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The Fight (Lake Natoma)
—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
—Photos by Stacie Sherman, Orangevale, CA
—Photos by Stacie Sherman, Orangevale, CA
JANUARY FIRST
Grass still not buried
by a palpable rain
awakening to hear
the slosh shadows
as grackles snap
on the evergreen branches
in a sun's imponderable day
the cat drawn to landscapes
from the town painter
in the Square quiets down
a poet wraps his new scarf
not surprised
he cannot live another life.
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BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
Suspicious of January's night
in a new year's body
wrapping us around
as cherry trees and wreaths
that we jealously love
but seem to loiter forever
as field mice on mounds
of a football stadium
but cannot cast us away
or the Bay window image
but return like seaweed
along the home harbor
when holiday gifts
or birthday cards
bring fresh inventory
making us not overlook
our own history's voice,
those vagrant resolutions
to write better lines
or to send out letters
more often,
yet we are drawn
to our nature's memory
which comforts us
that future words
like jazz riffs
will always be discovered
here even on a cold porch
while we eat
a day-old pumpkin muffin
or play a soft tune
having fun.
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BY PARK DRIVE
A bird in hand
to feed with bread sticks
respectfully
on a silent avenue
intimate at dawn
at first light's lifting
over the dune's tall grass
through the elms
by marathon roads
along woodland paths
as if childhood
never ended coming home
as snow days surprise you
concealed in emerging words
from a new year's start.
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FIRST NIGHT
When a young stand-up
comedian stumbles
at his last laugh
before the curtain folds
and first night lights up
on a past bowed occasion
of pumping up the crowd
cool as crossword puzzles
waiting for his impressions
of played out celebrities
in his gold vest
surprised and mobbed by his fans
after acting out schoolboy charades
with a new routine
of blushing humor
against all the free speech codes
that he was recently expelled for
from his freshman year.
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PERHAPS
Perhaps glued to
the Konwicki film, Salto
with the Polish James Dean
Zbigniew Cybulski
this weekend
brought back the times
after lectures
we would sneak into
small art theaters
for two foreign films
those miracle days
when we would rest
on picnic blankets
with other students
intertwined with grass
by the Charles River.
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BECKETT
I hear you in your plays
not fading away
like my music-making
spilling its notes
by the piano legs
of human incantations
waning blue
under the strobe lights
of landscape's speech
like opening curtains
and the rising barometers
of surprised applause.
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T.S. ELIOT'S PASSING:
JAN. 4, 1965
Off the train
first light chilling him
glimpsing the island scent
of Cape Ann
a few grackles
along the harbor's mistiness
it starts to rain
as a cormorant rises
in the brackish waters
you crumple your notes
in the pocket
of your tweed jacket.
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Today's LittleNip:
MY BIRTHDAY:
JANUARY 8
A Beat floods
my breathless real time
you hear Coltrane
it saves you
so many days
by a city's graffiti walls
but it is never too late
to back up
my words made visible
in smooth jazz
with highs and lows
sharps and flats
hoping your lines
will be remembered.
______________________
Grass still not buried
by a palpable rain
awakening to hear
the slosh shadows
as grackles snap
on the evergreen branches
in a sun's imponderable day
the cat drawn to landscapes
from the town painter
in the Square quiets down
a poet wraps his new scarf
not surprised
he cannot live another life.
.jpg)
Reptilian Calligraphy (Mormon Ravine)
BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
Suspicious of January's night
in a new year's body
wrapping us around
as cherry trees and wreaths
that we jealously love
but seem to loiter forever
as field mice on mounds
of a football stadium
but cannot cast us away
or the Bay window image
but return like seaweed
along the home harbor
when holiday gifts
or birthday cards
bring fresh inventory
making us not overlook
our own history's voice,
those vagrant resolutions
to write better lines
or to send out letters
more often,
yet we are drawn
to our nature's memory
which comforts us
that future words
like jazz riffs
will always be discovered
here even on a cold porch
while we eat
a day-old pumpkin muffin
or play a soft tune
having fun.
.jpg)
Rock Art (Unknown Artist, Beak's Bight)
BY PARK DRIVE
A bird in hand
to feed with bread sticks
respectfully
on a silent avenue
intimate at dawn
at first light's lifting
over the dune's tall grass
through the elms
by marathon roads
along woodland paths
as if childhood
never ended coming home
as snow days surprise you
concealed in emerging words
from a new year's start.
.jpg)
Nature Sculpts (Rattlesnake Bar)
FIRST NIGHT
When a young stand-up
comedian stumbles
at his last laugh
before the curtain folds
and first night lights up
on a past bowed occasion
of pumping up the crowd
cool as crossword puzzles
waiting for his impressions
of played out celebrities
in his gold vest
surprised and mobbed by his fans
after acting out schoolboy charades
with a new routine
of blushing humor
against all the free speech codes
that he was recently expelled for
from his freshman year.
.jpg)
Masked Calf (Englebright Lake)
PERHAPS
Perhaps glued to
the Konwicki film, Salto
with the Polish James Dean
Zbigniew Cybulski
this weekend
brought back the times
after lectures
we would sneak into
small art theaters
for two foreign films
those miracle days
when we would rest
on picnic blankets
with other students
intertwined with grass
by the Charles River.
.jpg)
Gilded Gate (Versailles)
BECKETT
I hear you in your plays
not fading away
like my music-making
spilling its notes
by the piano legs
of human incantations
waning blue
under the strobe lights
of landscape's speech
like opening curtains
and the rising barometers
of surprised applause.
.jpg)
Curly Shadow (Avery's Pond)
T.S. ELIOT'S PASSING:
JAN. 4, 1965
Off the train
first light chilling him
glimpsing the island scent
of Cape Ann
a few grackles
along the harbor's mistiness
it starts to rain
as a cormorant rises
in the brackish waters
you crumple your notes
in the pocket
of your tweed jacket.
.jpg)
Crab, Hearst Castle
Today's LittleNip:
MY BIRTHDAY:
JANUARY 8
A Beat floods
my breathless real time
you hear Coltrane
it saves you
so many days
by a city's graffiti walls
but it is never too late
to back up
my words made visible
in smooth jazz
with highs and lows
sharps and flats
hoping your lines
will be remembered.
______________________
—Medusa, wishing B.Z. Niditch a happy birthday today, and welcoming Stacie Sherman and her wonderful photos to the Kitchen. Stacie writes that she lives near Lake Natoma and is not a poet, but that she "just likes taking pictures as I wander around or travel. I don't use a fancy camera with a million combinations of shutter speed and F-stop. I have a Sony Cyber Shot that I put on auto and off I go."
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Think That You Might Be Wrong (Magazine St.)