her sooner, I would have loved her longer. That’s certainly a beautiful sentiment. But I confess, my first thought about these lines was, “Those clauses have seven syllables each!” Which meant I could use them in a tanka — a poetic form that’s basically a haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables.

Here’s another of Fred’s images, paired with my tanka:

I drove aimlessly,
With color draining from the sky
Until I found you.
If I had met you sooner,
I would have loved you longer.

I enjoy writing poems based on prompts, which is another reason I joined Medium’s event today. One New Jersey poet I admire, Dimitri Reyes, once gave me this prompt: “Think about being a grandparent one day, and what this idea manifests.” This short poem is called…

A Grandparent’s Lullaby

I am close to death,
while you are new.

So I clutch you to my heart,
imprint on you the rhythm of its beat,
keeping me alive.

Then I whisper in your ear
about the cruelty of time:
“Cherish every moment.”

No one will remember
the last one who survives.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com, where you can read all the poems I read this past weekend.

At a recent event in New Jersey celebrating the release of Jacquair Gillette’s new poetry book, “Freedom Letters” (13 letters inspired by St. Paul’s 13 New Testament letters), he was introduced by Paterson poet laureate Talena Lachelle Queen as an “artivist.” That is, an artist who uses their creative voice to highlight social and political issues to inspire change.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately, as many friends are posting about events in Minneapolis. And how my favorite musician, Bruce Springsteen, almost immediately released a protest song… reminding me of when I was very young and first heard Neil Young’s “Ohio” and began to think about issues beyond my own bubble.

As a writer, however, I’ve never been able to express or explore these feelings. It seems so pointless and clumsy — and, from my vantaged point-of-view — irrelevant. Compared to real life. Compared to seeing a man shot point-blank with bullets to the back of his head.

I try to expand my writing, but I fail when trying to address social issues. I admire those who do this effectively. At one poetry workshop offered by Dimitri Reyes, I was introduced to a poem about Eric Garner, “A Small Needful Fact,” by Ross Gay, that particularly moved me. It is a perfect poetic expression of the type of artivism I would like to achieve. Understated, not preachy, yet powerful.

I imitated his poem the other day, shamelessly. I’ve posted it below. I’m still learning — and, hopefully, still growing as a writer.

A Small Needful Fact (after Ross Gay)

Is that Alex Pretti used to

walk his dog, Joule,

with his neighbor, Annette,

on the banks of Lake Harriet,

perhaps waving at an acquaintance,

passing on a mountain bike,

and, in all likelihood,

passing a sun-filled day

after his night shift,

where perhaps he monitored

a woman under attack

by her own immune system,

and took her head in his hands

and gently shifted the pillow

under the back of her head.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

Like a parlor trick, I can produce poetry on demand. Not good poetry, mind you — but something approaching poetic structure.

This weekend, I attended a workshop by a real poet, Dante Di Stefano, sponsored by the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College (that’s a lot of Ps and Cs!).

The first prompt: write a “cover version” of a well-known song, movie, TV show, poem… etc. Something that imitates, references or pays homage to the original. I thought of the times I read my daughters to sleep reciting poetry, and wrote this:

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
When I used to read you to sleep

You never understood
The meaning of the words
But the words had meaning to me

The words had meaning to me
As I watched you drift into sleep
And I dreamed of your dreams

And our time seemed to flee,
Seemed to flee
As I read you to sleep

Now years seem to flee
As I think of you here,
Near this empty bed,
Where you no longer sleep

So far from me now,
So far from our dreams,
Entombed by the memories I keep.

The second prompt: Write something titled “Self Portrait As a XXX”

I considered my trusty “Starry Night” notebook and lucky St. Patrick’s Cathedral pen, and decided to write something inspired by Van Gogh’s famous self-portrait, with his left ear bandaged. I symbolically cut off the left portion of my keyboard and wrote something that didn’t use the letters q, w, a, s, z, x or the number s 1 or 2:

Self Portrait as a Poet

Help me!
Help my poem!
Help it live!

Yet…

I found your letter.
I found hope in my reply.
Think of me.

I think of you too.
I love your poetry.
You found me differently.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

Yesterday I read one of my poems published in “And Still We Dance,” a journal sponsored by ARTS By The People and the Santiago Abut Foundation.

We had originally gathered in September at the Madison (NJ) Community Arts Center to hear Cajun music performed by a talented trio from Louisiana: T’Monde.

Their music inspired the published poetry, which was edited by the event’s organizer, the poet Michelle Ortega. In the book, each poem was accompanied by a sketch by artist Anna Hershinow, with a bar code linking to the T-Monde song that inspired the poem.

