Thursday, June 11, 2015

A Song of Poetry

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
—Photos by Denise Flanagan, MA


We carry strawberries
in baskets of vegetation
by the frankness of nature
hiking for miles in Concord
near Walden pond
wishing to swim
or at least wade in cool waters
a poet with a hip pose
for the camera
refuses to forget those friends
buried near here
the Alcotts and Hawthornes
who rest on high grass fields
by orange and red vineyards
in an earth-wise woodland
near pine cones and nettles
with fragile memories
of those in childhood
who ride their horses
by your bicycle
along avid nature trails
near a deer park
abandoned in separation
of season and vines
dazzling in the sunshine
near the greensward hills
as honey and bumblebees
by yellow jackets
hum in a visited hive
punctuated by butterfly wings
in Sixties denim the poet
feeding red-wing blackbirds
who want to sing out
by a homeless scarecrow
where the now-city Beat poet
runs among sandy meadows
trampling among shadows
gives a reading from Thoreau
opening a bliss of advice
to his eager students
hoping his life will move on
beyond weary alder leaves
in another metamorphosis.



While eating steak and eggs
rather late
on an arty tray
in a garden variety
of sweet peas and carrots
ordering a coffee cup
as night is breaking up
you overhear a tarot reading
as dark shadows embrace
a crevice in a bitter high ceiling
approaching in distress
devouring our time
as a once-silver corner mouse
watches a pale lady
in a purple veil levitating
in a black party dress
from her last supper
kicking her high chair
to impress a higher power
God is assenting to my prayer
to delay her pitch in case
of any daily crime's danger
by taking liberties
from an astrology's stranger
as a spraying odor by the door
rides over the wayward windows
brimming with seaweed kelp
sailors are shipping out in song
in a Moorish bridal lore,
gone is a suicidal nightmare
from a trauma
in a tell-all visionary drama
nothing more,
a sweet perfume suddenly emerges
behind the curtains for our benefit
and cool air again prevails
as a sacrificial conduit,
and all urges of life,
dreams of our two children,
games of parcheesi,
letters and joyful picture frames,
as an evening song of poetry
suddenly overtakes us
we're taking it easy
forgetting the lady's obituary
making her ways of the occult
in exclamations difficult
in the past tweet in her hand
she moves on her full cushion
to a reactionary discussion
someone asking about Germany
in the nineteen-twenties
near a shepherd's whelp
in a Yeatsian phrase
of explication
wondering to my self
is that madam Blavatsky's niece
or just a resemblance
to carry in your valise
as the policeman carrying
out his word of making peace
a rosary chant is heard above
the hum of a band of bees
near a distant firing squad
someone calls on
Mary's son and God
with no explanation
for a pardon and help.

 B.Z. at the Country Store


Rolfe, you were home-taught
James Joyce
caught you reading Ulysses
when you were eleven
by the doors
in the school corridors,
at sixteen on the highway
were a chauffeur
driving a Rolls Royce,
you started to sing
on the golf course
as you were discovered
by a impresario
as a bird on a wing
you were once a cantor
in your early days
now a tenor at the opera
with a lyrical song of praise
as long you are alive
in musical ways
rejoice, rejoice.



Spies are like flies
they are everywhere
like princes of the air
riding through our windows
dancing on our privacy
as daring shadows
taking any information
of person, place or thing
where they may locate it
by fingerprint or D.N.A.
through every plane's wing
even on our train of thoughts
as conduits of a higher power
beyond our control and realm
in their own compartments
carrying our luggage
and baggage in their helm
on their saluted arms
they wish us to cower
like moles on skinheads
reading our souls in bed
it is 'way beyond 1984
that Orwell prophesied
for they want our whole world
on their Hellish side
as they gather up
for any wars they decide on
but the lonely poet
once the champion
of a conduit of truth
may not let the enemy
hide from us
on our election day
for he is even camped
on ballots with bullets
in the voting booth
stamping us right or left
through the hallways
to select their candidate.


