PERUSING FOR GIFTS
Through veiled mirrors
and ancient candelabras
here in London's East End
a fast pace season begins
in an attentive poet's glow
at old white statues
from before the war,
among antiquarian antique shops
littered with alluring books
with a Dickensian curiosity look
here are pale wine glasses
from Glasgow and Dresden
poisoned with a disfigured mark
where throats of ambrosia
once throbbed in throats,
some Dutch bric a brac,
dark urns
making me feel melancholy,
unknown object d'art
paintings of Royal knights,
and ladies of an Arthurian realm,
plastic faded flowers
kitchenalia, chess sets
jars of South Sea turtles,
costumed pins and hats
pirated goods off the ocean
mounted on silvery
Arabian magic carpets
acquired,acquiesced
all accessed with price tags
some written in Creole French
knitting needles, embossed string
easy for the scarlet waxed touch
of a Madam DeFarge,
song sheets
of a vaudeville magician,
false jewels from pirate ships
under satin covers
here on a sill of cloth,
feeling I'm in a hollow world
of a dizzying Poe universe
wondering why my friend
brought me here
to view with suspicion
the long unknown past
by these shells of the baroque
when the proprietor
in a solemn whisper
spoke in his domain
as if on a shipwreck
we're feeling motionless
as in a nightmare
or grade b movie
as if time disappeared
by these sealed bolted doors
wishing for the salt air
of a Dover harbor,
telling the connoisseur
to take it easy
when the windows rattle
from a sudden storm
and for a light second
we escape.
AT KEATS' GRAVE
Like a young sorrowful Keats
I'm short winded yet amazed
at these English gardens,
when others give short notice
on their brief lives,
here brushing away time
while feeling in a trance
by the splendor of silver birches
and bright apple and pear spills
under this morning light-year,
we walk by your shadowy grave
of a Fall evanescent sun
with these wing- beat birds
fading echoes of voices
from baby grey herons
calling us from blue rocks
by once hidden waters
on a coastal island dawn
covering mesmerized waves
on this woodland shore
by burning imagination
your first love never fading
in a forlorn restlessness
drifting into melancholic letters
you compose for your girlfriend
in the tall green saw grass
too shy for a cottage house visit
not minding the pale duration
from the coming red moons
just wishing for another day
to explore and embrace.
TRAFFIC TENSION
Nerves in perpetual motion
for a lonely alto sax player
trying to locate the city gig
where he is to perform tonight
here on his motorcycle
in the Big Apple
lost again on a Manhattan Street
with a friendless lipsyncher
standing by the bus stop
dressed in black leather
buying out all albums
of Dusty Springfield
with my few tourist dollars,
now sitting on my lap
by going to the club area
she suddenly tiptoes away
in the middle of our happy hour,
I'm getting heat from other drivers
as she decides to leave me
going into a red convertible
next to my old Harley,
my memory of the past returns
when others have gone away
roving from me,
now overwhelmed by fear
and loose tongue,
feeling like an unsung traveler
with a grievous sadness
alone with his topographic map.
B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.
His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.
He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.
Through veiled mirrors
and ancient candelabras
here in London's East End
a fast pace season begins
in an attentive poet's glow
at old white statues
from before the war,
among antiquarian antique shops
littered with alluring books
with a Dickensian curiosity look
here are pale wine glasses
from Glasgow and Dresden
poisoned with a disfigured mark
where throats of ambrosia
once throbbed in throats,
some Dutch bric a brac,
dark urns
making me feel melancholy,
unknown object d'art
paintings of Royal knights,
and ladies of an Arthurian realm,
plastic faded flowers
kitchenalia, chess sets
jars of South Sea turtles,
costumed pins and hats
pirated goods off the ocean
mounted on silvery
Arabian magic carpets
acquired,acquiesced
all accessed with price tags
some written in Creole French
knitting needles, embossed string
easy for the scarlet waxed touch
of a Madam DeFarge,
song sheets
of a vaudeville magician,
false jewels from pirate ships
under satin covers
here on a sill of cloth,
feeling I'm in a hollow world
of a dizzying Poe universe
wondering why my friend
brought me here
to view with suspicion
the long unknown past
by these shells of the baroque
when the proprietor
in a solemn whisper
spoke in his domain
as if on a shipwreck
we're feeling motionless
as in a nightmare
or grade b movie
as if time disappeared
by these sealed bolted doors
wishing for the salt air
of a Dover harbor,
telling the connoisseur
to take it easy
when the windows rattle
from a sudden storm
and for a light second
we escape.
AT KEATS' GRAVE
Like a young sorrowful Keats
I'm short winded yet amazed
at these English gardens,
when others give short notice
on their brief lives,
here brushing away time
while feeling in a trance
by the splendor of silver birches
and bright apple and pear spills
under this morning light-year,
we walk by your shadowy grave
of a Fall evanescent sun
with these wing- beat birds
fading echoes of voices
from baby grey herons
calling us from blue rocks
by once hidden waters
on a coastal island dawn
covering mesmerized waves
on this woodland shore
by burning imagination
your first love never fading
in a forlorn restlessness
drifting into melancholic letters
you compose for your girlfriend
in the tall green saw grass
too shy for a cottage house visit
not minding the pale duration
from the coming red moons
just wishing for another day
to explore and embrace.
TRAFFIC TENSION
Nerves in perpetual motion
for a lonely alto sax player
trying to locate the city gig
where he is to perform tonight
here on his motorcycle
in the Big Apple
lost again on a Manhattan Street
with a friendless lipsyncher
standing by the bus stop
dressed in black leather
buying out all albums
of Dusty Springfield
with my few tourist dollars,
now sitting on my lap
by going to the club area
she suddenly tiptoes away
in the middle of our happy hour,
I'm getting heat from other drivers
as she decides to leave me
going into a red convertible
next to my old Harley,
my memory of the past returns
when others have gone away
roving from me,
now overwhelmed by fear
and loose tongue,
feeling like an unsung traveler
with a grievous sadness
alone with his topographic map.
B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.
His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.
He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.
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