I wrote my poem, “Vanishing Garden,” after spending time in October with T’Monde’s a cappella rendition of “La Belle S’en Va.” In addition, Michelle kindly published a poem, “A Bouquet From Louisiana in 12 Couplets,” that I wrote while hearing the trio perform in September.

Vanishing Garden

I stand in this garden
where everything vanishes.

Dad in his Navy blues,
an arm around his first and only love:
Mom, with Ava-Gardner-red lips,
under a canopy of vines plump with grapes.

Lips… redder than the nesting cardinals,
or the roses woven into the chain-link fence
where my daughter posed with a bouquet
in her First Communion dress.

A dress… whiter than the worn milking stool
where Nonna shucked corn
and split pea pods with her penknife,
while humming Rogers and Hammerstein.

I stand in this garden
where everything vanishes.

Crows descend.
Bees disappear, then roses.
Rust erodes the fence.
The well runs dry.

Only the music never dies.
The night wind echoes in an a cappella
of haunting ancient words
whose meaning I don’t understand.

What’s the use of wondering?
This ghostly ballad comforts me.
Although everything has vanished,
I am not alone.

I stand in this garden
surrounded by angels.

A Bouquet From Louisiana in 12 Couplets

This is the music of misery.
Sad songs, made for dancing.

I recognize the urgency of longing,
Although I can’t dance.

This ceaseless steady beat,
So unlike my arrhythmic heart.

This dead language,
Preserved in melody and harmony.

These words, made for heart-break,
In a language I can’t translate.

This is the music of
One-sided stories of obsessive love.

I know those stories.
I feel like I can play along.

This is the music of
The abandoned father and husband:

“One would hope
They thought he was dead.”

An accordion missing five notes,
A fiddle, a full-bodied guitar in autumn brown.

A chill fills the room
As the trio begins to play.

This is a harsh waltz.
How hard it is to live.

PS — I post an original haiku every Monday paired with one of my photos at @bvarphotos on Instagram:

Cajun Haiku

A world full of woe.
When the band begins to play,
We dance anyway.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

You CAN go home again. This week I attended a convening of healthcare leaders sponsored by my former employer, the Mother Cabrini Health Foundation. Sony Hall in the NYC Theater District was packed, and I was blessed to see so many friends / former colleagues there… and inspired by the program.

“Unprecedented times” was a theme of the day, and MCHF’s Channon Lucas issued a call for “radical empathy” and later introduced CEO Msgr. Greg Mustaciuolo, who closed the day citing the importance of persistence and perseverance. (See https://lnkd.in/eecU88Wz for his recent City & State interview.)

A highlight for me among the speakers was Cardinal Dolan, who talked about the inherent dignity and worth of every person, and the importance of faith in providing people with hope.

The cardinal also talked about Mother Cabrini’s life of service, and he couldn’t resist citing the New York folklore of invoking her name when trying to find a parking space in the city: “Mother Cabrini, Mother Cabrini, please find a spot for my little machiney!”

August is the month I take a break from posting on social media… much to the relief of my family 🙂

I’ll spend time taking photos, writing poems, and rooting for the Mets — and, most importantly, creating memories with family and friends. I’ll get back to other projects and social media posts after Labor Day.

Until then, I’m posting three poems here because so far in 2025 I’ve been inspired by writing friends, new and old. I love what they’ve shared, so in return let me share what I love… beginning with a poem written today, based on a “hotter than a matchhead” prompt from the Gotham Writers Workshop, a New York-based group you should check out, offering free Zoom write-ins every Friday.

Here’s a snapshot of “Why Devils in Jersey Are So Overfed”:

Here’s a second poem I recently revised after a photo from five years ago at an immersive VanGogh exhibit randomly popped up on my iPhone’s home screen:

Finally, here’s an experiment in ekphrastic poetry — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art in another medium. I recently applied for… and won… a “residency” at the Madison NJ Community Arts Center. (Check out their events calendar!) The center chose 12 poets to participate in The Writing LAB Fall Residency, which this year will focus on writing new work inspired by music.

The length of the residency? A single Sunday afternoon in September. I’m excited about the opportunity, but I’ll be sure to pack light!

During a recent open mic at the Puffin Cultural Forum (another group you should check out) in Teaneck NJ, I was captivated by an exhibit of photos and poems presented by ALTE: Getting Old Together. I took a photo of a print on display by Judith Sokoloff, who captured someone in a King Kong suit in Times Square, circa 2023. The leader of the forum’s open mic that night, the great Toney Jackson, suggested I write a poem about it.

So I did. And, funny thing, the poem’s theme is about getting older too.

