Monday, January 18, 2016

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


Here on the Atlantic shore
feeling close to a sand turtle
wanting to transplant it
as a challenge to live
safely on bowing waves
running roughshod
on different bubbled buoys
without any chaotic angle
of an ocean's bubbling
poisoned mimicry
with an unobstructed view
going counter clock wise
challenged in my swim suit
to reach a dock barge
doing my rescue
of a sand turtle,
knowing it's untangled
surfacing a hundred miles
near my damaged anchored kayak
from a wintry series of storms,
suddenly seeing a baby whale
a humpbacked entangled one
on a back up fishing line
near Woods Hole sanctuary
in a mud fight of survival
knowing young scientists
are doing their good deeds
making my day a memory
in my diary of a helpful arrival
as a poet- journalist
with data of a trade off
vetted to a barrage of questions
to watch the turtle escape
to the smiles of the sunny sea
from once curled
in netted wrists.


In the crunchy first snow
making my way back
from a pilgrimage
to the White Mountains
losing my old travel map
wandering in darkness
on a country road 
watching a black bird
with mirrored eyes on a night
by a withered elm branch
reciting Robert Frost
in my teaching memory
wanting a lost poem back
here in this wilderness
wanting the right exit
and brunch to go forward
as my car scuttles quickly
from tangled black ice
in a grove of birch shadows
my breath freezing
with an echoes wind
and persistent inner voices
whispers promised directions
once known by heart
praying my car will heat
and start up again
holding on
to my white metallic mirror
on the dashboard
to comb my wild hair
reaching out to
a tiny cat who quietly hisses
circling around me
my years wash away
by a burnished light
managing to make it home.


The visit
of the poet Wordsworth
to Tintern Abbey
recalls his boyish days
of a pure mind resting
as an easy hermit
learning high thoughts
about these nature's woods
by the earth's sycamore
in a shadowy forest
forgetting wintry despair
between curved rocky fields
separated in a childhood
of crispy red leafs on hills
turning near a few pastoral trees
as lyrical shadows rest
wanting to share
his own natural beliefs
here in the Wye's burning sun
a neon butterfly glows
on a water fountain basin
over a whispering breeze
winding by a low bridge
scented with pale pastel
covering a greensward landscape
in the wind's shell
waving by emerald grounds
of a caroling blue bird
he lingers at this horizon
in sounding ironies of nature
by the song of a wilderness
swelling into grey water colors
from drains of the senses.


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