Monday, August 04, 2014

Hearts of Wildfire

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
—Wildfire Photos by Katy Brown, Davis


You set out
with implications
you cannot fathom
for the future
as you begin
your first draft,
excited by phrases
apprenticed for an existence
perceived mostly in silence
with your hands on policy
of writing for
yourself, others or God,
choosing a finite focus
for the day's labors
with stalking words as proofs,
being nature's reflection
in a paradoxical universe,
having the only profession
of exploring day dreams
for a body of thought
which leads to a mirror
of language shadowing
to follow you
in your newly apprised verse
being mature at your age
from a lettered reason
for infallible proverbs,
with an imminence rising
as a rapture in your words
of turned-on phrases
that relates to another soul
given a life sentence
with untenable conviction
hiding in front of concave lines
surfacing above
the weight of time
with the synapse part of our cells
reaching our connected speech
informing us
about our own survival.


Astonished eyes
in your labyrinth of suffering
of seasonal refugees from
inhospitable journeys
at critical moments
of mistreatment
by greedy traffickers
carrying the young
in trucks, boats and planes,
children with wrists twisted
by rope for weeks
through mountain passes
and ghostly deserts
heading to another home
the coyotes cutting corners
for extra money
in days of hunger
here in the prospects
of good and plenty
as noticeable cries
from panic and rage
behind back-deals
are made
over walled transports
with young passengers
sick in wildfire grief.


Our hearts of wildfire
are in poems covered over
from flashbacks of love,
with the liberty
in our eye and soul
we start with a desire
for free art
to fill the streets
which may still trouble us
until we reach our goal,
we will soon
know what lasts
in speech or drawing
or what is merely à la carte
true from the past,
then we will dash off
paintings in red and blue
dancing or sing words
on mean streets
for the city Beat,
we make our play
having its double parts
with many roles to choose,
no matter what takes its toll,
as Juan de La Cruz says
in his Flame of Love,
our poet's spirit will not
give up in defeat.  


Being a Beat
for thirsty years
when I roamed
the deserts of the earth
composing oracles
and music for liturgies
like a metallurgic monk
searching among rocks
and ancient stones
in my archaeological digs
wanting my Muse
to come out of the sky
or earth
to embrace me
in the back waters
of abysmal angelic poverties
with an abjection to live
like Flaubert's St. Anthony
wading by waters
of baptismal spirit
for a poet
in the hottest sun.


High with expectation
with new running shoes
from a Japanese athlete
on trial for the Olympics
who sends me her own selfie
of her jumping on a trampoline,
watching a measureless giant flight
of a bald eagle landing on sea sand
once trying to cross each mile
of the blushing red sky
with my partner
at my left shoulder
waving or going
on the wrong roadside,
remembering doing this run
once before
but wishing to be
years younger,
trying to dial for dollars
to help others
in a health crisis center
feeling as once when a surf
go-go boy in a club
to raise money
for a school play I wrote
on four hours of sleep,
running for my life here
as charity is the greatest love,
as I'm covering miles over moss
and wildfire grassland
from my worry beard and beads
and less than moving heartbeat,
as the high heat effaces me
swearing off the sweat
from my forehead and chest
as I spy my partner
falling in the dusty trail
near branches
of nesting bluebirds
giving him mineral water
to quench his trembling thirst.


Like a Bacchante
in wild fire
with a chant,
I drank red wine
in crowded avenues
uninterrupted by desire
to have my inner music
composed for tonight
on the black and white keys
until I'm fine
with my review
for playing the ivories
at the Lighthouse Cafe
with my fans sustaining me
hundreds wait outside the club
for my autograph
writing on my knee
they're in tears with a laugh.


Today's LittleNip:


Dowson composes the line
"Days of Wine and Roses",
a decadent who drank wine
and on the bar dozes.

He was an elected Decadent
and a Romantic rejected by a lover,
died in a Catholic cemetery
sick and in poverty we discover.


—Medusa, thanking today's contributors on this uncomfortable subject, and noting that Nature loves a wildfire—that the burn areas near our house from last year are almost undetectable now, and the wildflowers are more beautiful than ever.