Monday, May 12, 2014

Ashes' Memory

Fire plug
—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
and Photos by Katy Brown, Davis

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

My Russian
neighbor did an
called 'The Fire'
with faces
in anger
of those tangled
years after the war
made ashes in this mobile
of millions of souls
all over in orange reddish
hammering in
a chard of remains
of memory still translucent
rises in the light
predicated to kindred spirits
who like Bosch
reflect the absurdity
of ordinary life and brushes
with disaster.

 Rusty Brace

—B.Z. Niditch

That I am not myself
or taking care
beyond my recognition
having to face
so much rage
of a roiling lethargy
because of multiple fears
thinking that the sun
and final stars have holed me
in to anonymity
at the duration
of window to shadow
wishing to cut through
a more familiar response
pulling on me
and sifting in cobwebs
in my own ashes.

Old Wall

—B.Z. Niditch

Like thunder
at myself
for not paying
attention to my body
of words
only the May sky
is alive
here among wounds
line upon line
walking back
from my outfield
understated for a bashful
hope to remain
in a parallax universe
of a prospect to survive.

 Light Rail

—B.Z. Niditch

Seething on a blade
running track
warning myself
of voices asides
but not willing
to do a polishing
on my slow motion
now off duty
wanting like the prophets
with sackcloth and ashes
ginning up a fever into glasses
of panic moods
which postures earthward
with language lightening up
when I am like Homer
in solitude.

Under the Bridge

—B.Z. Niditch

Way back
anyway, Jack Kerouac
hindsight is
always right
in my stupid id
and blind libido
from horrific memory
of not taking the driver's
seat and letting my life
crash in a thousand
instinctual flaws
of being unresponsive
heading out with ashes
on my pointed maneuvers
dispassionate to my own needs
on unsullied fires
I can't put out
having a flashback
of my own self-making
and perpetuated fast
of a poet's attenuated laws
rising from electric lines.

 Cactus Heart

—B.Z. Niditch

Proving to myself
that I can read French
in the film Et Paris brule-t-il?
without subtitles
knowing Sonny was
the favorite success story
of my family
who was associated with
its publicity
because like Paris
is Burning
he lived and died
for the movies
we hiding there
bathed in popcorn
and soda
on Hollywood and Vine
for a weekend
with me in 1967
so we could  watch
the cinders
of old wars
burn out
and get our anger out.


Today's LittleNip:

—B.Z. Niditch

We will not burn out
like the leaves,
for we love the sun
and doves on each tree,
sea-green seasons believe
the sun will sustain us,
shining brighter over the Bay
for when rainbows
become a country cloud
among misting fields
enlightening even spider webs
soaring birds on wings
may rise of everything
of ashes' memory.


—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch, whose work will appear in the new WTF from Rattlesnake Press, featured this Thursday night at Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe, and to Katy Brown, who will be one of the featured readers at Sac. Poetry Center tonight, 8pm. Be there!