Tuesday, September 17, 2013

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


One timed, then two
by love and music
where competition
is everywhere
in shadowless words
played out in these boxes
that move me
with frozen out regrets
in the big city
but I will let my poems
created out of sunshine
and my sax made of rain
dissolve into whirlwinds
of cool resolve
to rip my passions out
of my being
pushing away these boxes
of unspoken clean lines
and have my fling
not to wound
but to be a free spirit
with a riff of melodies
unspoken or unchained
rocking between
a vagabond and sky
beyond reach
of the underworld.


The neon light
transmits the silence
sometime at a space
from this first jazz notes
buzzing along the Big Apple
of how in a pub or club
we pick and choose
what is aesthetically right
for a connoisseur
composing sounds
on ink red sheet music
from the chilled night
once living off
subterranean graffiti
on city walls
of how lucky a runaway
is to be still alive
with all my alibis
becoming almost like
a metronome in the dark,
motioning when the jazz
of smooth language gives us
the startled perfect lexicon
composing in the tone
of augmented notes
which leads to song.


Poetry is written not with ideas but words

Practicing my Debussy
on my borrowed violin
and turning to my sax
as the consuming sunshine
in my one room of desire
exchanging lots of notes
turning my two  red eyelids
with pangs of improvisation
on the impatient window sill
intent on a blood orange
resembling my Cezanne print,
this poem now warmed by
a horizon of Central Park
in a denouement of the night
having dreams of Mallarme
drenched by a somnambulist
in a muted blue bathrobe
against the wall of Cezanne
the wind is good from outside
erupting in a once beaten
memory of loss
amazed at the earth's caresses
in daylight's expression
awakening to an astonished bird
on the alcove whose wings
from living trees
absorb the sky traffic
new phrases come closer
black and visa less
from my expired passport
in the hollow of my chilled
hands of intertwined words.                  

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