King Gone

Once upon a time
I brushed airplanes from my eyes.
I terrorized ordinary men,
protected fair-haired women,
captured the imagination of the young,
while framed in Technicolor:
like the Northern Lights,

the harbor of Rio de Janeiro,
the Grand Canyon,
Mount Everest,
the Great Barrier Reef,
volcanic Paricutin in Mexico,
Victoria Falls.

Beyond male,
beyond female,
the link between man and beast,
adult and child,
good and bad,
primitive and civilized,
black and white.

Am I not immortal?
Or is it my fate
day-by-day, year-after-year
to recede into the crowd,
to roam Times Square
as an Instagram curiosity.
A diminishing freak.

Hear my defiant roar.
New York City may try
to swallow me whole,
a miniature version
of my former self.
Yet I refuse to disappear.
Let this poem be a warning:

These words are my transcendence.
I am still to be feared.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

I didn’t know my wife had a two-drink minimum.

I mean, I should have realized by now. I never remember having only one drink with her. And there we were, early in July at Blackjack Mulligan’s bar in Garfield, NJ, where the waitresses wear “I love BJs” t-shirts and they serve authentic pirogies from Piast’s down the street.

I had wolfed down my portion and was ready to leave, when my wife said she would like another glass of wine. So I stared out the window at St. Peter’s Greek Catholic Cemetery, in disrepair, across the street. My friends in the NJ Poetry Circle at The Sanctuary community center in Butler provided a prompt for our writing that week: one word, “holes.”

I kept thinking about the prompt. Later, I took my wife by the hand to wander in the cemetery. Still later, I wrote a poem:

Holes

Across the street from BJ’s Bar, next to Walmart,
on the Feast Day of St. Michael Moros,
the 98th anniversary of his death and entrance into Heaven,
I pass through rusted iron gates on a sweltering day in Garfield, NJ.
A sign reads, “No Dogs Allowed.”
This is St. Peter’s Cemetery, perpetually open since 1895,
where I wander among 2,600 holes in the ground,
2,600 bodies in decay, and not a single soul to be found.

I gather and dispose the litter in my path,
then brush matted grass from stone to reveal the names of the dead.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been 20 years since my last Confession,
the day my earthly father died.
My sin is this: I lost my faith that day.
I am here to reclaim it among the toppled crosses,
the stone angels worn with age,
the paper flowers blown into haphazard piles.

I linger along the back edges of the grounds,
bounded by the remains of the Saddle River,
with a stained and matted teddy bear on its banks,
before it empties into the Passaic.
For this and all my past sins, I am heartily sorry.
I seek forgiveness from Steven and Mary Seelagy,
a married couple in their late 80s,
who died a month apart in 1989.

I seek forgiveness from Carlos Samuel Cruz,
who died in 2012 at age 65,
“Always in Our Hearts,” but no obituary to be found.
I seek forgiveness from Fernando Gonzalez Sr.,
dead in 1999 soon after his 67th birthday.
I seek forgiveness from Jesse M. Rivera, “Saintly Scholar,”
who died in 2008 at age 18.
A guitar fretboard is impaled next to his grave;
he died in prison, a suicide.

I found Joan Zavinsky’s portrait face down on a trampled path
and returned it to where she was buried in 2001.
She lived to 85; her photo showing her forever young.
Her husband, Joseph, died in 1977. His portrait is fixed and stern.
Then there are more young: Charles Mancuso, age 19, who died in 1932,
Anna Marynak, 3 years old, who died in 1920,
neighboring 1931 graves of Marie Cupo and Anna Kulik, both 1 year old,
near the pristine stone of Michael Moros, 1 day old, July 2-July 3, 1927.

I finger another bead in the pocket of my jeans.
You don’t need to linger at each grave.
I will count the dead for you:
59 names, including generations of entire families…
11 Barnas, 9 Babyaks, 8 Balints,
6 Miskes, 5 Ditinicks,
including all 3 sons who died young,
4 Gburs and 4 Dutkeviches.
All buried here, where my father was born.

I summon these foresaken dead,
with a prayer for each soul
on the 59 raven-black beads of my father’s rosary.
I stay until I stand forgiven before the Lord.
Now I implore Michael Moros, infant saint:
“Restore my faith!
Raise my father to life for just one day,
and I will doubt God’s grace nevermore.”

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

About my adventures in reading, so far in 2025…

Circe by Madeline Miller
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This must be the summer of my (reading) discontent. I wish I could say I liked this book more. Maybe, at this point in my life, I’m thisclose from standing outside my house, clenching the books I’ve read this summer, waving each in the air, and shouting, “Get off my lawn!”

Yes, “Circe” is well-written… and Madeline Miller is deservedly popular…and I certainly admire and respect that… but, somehow, reading this, I found myself bored.

