B.Z. Niditch, 19 july 2012
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, 12 august 2012
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, 17 july 2012
Footsteps follow a cat
on snowy streets
near the central station
shadowing Warsaw's night
In a half asleep city
no one sees either of you
stretching silence
by sweet shop windows
Everything disappears
even milk for the cat
moonlight hides
a few ragged strangers
Deportations rise
every quarter of an hour
with dawn's finality
on brownshirted platforms
Angels are not welcome
on your shaved head era
when beasts seize beauty
on a pile of books
Disorder takes on
a life of its own
but you, Wislawa
will have a keepsake.
B.Z. Niditch, 17 july 2012
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.
B.Z. Niditch, 1 march 2014
In major acts
of witnessing
these cynical times
as a minor clerk
from the bench,
at a system which passes
out sentences
by corrupt judges
acting like Platonic cave
dwellers all over the world
with soap operas
drama kings and queens
having transgressed
any real time truth
without irony,only rumor
or any sense of humor
by exploiting motives
of personal innuendo.
Over beaten up pages
of records
at a hearing
a thousand lines long
these long robed guys
having explored
words through cases
of evidence
with dull domestic faces
looking like tombstones
in a Dickensian world
to judge and jury
saying in a straight face
who is guilty or not.
B.Z. Niditch, 16 october 2012
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, 14 october 2012
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, 17 july 2012
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, 19 july 2012
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, 24 september 2016
Watching from a telescope
heights of stars
after my bicycle ride
rests along the Bay
meeting a lost sailor
who caught yellow jack
in islands far from home
here at a frozen shore
ice fishing in a few holes
that he plummets
in halting waves
on waters
at the home harbor anchors
rescuing my orange kayak
still anchored for the spring
as a Canadian robin appears
along the shore.
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