Thursday, November 10, 2016

Between the Lines

Old Door
—Poems by B.Z. Niditich, Brookline, MA
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA


An uneasy sleep
up in improper Vermont
with a deep dream
of ice fishing
hearing my aunt's
copper pans on the stove
making croissants
in her Bread and Breakfast
no one can stop her
chafing at the bit
to help her nephew poet
in her determined attitude
so fast in her tracks
as she gets out her food
also to the hungry multitude
who line up in her pantry
while all I want
is my poetry to get perfected
in adverb and noun
to reflect my sanguine nature
of a Beatitude
in town and city
to have God
crown us in shadows
of a country road
as I with calm ease
rake and take
my fallen leaves away
turned by now all crimson
on this Fall day
amid the wonders of sound
from birds, squirrels and bees
who drink from the fountain
and all over the Maple trees
yet by the canyon
of the Green Mountains
I write out my verse
in an Autumn dawn
in my own language
by nature's colorful leafage
in the underground's universe.


(In Memory of those souls lost
in German, November 9, 1938)

In different degrees
of conspiracy theories
these ideas emerge
when the world is cold
and there is no sun
enfolded in new dark ages
where sparks of light fire up
and mark the ignorant
in language of the age
who choose the imbecilities
and phrases of simplicity
rather than confront reality
of a complex time
it's easier to have
the warring authorities
conduct an inquisition
from their position of power
or cower at an auto da fe
or at a German
burning of books
by an arrest
in the Black Forest
than to read
between the lines
of a misunderstood
crime of libel
toward a Christian Bible
for here
on November the ninth
we remember
the night of glass
and refuse to learn any lesson
from any politician
wielding a slogan and gun
but stand with the Jews
though we know the cost
for we remember what
the Nazis conspired to do
in the Holocaust.

 Old Iron Ring


Mushrooms found
by campers in the woods
of Vermont
on the other side
in an inlet
of the Green Mountains
wanting for waters
in a fountain
with a hawk's footprints
leading us by the landscapes.



We did not drive far
in the electric car
but it was fun
for an hour,
imagine when we
in a space capsule
will shoot to welcome
us to Mars.



The voices
of Emerson,
and Thoreau
in my mind's pattern
reverberate in my spirit
with the trembling sun
over the marathon runners
as a poet greets a priest
from Boston
on November Sixth
in Manhattan.

 White Fence


Between Concord
and Lexington we wander
in the country
with our flickering sunglasses
now we are hailing a taxi
to journey
over the sunny bridge railing
here over at the Hawthorne
Alcott, Emerson
and Thoreau estates
who once read
between their lines
in a divine proverbial
American language
as today's children
are being taught their words
after school
by muscular tutors
who outshout us
by playing as stars of soccer
back at the Village Green
after sharing cups
of an Indian herbal tea
and bran muffin
now we taking selfies by
dark Evergreen branches
as red-winged blackbirds
and larks cover azure skies
here by my riverbed kayak
wanting to catch the sun
rising up as first light drips
over the first icy branches.

 Turban Squash


A solitary poet
framed against
a solidarity wall
of flower children
from Manhattan
going to L.A.
for auditions
without preconditions
for a future
pattern of a star
on a walk of fame.



Verse which escapes
by the birches,
Eugenio stands
by the tall dunes
now at first light
with rain on the window
unlocking images
in a vision
of abandonment
from the fields
by the Milan cottages
in a camouflaged
shadow by
the skating rink.

 Flowers in Rain


A savant
of culture
and servant
of literature
you spoke
of the Levant
and Italy
with Latin roots
you finally found
your own shadows
and underground sounds
in your poetry's picture
after cleaning up
fascism's boots.



Everything they taught
you on Naples St.
in Paris
to embarrass
or harass you on arrival
it at least made you think
beyond the voyeur romances
and alliances of your youth
the winks of the guys
in the skinny hallways
like shrinks in disguise
or about survival in analysis,
you were always under cover
Anaïs Nin,
for life was a killer
unmasking even a kiss
from your lover, Henry Miller.



Anaïs Nin
enjoyed reading
her soul friend
Henry Miller
after a sunrise in Nice
now laughing together
and going to the opera
tonight to hear Thaïs
by Jules Massenet
with all her Paris bias
she offends and will embarrass
Anaïs still has a sensitive nature
to control her creativity
often with a bravura
for to console is her proclivity.



This Walt
wrote for newspapers
and was often unemployed
he did not care
what other people thought
and was not easily annoyed
visited the injured troops
who fought
during the Civil War
comforted the soldier boys
to share his poetry
a democratic man of the city
though without friends
except his humanity
stuck together
a partisan
with a great memory
of the Village to make amends
back in Manhattan
living with simplicity
and lack of luxury
out in the country often
by the riverbanks
rather than at the steeple
we give a pattern of thanks
as we shake hands
with Walt Whitman
a man of the people.

 Wet Leaf


Having a spinach croissant
and German rolls
my aunt prepared
within our coffee klatch
speaking up
at the microphone
near the Bistro bench
up in Vermont
reciting the French bards
Baudelaire, Verlaine
Valery and Éluard
then reading
my own quatrains
quoting my maxims
translated into Spanish
after feeding the birds
hiding from the snow
I'm feeling like Saint Francis
with an anointing
in the spirit of a jazz poet
sensing a metamorphosis
of sax riff notes
from vanishing the quotes
of my words.


Today’s LittleNip:


in the cross hairs
by blueprints
and ciphers
in a memory
of words
at scope
into a dictionary
from the masses
of solicitation
in identities
of languages
from a Beat.


—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch and Katy Brown for a beautiful start to a Thursday morning Koffee Klatch in the Kitchen!

 Celebrate the poetry of new beginnings, and don’t forget 
that Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café meets tonight 
in Sacramento, 8pm, presenting “Reveling in the Senseless: 
Gilberto, Mantecón, and Lozano” plus open mic, hosted by 
Geoffrey Neill; see 
Scroll down to the blue column (under the green 
column at the right) for info about other upcoming poetry 
events in our area—and note that more 
may be added at the last minute.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.