Friday, July 27, 2012

Roses and Honey

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Snapped for immortality
one lens at a time
in lights of a crazed world
that move us
to praise or derision
in screens of stardom
by smooth mirrors
made flesh in human shapes
the stuff of double features
and ultimate legends
of memorable dazzling fame
dizzying applause
then in lonely hotel lobbies
all looking alike
under the imaginary world
starry and discolored
from the black and blue
depth of the spotlight
wishing for a hand
that is affectionate,
and closer to yours,
than on stage.


—B.Z. Niditch 

Time lasers
the poet on Cape Cod
seven gulls wait
for me on the dunes
by my orange kayak
we built near the lighthouse
in the winter woodshed

It is late July
and my memory sinks
in the ocean waters
away from sharks
of a stolen day

Brother of fire,
I return to the sea
among wild flowers
and waves
hearing the sea birds
with augmented voices
soar up to the deck,
Sister of earth,
remember me
swaying on the winds
with love, always reborn.


—B.Z. Niditch 

Sailing by islands
blinded at first light
brighter than sandstone
in unrecognizable waves
a sea voyage covers
quick black-green waters
to embrace vagrant harbors
encircling grey winds
a skiff hums
along high mountains
an adolescent poet
in a Greek cap whistles
to his piquant mates
despite sickness and sweat
around the portal
with an expression
of deep sagacity
beyond his being
rests in unquenchable sun.

 —Photo by Katy Brown

I saw a documentary on mercenaries who hire children for terrorism and suicidal war missions, and it is cruelty at its worst:

—B.Z. Niditch 

Some days are only nights
to a child
losing a limb
when he stumbles
in a mine field
by the mango trees

My tongue
has no thirst for war
in the port city
and countryside
dotted with fresh earth
from early graves
after a ten-year-old
covered with sores
searches for sister
on open fields
orphaned now
when death has opened
our eyes
with no answer.


—B.Z. Niditch 

Reminding ourselves
to capture
first light
before the dog days
along weathered trees
are swollen with pine nuts
tangled leaves
and Autumn's brightness,
when a hundred nests
of squirrels and hornets
hide their first hours
in the dry meadows
on greensward grass
at day break
the earth faces us
with her liquid silence
keeping us quiet
under a solitary sun
by a stammering wind
off the sea coast
as gulls swirl
in the sky's blue veils.


—B.Z. Niditch 

August, always showing us
our vulnerable hours
under a nuclear umbrella
in a raging red sun
consumed by history
we would like to forget,
as hot winds cover dunes
on the far shores
of the Pacific
scorching rays
of constant reverberation
wanting only for
my palms to dig up
a long stemmed rose
in our Japanese garden
to hold you in a petal glow
in the fiery past
choosing to love
with your last breath.


—B.Z. Niditch

No memory to lose
in the countryside
familiar cicada voices
at the foot of our Eden
longing for childhood
to keep us awake
in the sunshine
of reborn green gardens
trampling on tall grass
a world full of whispers
far away with echoes
of a sky's first light
among hapless hours
of never ending hosts
of roses and honey
on the clearest dawn
resonating with summer
when poetry was life.


Thanks to Katy Brown and to Barry Niditch for today’s bouillabaisse; BZ writes to us all the way from the lovely Eastern coastal town of Brookline, Massachusetts. See or for more about BZ Niditch.

New from Poetic Matrix Press ( Whimsy, Reticence and Laud: Unruly Sonnets by NorCal resident Grace Marie Grafton. A review of the book was recently published online in The Golden Lantern ( by the editor. See the Poetic Matrix website for Grace's bio.

Keep sending us reviews and other announcements of your new chapbooks, books, and DVDs, and they’ll be posted on our FUCHSIA LINK called, appropriately enough, Books, DVDs & Reviews.


Today's LittleNip:

How BZ began to write:

—B.Z. Niditch

I'm only twelve
when words began to
unlock the dusk
making a poem
against a raging night
of parental storms

With notebook
and paper
I wait
for lyric answer
with a touch
of strangeness
from vagabond daydreams
rolling across the desk

A bright moon
dances in the shade
and my Keats
has fallen asleep
on the whitest sheet,

he too wakes from
disappearing vistas
of a burning ode
from a starry Muse
breathing in the unknown.



 —Photo by Katy Brown