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Poezja

	B.Z. Niditch
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B.Z. Niditch, 8 lutego 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 16 października 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 16 października 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 14 października 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 12 sierpnia 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 10 sierpnia 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 19 lipca 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 19 lipca 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 17 lipca 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.

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B.Z. Niditch, 17 lipca 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.