Thursday, October 24, 2013

Setting Sail

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Kafkaesque dream images
so powerful here in my jeep
after I fish for answers
to my nightmare
in the copper light
of a less than courteous sun
for an unguarded moment
commingling on my mind
in a slightly deaf and death
shadow circling my car
by one red eyelid photograph
staring at me
outdoors at a stop sign
at dusk watched by
spy glasses of unknown
cameras taking our pictures
by unauthorized visions
on parking lots
even after happy hours
beyond city limits
by auguries and juries
as backdrops of memory
haunt us while secretly
taking our prints.

 Life Ring
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

Not forgetting the hour
turning blue like saltwater
pitched down at the Cape
standing below deck
in the home harbor
my sockets gave way
to city grackles and gulls
as whale watchers appear
on the wooden docks,
with latitude I take out
a photo of a jazz singer
from my wallet
crossing a Cambridge St.
yet I refuse
to make a fist to the sky
about an ex
who passed away,
the cold air stalls
in a jot of liquid silence
from a sleepless dawn
fearful from regrets
aching at sea years
setting sail
with this life jacket
at first light
in this old navy shirt
getting over a fever
dropping from an affair
of the mind and body
on board with vistas
from old sunglasses
bought for a song
at the last fishing port
as you recall
the keel and mast
from boiling winds
aromatic waves
blowing hurricanes
flirting with life
outlasting islands,
unexpected storms,
and crazed by
breathless breezes,
my logs still detailed
from studious sockets
as rain takes
on a ferry
for one more voyage
from beach head squalls
with a tidal journal
awaking buried loss
to waves on its memories
and swallow a conscience
as surf rises
on the ocean mirrors.

 Marina Gull
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

Thought waves
fishing for language
in my lexicon
while deployed
here by the crews
my breath untangles
and races above
all animated shadows
of a vagabond sun
on the Coast,
reels in memory,
rays hide out
as if to coax us
on the oarlocks
nameless voices
by tentative waves
of our own anonymity
whether we are
earth-wise or sea worthy
as my own empty body
smashes my jazzy mouth
of three syllables
shadows a coxswain words
along a drifting swim
to fathom what is lost
when welled up dark waters
rim along the lighthouse
on this navigator's waterway.

 Anchor Tip
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

Weighed down
fishing in this traffic
flowing and adrift
by the sea whirred on winds
along the weeds and dunes
by toxic dawn's helpless waters
and here on my roped kayak
by crags enigmas
anchored for my early voyage
finding a cod for supper
from one's wet hand,
for a moment's perfection
without worry yet feeling
like Melville at the hot sun's
bristling melancholy
of his balmy meanderings
without a history, only exile.

Berry Tree
—Photo by B.Z. Niditch


—B.Z. Niditch

Unexpected haven

out to the sea

redolent of berry trees

where you hide by aspen

carving your initials

as any fishing survivor

on this shade of dawn

clearing wrinkled meadows

filled with hyacinth 

where no spy or observer

could pick this place

here only a breath's wind

will speak from silence

among undiscovered rocks

not far from this coastal port,

soon grown up by the ocean beds

you embrace a shoreline sand

holding white sea shells

to expect a listening echo

in your hot grass blade hand.

 Blue Heron Itch
—Photo by Katy Brown


—B.Z. Niditch
They retake silence 

enticed by collected winds

tapping the evergreen waters

into a numb maze of ice fishing

which soon became mine

as a mourning dove dives

into blackened waters

the ocean still rages

its burly breezes

from last Friday's storm

shelling the home harbor

and points North,

the radio news

travels briskly 

until a nervous confirmation

that local sailors vanish

once again by

the Lost River

that appeases fountains of

all imagination,

morning breaks 

in my tongue, like a heron 

floating at a distance

with so many names

to fill in and multiply

like cod and salmon in a basket

to the unveiling voices,
for waves can be merciless

like dusk, rain, even the sun.


Today's LittleNip:

—B.Z. Niditch

(for Pablo Neruda)

Where are they
the children
the lost
those living in memory
in our solitude
those without strength
who march with us
in solidarity
who sing with us
toil with us
write on walls
all over the world with us
in prisons
with us
clinging to a future
of the disappeared
and dispossessed
of the earth.



B.Z. and Friends
Rockport, MI