AUTHOR PROFILE: JOSEPH A. FARINA
Rhonda Melanson sat down recently with local poet Joseph A. Farina, a retired lawyer, about his career as a poet. Joe is the author of two poetry books “The Cancer Chronicles- A Parent’s Journey (Serengeti Press, 2006) and “Ghosts of Water Street” (Serengeti Press, 2008)
How did you discover your passion for writing poetry?
Joe: Heartache! In high school, in 1968, Peggy dumped me and I didn’t know why! Teenage angst. So I wrote all during high school and university, mostly on relationships. When I met Rosi (his wife), she read it all. And instead of a mixed tape, I wrote her a handmade book, and that’s how I won her over.
Tell me about your books”The Cancer Chronicles” and “Ghosts of Water Street.”
Joe: “The Cancer Chronicles was about Iggy’s (his son) cancer and writing all those poems was just cathartic. So for “Ghosts of Water Street,” Venera Fazio and Carmen Ziolkowski (local Sarnia writers) introduced me to the work of Salvatore Ala, a Sicilian writer who blew me away and opened a new door. His work is based in Sicilian culture and for me, that led to “Ghosts of Water Street.” I literally was in a trance when I wrote it. Later going to Sicily with my wife, it felt like going home.
Who are your favourite poets?
Joe: T.S. Eliot. Reading him in high school. The “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” made me tremble! And Salvatore Ala, of course!
What is one poem that you wish you had written?
Joe: “Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock!
What topics are inspiring you these days?
Joe: Basically, feeling my age and writing poetry about getting towards your end. The loss of friends, life with wife and family.” I’ve got this one poem called “The Perfect Ride” about a guy riding in a convertible, the old guy who thinks he’s cool, but isn’t.
Do you have any comments on the need for poetry today?
Joe: Poetry has a place for those with an emphatic and romantic heart. There’s no money in it. It’s a niche market. Hard copies don’t go out anymore. They don’t pay poets enough. No advertisement or pushing for a book. Don’t think there’s another book in me.
Any regrets or anything that you would do differently?
Joe: No.
give me a Sunday highway when moms and pops are in some church praying or busy in suburban backyard bbqs when the wolves are cruising beach parking lots or downtown streets when favourite sons are posing at tennis courts and highend malls it’s then that I let the beast run free no one on that
they kneel at their pews before the statue of Our Lady in veneration their fingers maneuvering rosary beads reciting the prescribed prayers contemplating the sacred mysteries of each decade they used to be many their voices rising and falling a marian chorus of prayers for the living all sinners waiting for their hour they are
i kept my mother’s kitchen table eight chairs long, solid wood large enough to hold a feast of plates and all of us to sit around sharing food and lives she made bread upon it, sometimes twice a week and Sicilian sweets none of us could duplicate even with her recipes found handwritten in her
we never danced on the beach only walked leaving moonlit footprints eyes open for cherry topped cruisers hunting curfew criminals from weekend teenaged assignations cruising the shadows of canatara silent among the others hearts and breath tripbeating as we spoke words “that had just the right amount of letters. just the right sound”* stolen from
Wendy, the sunset is bathing the stragglers on the beach into orange coloured silhouettes the bend’s summer’s influx of beach bodies empty out onto bars and beer joints their partying continues from sunrise to moonset most of them frat boys and highschoolers searing their summer forever in memory with too much sun, alcohol and one
1 now in this afternoon as river fog creeps dragging it’s thickness licking us in heavy air in this time that is not time we amenities shall speak of what went unspoken shall see and place the invisible signs . . . . . . afternoon: the whistle summoned its great silence the omnipresent shroud
Motown playing “I need your Lovin” from your girlfriend’s ipad on a soft summer afternoon sneaking wine in paper cups lake waves breaking on the beach as we sit and hum along playing name that tune from the playlist of songs that now are oldies but we were young when they were new the soft
