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	B.Z. Niditch
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B.Z. Niditch, 7 stycznia 2015

POLISH WINTER

(in memory Stanislaw Baraczak
died December 27, 2014)

Old walls of Warsaw
joined in your silence
shadows disappear
over voiceless hours
in the blood of snows
writing a diary
to friends back home
staring from fallen words
of ink from my desk
at my proof-read letter
wanting to be dispersed
from our own reflections
of my film and poetry
twentieth century reviews
now translated.

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B.Z. Niditch, 1 marca 2014

REAL TIME

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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 1 marca 2014

RECITAL

The thunderstorm
daydream leaps
over a mushroom search
my eyes are volcanoes
at the grand piano
opening here in Warsaw
chasing my sunny breath
on the bridge
late for an afternoon recital
the "E" string
walks away from me
unsuspecting the passages
of Chopin's embracing notes.

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B.Z. Niditch, 28 lutego 2014

MARCH BLUES AND BLAHS

Today's sky
will not be missed
in a sorry shade
of black and blue
when Arctic air
quietly smuggled in
from the East freezes
our lifeless bodies
of snow into ice
bright figurines
and my sax
is exposed
as my three oranges
eaten on my motorcycle
on the jazzy corner
for my timely gig,
yet a surreal poet is still
a Beat for life
in his runaway suit
when the same shade
shines in darkness
from a downtown club
on the window blinds
as a stranger offers
to help me
staring back at him
with a sponged fog
fills up the gas
both knowing the blahs
will not outlast
the skittering waters
on our faces
from snow kisses
and that spring
may be early
when words again flow
and my sax
will again beat out
its underground notes
to play the Blues.

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B.Z. Niditch, 28 lutego 2014

RECITAL

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B.Z. Niditch, 27 lutego 2014

ROZYCKI EMERGES

Unwinding language
being shy
for the cameras
now all over
this metropolis
with words
in an attache case
holding only
cold luggage
held by four strings
containing
a life's work
of vital plays
on language
on one hand
a murdered pastry
in the other
shaking off
a coffee cup
on a Polish
hamlet road
in a runaway time
such as this,
faced with
a poet's newness
you may
not recognize him
or an age trembling
for enlightenment.

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B.Z. Niditch, 27 lutego 2014

NATURE'S WOODWINDS

Deep down
at the crag's edge
the leaves tumble across
the great green hills
as portents
of your solitude
knowing the path
to climb
up the shadowy mountain
and deserted peaks
will be clear
for a lone traveler
with his backpack
full of pure poems
the shadows blush
at first light
expecting
the woodwinds
to sound
near the saxifrage
with blackberries
all around
as I spy
a mapped trail
shielding me
from quivering trees
a piano sonata
in the distance
with an echo
of capturing
a passage of Chopin
from this moment.

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B.Z. Niditch, 27 lutego 2014

SURPRISED

Surprised
by the anonymity
of a veteran hunger
digging for clams
trembling by
the frozen shore
in the shameful
staring eyes
of distracted tourists
eager for a ride
on duck boats
who toss
pocket money
and jelly beans
for good luck
in the ocean
watching for Leda
the last swan
who must have known
my visits
and not kept away
since we are
childhood friends
dripping with pre-war
memory's exposure
now wrapped
up in a jacket
with pocket poems
of my last collection
in an actor's words
on breathless wind
swept air
I'm always
carrying notes,
new and sundry
on my sleeve.

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B.Z. Niditch, 26 lutego 2014

BY THE THIRD PERSON (for Tadeusz Rozewicz)

Without having much
of an employment resume
slumped out all day
eating lima beans
on the sun shined city bench
and as yet not yet shaving,
red eyed at the moment
in the uncertain noon,
hearing of a male model job
and an actor's workshop
both in the same building
on a flattering part
of a Warsaw street
and when you are a teen
not knowing much
of the world's vague talk
linger with open hope
and observing gestures
as your soul beats wildly
for any work with words
eager to stumble
on a sea side conversation
leading to changing roles
from this fast pacing student
and going to the address
with a heavy suitcase
before the war
yet willing to try anything
within reason of expectation
as I meet the director,
looking consumptive
at the pool table
asking me with book in hand
to do him a favor
by reading the lines
of Coriolanus
and he tells me
he also runs the model agency
and I would be a perfect fit
for his new tennis ware
if I would walk the plank
where nature is my own mirror
along the red carpet
and offering me a salary
yet wondering
if there was something
to all this rumor
not reported
by the third person.

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B.Z. Niditch, 26 lutego 2014

AT THE POLISH DRAWBRIDGE (for TOMASZ ROZYCKI)

It was ancient
for long forgotten journeys
but the brown shirts
blew it up,anyway
there was nowhere
not in harm's way
even the cat
did not survive its cry
in the salt ditch water
by the wide silence
if it would be built up
after the beasts had left
that icy spring
that no one could cross
not even a boy
on a bicycle.