You are nameless
to those who make war
for shameless profit
with their deceit off it
(you know,
as a friend of the poet)
who has wronged us
is the devil politician
whose mission
will offend you
to make you in submission
for a higher measure
who will cash in
at the end of days
all of his stash
for your treasure
and spend and suspend us
to another world
curled with a life-long sin
not of your value
holding an old receipt
who will try to cheat us
from a sectarian spirit within
calling on our guardian angel
needing our prophets
more than any profit & loss
who will win every battle
now at the crossroad
though all nations retreat
those who love will not worship
any golden cattle at his feet.



Man methodically
in this twentieth century
on this planet earth
began his day
with screens
swallowed his coffee
by a screen
turned on the news
by a screen
worked in his office
nine to five
on a live screen
survived a horror flick
of a thousand gory scenes
by screams on a screen
kicking wild sex over
riding to cover all orifices
once hiding on screens,
or takes a language course
of French poetry
trying to write an ode
on the park bench,
goes to his wave radio
yet mistakes Morse code
by discovering the force
behind money on the bourse
at ninety has an operation
on his turkey neck,
with one click
of a wide screen
even though he tried
every healthy diet
solely of green beans
now we have even picked up
his obituary cast on screens
with his last will
and envious testimony
about his dreams of divorce
in a society of jealousy
of course,
past his alimony history
behind the screens
now others watch religiously
catching his life of re-runs
where the wind now blows
over his T.V. reality show.


Age is not by number
drawing us in
a colorful painting
daily our heart palpitates
and we may refuse
to take take to bed
in slumber or fainting
nor does our life's fate
depend on the mind
but on the soul
as we search for sleeping beauty
to find a prince or pauper
when you were called to serve
nor does any army sentry
need a name-dropper
while on duty's call or roll
for he has his guard dog
to rise up from what is said
death will add to its scroll
in every bell of breath
to toll the dead in monologue
no strife need be preserved
in shadows of an outside wall
from a widow spider's dialogue.



Contemplating the seas
at dawn by birdsong voices
here in the home harbor
wishing to be Melville
to travel by boat
and compose a novel Pierre
or at the crossroads
with fair St. John the Divine
on the isle of Patmos
eating love's Word,
with bread and wine
or in exile
as Ulysses sailing at will
and smile
given my liberty
in Boston exploring
the city's jazz scene
with a mean alto saxophone
will rejoice under the sun
every hair numbered
from every war zone
in prophecies' past wonders
and daydreams of peace
to be still and relax
for twenty-one centuries
awaking out of slumber
we poets will outlast time
as Picasso's doves increase.

 B.Z. Shopping

born June 13, 1935

That running fence
making us smile and relax
at your fabric art
you put on display
at Marin and Sonoma counties
at a funky array
of juxtaposing parts
of your abstract discoveries
that play over
in our imaginative objects
and tense situations
of contrasting metallic ways
in a new alchemy category
for our new century animation
in your monumental galleys
up twenty stories in heights
of a Babylon of 24/7
building all day and night
accessories as drawing us in
reaching a Babel tower
in sky-writing bubbles
to an awe and ode to heaven.


born June 13, 1776

Waking from a pale dream
over the Dedham Veil
framed by trees
inside your painting
feeling such beauty
in a landscape of a dale
as if we were fainting,
how you inspired me
with ease, and so many
from their sixth senses
to explore a rainbow
in a sample of color's use
as composed in Delacroix's
"Roe-deer in Snow"
and de Chirico turned loose
in his metaphysical part
Larry Rivers in the Big Apple
and young Balthus portraits
or in many samples
of bas-relief,
you allow us each dawn
to restore our belief in art
as critics
we wonder, Constable,
of our own sensitive shapes
how geometrically
are we drawn
from our tenses
to our own poetic landscapes.

born June 13, 1865

Who waits on seeds
plants imagination
remembers a discovery
of W.B. Yeats who rose
early in his life
to write for us
during Irish troubles
and political strife
he who still musically lives
as a poet in our heart
never decomposed
forgives line by line
in his lyrically divine art.


Today's LittleNip:

When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.

—John F. Kennedy


—Medusa, with thanks to today's fine contributors!