Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Two Poems By Small Press Veteran B.Z. Niditch

Here are two poems by B.Z. Niditch, a veteran of the small press era who has published more poems than most poets will ever write. Good poems. He's someone I appeared with many, many times back in the old days before the interwebs killed the small press star. He has just become the first poet besides myself to be published in Zombie Logic Review. I will be publishing more poems from poets I respect soon. Please feel free to send your poems for consideration.


There are no ultimatums in poetry

unlike love or political affairs.

Maxim by BZ Niditch 

Even living
in a roulette world
when traffic lights
go outside
your tinted rooms, 
the neon sky opens
sprinkling rain
on the window sill
where you sink
to rest your arms,
and a poet's life
has little sun
but dust
by shafts of night
with the scent
of ply wood,
with words, bills,
in a sea of underground 
abandonment set
for another round
of small talk
and Finnish vodka,
amid unaccounted dead
peeping in a tavern
above a storefront
at Frisco's edge
of the train line,
we cannot lose sight
of being railroaded
by a hermit's fate
when a decade 
is older
than the Redwoods
on empty days
of sleeplessness
as your smashed car
now a body machine
is beaten up by time
in this quickie part
blinding the city's proper
look-outs for the lost,
knowing Mr. Devil
is no gentleman caller
who visits the friendless
with hands full 
of promises
with thorns of roses 
and fortune cookies 
in a numbing secret
hand shake.

You Uncle Walt

Here I am in Whitman


really nowhere,

with my bare head
covered in snow kisses
you always humoring me
with your pulsating 
half photo in my mind
on fragrant fields
at cranberry harvest
playing around with words
full of unsettled life,
rounding out
an eye lashed history
under a chimera
and beggar sky
no one can explain
that I your adopted nephew
from a lost city
without a green card
from the underground, 
washed in fires
of the limestone Beats
at fervid awakenings,
we do hear you sing
here Uncle Walt,
in Whitman
all the way to the cities
of down and out angels
where one stops
to read you
blinded in love
on bus stops
and cable cars
covering scarlet letters
from graffiti walls
amid every sex and sect
no longer hidden
from burning bushes
your kind words, Walt
swatting our brows
even in the middle
of nowhere.

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 ArtThe Literary ReviewDenver QuarterlyHawaii ReviewLe Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism InternationalJejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.
He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

No comments:

Post a Comment