Tuesday, May 31, 2016

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


In the Parisian sun
with a hopeful sun
through my French
jealousy window
reading a Modiano novel
"Missing Person"
about the Occupation
nervously alone
by the shadowy memorials
awakened by these lives
like my courageous cousin
Mendes- France
who fought in the Resistance
in thanking you
by furtive corners
transfixed by your images
from my tearful eyes
melted by own loneliness
about the poisonous informers 
and generous heroes
as echoes of the struggle,
now from your geography grave
where humanity spills
its locution
from a grieving time of fascism
you bring memory to life.


Your Beat language 
follows me spinning poems
when all time pieces come alive
up the watching stairs of a gig
you share your verses
in hollow coffee houses
where poisonous gossip
of rivals do not have your back
as you try to survive lust
on the dusty road
drinking cups of ale
in the 1950's cafes
like here at the Red Drum
where your grief fills
huge beer mugs joined
in the sublime smooth jazz
with your riff of notes
by sailing on landscapes
on pockets of wavering verse
in a kayak near the open seas
of our likely correspondence
offering us uneasy poems
when your shirt
is taken off on the road
and you fall near a mountain
on your motorcycle
between life and departure
yet remaining the same body
from the century's dust
as visionary flavors
at your wake
crowd forty candles
of a murdered birthday cake.


By the hotel elevator in Paris
on an impalpable holiday
is the loneliest scene in May
as sleep walkers
hearing the AM. Muzak
as a voice speaks of raging war
ethnic cleansing
final solutions
as tranquilized survivors
by half -open faced sagas
of oblivious tourists
sandwiched between
bar and lobby
provide and divide space
to these seasoned travelers
reaching for teapots
or glasses of white wine
doled out with napkins
under doubled chins
from slow kitchen helpers
because it is always cold
on a long trip
even from another's hands
like my lost girlfriend Kate
looking up to the balcony
at the latest fashion show
losing herself in mirrors
of soft lights moving 
now stumbling up the steps
while I'm in my inner sanctum
singing the words of psalms
to celebrate joyful sounds
of those who love the Lord
even lost appearances
sauntering in lost thoughts
by inhabitable towels
undressed by the sink
my Messianic mind intact
or awakened by the rush
heavenly birds
of blinded window last light
from Kate's secret location
in a clock's late panic attack
from a glance's view
of new gossip information
as yet unknown saga
about Kate's romances
yet may be true,
my vetted apology
to atone only to you, Lord
from any regretted vocation
or out of heaven's pardon
here among the sea rocks
thinking of childhood days
in my English garden.

1 comment:

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