Monday, May 05, 2014

Garden of Secrets

Fire Engine Bell
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Outside nature
the gnome
that inhabits
the hideout garden
of a votary's vacation
casts an aura on me
trading in my silence
over a pallid cosmos
at my lyrical refraction
under the ancient moon, 
like a May glow worm
with luminous secrets
outside of time's absence
not warmed by a photo,
of not being the first
challenged violinist
losing an A string
in a furioso passage
from a sober bridge
sleeping off
a late-night wine
in a chamber music
quartet competition
nightmares closing in
from the hissing
in the front row
of a bad daydream,
or the last mushroom
eaten from a far country                                                       
on a thin spoon
on your lips
is no match
for a grinning poet
with egocentric words
in red ink
on the margins
in my secret patch
of your farewells.


—B.Z. Niditch

Feeling low at Boston's
at my friend's space
needing rest
but watching
French films by Godard
like Breathless
in black and white
or working on Beckett's
play Waiting for Godot
though trying to survive
by catching the action
in a glass of Pernod
caught up
with weekend
pranks at my own secrets
hissing at
our own silliness
yet never missing
a chance moment
at a good line.

 Door Handle
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

With deep fears
at insomnia at Boston's
at shady gardens
in the South End
near the jazz clubs
the Hi Hat, Scullers
and Walley's cafe
where Sarah Vaughn
created a sensation,
sleeping in by the vines
at my friend's space
needing rest
but watching in a red-eye
post-war Gothic
films like Elephant Man
movies by Fassbinder
in black and white,
and Hitchcock's
expressionist film noirs
like Vertigo or Detour
though not American
nor German expatriate
was an artist
a main man director
in his own hand,
waking up to
falling in love again
with Marlene Dietrich
understood only by her
loyal friends,
putting on Armstrong's
"Give Me Your Kisses"
from an old '78,
catching some action
after drinking Pinot Noir
from my buddy's smuggled
Dresden wine glasses,
prepping up on Brecht
for my week-end audition
never missing a chance
at a good line or wine.


—B.Z. Niditch

The violin
on tonight's lips
of Bach's shadow
outlives the body
in contrapuntal
words in union
of your fingers
stretched on time's
open memory
at arm's signals
set for listening,
to realize the secrets
in my craft
moves the chords
of the ebullient
stroking to sway
being on goaded clouds
a resurrected voice
out of counterpoint
at the podium,
briefing through
spoils of pages
by a now-quiet
selfless metronome
hidden in echoes
of an ephemeral past
over fine strings
in those mingled hours
quivering in practice
in an absence of speech
at recollected silence
exposing a libido
of sudden fiery flights
motioning to catch
the mysterious precision
over unsettled notes
now augmented
by courting gleams
of fanning applause.

—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch

so many nights
want to remember
your voice
even now
that silence
overtakes you
by a newly born
every new year
that binds us
as shelves
of lexicons
by your bed,
our eyes weigh
wearily on
the rest
of your cheeky
past narrations,
those unlisted words
around your mouth
for your loss at time's
last half speech
at your funeral
like dated seasons
of leaves
from the dark trees
assured that rumors
and panics
will give away
to a fresh calendar
with an encore
of vast reflections
now clouded
on your stone.


—B.Z. Niditch

Whispering a Rimbaud

poem in an attic

hiding with a slogan

by a blinking past

you recall

your first piano recital

at seven playing Satie

doomed like a voice 

inside you

hiding your secrets

up the staircase

locking the doors,

memory moves

in your leafy eyes,

a love letter 
on your bureau

falls in a shaving mug

by a Balzac miniature

given to you at school

before graduation.

 Fire Engine Flame
—Photo by Katy Brown

—B.Z. Niditch
You were all there,
"The Bag Eggs"
as you are known:
Rimbaud, Verlaine
among the other
fine bohemians
seated in a sofa
sunk in absinthe
in the green room
at a violent corner
posing on a scrambled
festive night
with the odor
of almonds and perfume
in Fantin-Latour's
meaningful night,
it starts to rain
with a thick wind
on the ashy roads
of street workers,
as kept shadows
of saluted visitors
expect satisfaction
by the drawing room,
there will be no
repeat performances
by flattery's brows
of strangers
in art's consciousness
or on the bed's covers
you read the passages
from a catalog's lists
of once-indigent poets
and bold relief painters
will there be a feast
tasting yet overdone,
like beaten omelets
in the morning.


Today's LittleNip:
—B.Z. Niditch

The nightfall sky
fades by rain
where nature
reaches an English garden,

the mourning bird
will return
with its clairvoyant
voice by the woods
where wan memory
resides below
the earthwise sleepers.



Turning Signal
—Photo by Katy Brown