Thursday, December 01, 2016

A Slow Flight of Blackbirds

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
—Photos by Stacey Jaclyn Morgan, Fair Oaks, CA


You've suspected
the wind of the pine trees
will soon be white
inspected in the morning air
awaking from an echo of snow
as flakes are falling
like the stars all night
over the covers of tree limbs
yet a poet is here
on December days
painting words
by these meadow woods
along the ephemeral Cape's shore
my back to the wind
anchoring my orange kayak
in the narrow home harbor
circling the four sparrows
with my camera
often hanging out
for hours
by the birch branches
amid the gallow birds
who land on the leaves
of steep waters
my voice in deep memory
of trampled grassland
amid wild flowers
over these soft islands.



Some learn to live
for their own self
for a discovery
to earn their wealth
or share
others surrender
their soul to chance
or to the state surveillance
and think to pretend
they have no control
in stealth
over their own fate
enjoying the body
covering up good meal
with food and drink
to marvel in a baking sun
with a hot toddy
they think at carnival
in this neighborhood
to make a good deal,
some live for the Lord
to praise His pardon
yet hoping for a reward
others are mechanical
who build and grow
a botanical garden
among the Capistrano birds
who visit
Baldassare's mysterious
underground in Fresno
others reveal their words
to share a wondrous sound
of a poet composing
with lines of everlasting verse
that you will know
will immediately set to jazz
when you have found the notes
from a related soprano sax
blown in an understated universe
as you relax with hope
Aries on your horoscope
says it's is a fire sign
now well known
from a series of quotes
that you can tell
has its pagan origin
in a Picasso-like design.



A neighbor asked me
where were you, bz
the day JFK
was assassinated,
now remembering that day
November 22, 1963 with Zane
an American science student
waiting for me at Orly
only to put on the T.V.
in Paris
hearing of JFK's assassination
now your  new roommate
was being delivered
a dear John
and embarrassing note
on a dead letter head
believing his love life
was over
but not his anger
quoting Rimbaud
dropping his lover's quote
in the river bed
of the Seine
feeling like she was just
a mistress for a semester
or was Zane just
one of her clients.


(Passed away Nov. 20, 2003)

Juan Sanchez Pelaez's time
in the America's fields
of nature and words
no longer
hidden among seminars
of younger poets
when poor angels sing
behind a mountain of stars
when poor angels sing
by twelve bells
of a deserted church
and a mandolin plays jazz
in the rain-soaked wind
down winding streets
of favellas
as ten children are hiding
from the general's round-up
on the roads of beggars
who locate their brides
in rustic villages
from an earth's heat wave
welcoming all missing
brothers and sisters
in their own languages
betrayed by the world
dying of thirst or hunger
as their young mother
with a pawned black shawl
from her husband's funeral
in Caracas
brings her apple seed scent
of her life's broken promises
along with her ashes
in a soup tureen
played with torturer's
repaired tire wheel
in a tambourine painted red
used a revolutionary parade
in memory of the dead.

 Chalice #2


Resting with my telescope
by my snowy window
hopeful of my lecture
at a colleague’s seminar
on Thursday next noon
prepared at my studio attic,
sticking here
amid the cool woodsy air
hoping to view
a shadowy star
about the harvest moon
yet I'm thinking about
what Picasso said,
when discussing culture
for our arts colloquy:
"You become what you are."

 Hey! Broccoli


No longer a stranger
to the framed hour
in a ferment of words
from my painted language
at this gated
Cape Cod village
amid the indolence
of a snow shower
watching the sky
by the tall dune meadow
now playing tunes
on my soprano sax
in my once scorched mouth
on the back porch
trying to relax as I watch
a slow flight of blackbirds
as castaways range
in the hidden unnamed furrow
will migrate to the South.

 Ron Napping

Today’s LittleNip:


Here but in the fever
and favor of God
hearing the abandonment
of the vanished cry
among vanquished and lost
in their banishment
amid the souls of the slain
calling from the heaven sent
hovering over rain
hidden from
the celestial inward fires
uncovered by
elemental spirits
and desirous
of the poet's consolation
in sighs of ephemeral lament.


—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch and to Stacey Morgan for this morning’s wonderful feast in the Kitchen!

 Celebrate poetry!
And tonight you have three choices: Poetry Unplugged at
Luna’s Cafe presents the 4th annual “Too Naughty for Santa” 
erotic poetry, 8pm; The Funk N Poetry Event in Old Sac,
 8-10pm; or Joshua Clover in Davis, 8pm. Scroll down to 
the blue column (under the green column at the right) 
for info about these and 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.