Latest items:
B.Z. Niditch, 8 february 2013
DRAWING
It seems to me,
the Polish painter
near the pond
drawing in
my welcome
to his own service
by jagged lines
on his canvas
in a white blouse
has an endless
watch for color
with a dialogue
between this poet,
a charred surrealist
as well,
gathers around
an easel of aesthetic
interpretation.
B.Z. Niditch, 16 october 2012
CZESLAW MILOSZ 'S AUTOGRAPH
We exchanged autographs
in our slim volumes
between university streets
and picture card Warsaw
on country roads
of pre-war optimism
huddled between whispers
of childhood traveling
from rag pickers of the mind
hearing etudes of Chopin
as any Parisian exile
sinking between
premature fears
over bridges
of history and expatriation
passing sleep houses
from a voiceless hour
on a late train
when a mute shower
of ashes came down
from the heavens
on the tracks
leading to our own
death in life departures.
B.Z. Niditch, 16 october 2012
RETURN TO WARSAW
No inspection needed
at the border,
caught by authorities
reading "Trans-Atlantyk"
on a train
with the picture and odor
of the Katyn forest
and Treblinka,
from an old obituary notice
in a tabloid newspaper
stuffed in my shabby suitcase,
with a faded cross and star
on the luggage logo
by aimless trees
returning to Poland
after forty years of rain,
does anyone leave here
or return
without radar or passport
marked exile, pious
or cosmopolitan
stamped in one's conscience
of a lost soul.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 october 2012
POST COSMOS (For Witold Gombrowicz 1904-1969)
A lost button
from your coat
of many colors,
a pale carnation
crumpled
in your suit lapel
dies in your seams,
a lazy red eye
between two oceans,
noon and dusk,
evening and day;
angels hide
in darkness,
only death pops out
of nowhere,
where language
is as tentative
as your life.
B.Z. Niditch, 12 august 2012
KATYN FOREST
Fascism wears a red shirt
in the woods,
no one
expects photographs
with a revelation,
only hear-say or rumors
from still cries
as in the crematoriums
or in the Gulag;
we read now
in school or in the news
about the Hitler-Stalin pact,
when
truth died
in the Katyn Forest
there was only silence
for decades
of expressionless faces
with decrees of death
still being ordered
by the wolf man
in the Kremlin
until he departs
unannounced
for Hades.
B.Z. Niditch, 10 august 2012
GOODBYE 20th
Twenty centuries
of hushed secrets;
Stalin grins
like a bad toothpick,
sending away souls
to the Gulag
in caravans of archangels
somewhere in snowy
Siberian towns;
the "new man"
building on ant hills
of humanity,
in Warsaw
a roll calls your name
in a manacled world
of arrivals and departures
that never make
the daily news.
B.Z. Niditch, 19 july 2012
OBLIVION
No reprimand
of the present
into the light life
without any hour
of being moonstruck
by the past dust
staying on us,
we take our leaves
from dioramas
of a whitewashed time
on easier pathways
than any subterranean
road of emptinesss,
hiding below
white blinds
of broken windows,
smashing rotted fruit
yoked at barren gardens
or castigating
any romantic ruins
of pubescent journeys
at secomd guesses,
those mad expectations
of a fateful gaze
with a glance back
at futile games
in a hopscotch universe
circling toward
separate horizons
we wish to forget.
B.Z. Niditch, 19 july 2012
ORIGINAL
Taken for the voice
of a sage
after resistance
to the contary,
refusing all laurels
for nearly being
only a memory
for truth,
without an echo
in annals
of tormented
ridicule,
Buried
as red flesh
without ashes
or speech,
no airs
only whispers
from crowds
who look away.
B.Z. Niditch, 17 july 2012
ACCOMPLICES
A bird dances
on a branch
of evergreen,
not knowing
you're distracted
on your bicycle,
when a soul
with a Slavic accent,
says "After you,"
and holds you up
down the road,
for a divine
appointment.
B.Z. Niditch, 17 july 2012
APPOLINAIRE'S ROOM
Days after your death in Paris,
that town square in Poland
still recites parables of survival
at your passing
making us feel orphaned
as solitude,
older than the most tortured
dog under a tree
begotten by whispers
in the child's art
of dreaming kaleidoscopes
in cathedrals of the blue Madonna
begging for bread and sun
lit by a poet's miracle
of words in unquiet radiance
putting on your pawned
overcoat covering a jacket
of rain showers
walking with a cane of images
outside a tiny room
with the cold bulb
now broken.
Latest comments:
23 november 2024
violetta
Nie ma co se spieszyć, tylko żyć chwilą:)
23 november 2024
Jak obraz
23 november 2024
O piękne
23 november 2024
Lato
23 november 2024
Cudna róża :)
23 november 2024
Eva T.
Slicznie pod pierzynka :) U mnie byl sniezek,
23 november 2024
Dziekuje i pozdrawiam, Jeslinko :)
23 november 2024
Tak, to prawda. Dopoki nie ma silnego wiatru
23 november 2024
Jaga
Dziękuję w imieniu natury :)
23 november 2024
sam53
próbuję, ale to nie to... pozdrawiam porankowo
23 november 2024
mówią, mówią, po jakimś czasie się przyzwyczajają
22 november 2024
zbyt ogólnie i zwyczajnie ...jak dla mnie ...
22 november 2024
wiesiek
22 november 2024
Jaga
22 november 2024
Eva T.
21 november 2024
wiesiek
21 november 2024
Jaga
20 november 2024
wiesiek
19 november 2024
Eva T.
19 november 2024
wiesiek
19 november 2024
Jaga
19 november 2024
.