One interesting angle was the passage of time. Circe is ageless, so centuries pass in an instant, but then toward the end of the book the “action” drags, with our heroine coming to terms with the perils of immortality.

I found this a lot more entertaining when I watched the same theme play out in the mini-series “The Good Place” several years ago. Perhaps Michael Schur could add life to the movie version of this book.

Original Sin: President Biden’s Decline, Its Cover-Up, and His Disastrous Choice to Run Again by Jake Tapper
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This was a painful read.

Why? Because the words of Seymour Hersh kept surfacing in the back of my mind about the authors: “Jack Tapper of CNN and Alex Thompson of Axios… had every reason to know something — if not more than what the ‘Journal’ published — long before the election season. As a broadcaster with a national audience, Tapper did no reporting for the public on that issue when it mattered — when there was still time for the Democratic leadership to pressure Biden to withdraw and hold and open convention to pick a new candidate.”

I’ve worked with many journalists in the past. I admire journalists. When it mattered most last year, so many journalists simply didn’t do their jobs. Writing a best-selling post mortem is not journalism; it’s exploitation of a privileged position.

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.”

Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Yikes. I started this, then had flashbacks to my struggles with “Let Us Descend” by another well-respected author. I just, can’t, read another book that’s so dense. Not only that, nothing about this storyline interests me. This was a library book club selection. I put the book down today. I’ll skip the next book club meeting. I long to read something that delights and inspires me and, yes, challenges me — but not another “I have to slog through this for the sake of having said I read this” challenge. Life is too short. I’m sure it’s not you, Rachel Kushner; it’s me.

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

Having read and enjoyed Robert Pinsky’s “Jersey Breaks” (see below) 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.

OK, OK, so it’s been a summer of misses. At least the year started out for me with a string of hits:

Climbing Above The Clouds: My Life As A Private Pilot by Mark A. Marchand
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book was written by a former work colleague of mine. I purchased a physical copy so that I might have my upstate New York friend autograph it for me one day. Mark writes a love letter here about one of his life’s passions. I found it entertaining and informative. If you ever had someone in your life who loved aviation, read this book to get a better understanding and appreciation of pilots. You won’t regret it!

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

Another 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 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.

Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania by Erik Larson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was a wonderful read, full of well-researched but not overwhelming detail. I learned much about the history of World War I and now question everything I thought I knew about Winston Churchill and Woodrow Wilson. Lots of political parallels to modern-day America too.

The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O’Farrell
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is another wonderful book. 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 go ping-pong in time.

View all my Goodreads reviews

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.

At the Puffin Cultural Forum’s poetry series in Teaneck last month, the township’s poet laureate, Scott Pleasants, had just arrived from reading an original poem at a street renaming.

Alicia Avenue between Evergreen Place and Pinewood Place has been temporarily (for 90 days, starting May 23) renamed “Ulysses Kay Way,” honoring where Ulysses Kay lived for the last 21 years of his life, “in recognition of his significant contributions and accomplishments in the advancement of 20th century music and musicians.”

As Mark Trautman, director of music and administrator at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Essex Fells, wrote on Facebook: “Ulysses Kay was a well know, prize-winning composer of the 20th century. His wife Barbara was a Freedom Rider and led the fight to integrate Englewood Schools in the 1960s. Their remains are buried in the columbarium at St. Paul’s Church, 113 Engle St., Englewood.”

Inspired by this, I wrote and read a poem at last Friday at June’s S.P.E.A.K. (Sharing Poetic Expressions, Art & Knowledge) event hosted by MC and poet Toney Jackson. Toney leads an evening of intimacy, creativity, and positivity, open to aspiring poets and listeners. The next event is July 25.

Here’s a recording of me reading this poem.

Teaneck Blues

(Music: “Tender Thought” on Damien Sneed’s album, “Classically Harlem”)

This is the summer of composer Ulysses Kay
where there’s a street named in his honor,
for 90 days.
Away from the heart of town,
the double-parked cars on Cedar Lane,
and Bischoff’s closed ice cream shop,
where bow-tied ghosts wear paper hats.

This is a mile and a half away,
amid haunted sounds:
rustling trees,
occasional birds,
gravel crunched by tires
in the lot facing his plain house
on Ulysses Kay Way.

This is Teaneck, NJ,
in the shadow of New York:
discordant, hesitant, forlorn,
a syncopated bass,
a trace of harmony,
a counter-melody of sadness,
defended by tanks on the lawn of the Armory.

This is his spectrum of sound:
a diversity of voices,
reflected in a single tender thought
rendered on a lone piano.
Come, hear the legacy of Ulysses Kay
in the summer of 2025,
where there’s a street named in his honor…

for 90 days.

Originally published at https://varettoni.blogspot.com.