Tuesday, October 13, 2015

BZ Niditch- Three Poems


We are pilgrims passing
to another season
this October
with fresh sunflowers
in our garden hands
hoping day dreams
will survive
all barbed wire
of poisoned jealousy
beyond villages
of freezing grey
as in a Hardy novel
we watch departing feathers
counted on flying wings
on tall grass ravines
and murmuring shadows
Heaven knows each story
from these tall branches
as a mourning dove sings
by a sailor lost at Dover
at the light of a tumid river
and now at peace
we're trying to make amends
after a tourist jaunt
though the coppery rain
falls on six sea-buckthorn
it quickly covers us over
with clay sky memories
of a new Autumn
leaves us by cool rocks
under a shadowy orchard
wanting new friends.


Line by line up
crowds are in the shadow
in the hull
of my new translations
feeling their body of joy
as the music sounds
from landscaped heirs
off islands of the sea
where adventurer tourists
on a large ocean liner
hear me in an opulent time
playing smooth sax
in the cool night air 
risking my new riffs
by once frozen lips 
on slowly rowing 
words of memory
no longer poisoned
by motionless lovers
nor abandoned by absence
on those warring times
of fiery alarming devotions
under cold sleepy covers
now my good gestures move
as red and orange leaves us
with voices embracing Fall
when everything is new
in voices of water and wings.


Needing a Jamesian moment
in London, Manhattan or Paris
when you are always here
over five stories to tell
love from a mismatch
from an old understanding
to catch an abandoned train
of a master's thought
if only for art's forsaking us
do we speak in luminous tones
an all clear signal
by the deserted winds
to signal our need for flowers
or tendrils of the earth
by all of us land exiles
as the waves run deeply
that we tremble at this hour
when the air turns cool
by the ocean front gazebo
now alone on the sandy beach
near the rocks and stone
of this home harbor
to hear sea voiced echoes
or share my art prints
as solitary bird draws us
emerging from the dunes
he too was searching for
the living waters and bread
as my riff
broke into a Bach solo
easily repaired by my verse
open in the full mouths
of angels yearning for
another Blakean soul 
in a passport of memories
pausing at a glowing shore
of fiery salamanders.

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