B.Z. Niditch, 17 september 2016
Wherever a moon is sealed
here for my waiting gig
to play new sax riffs
the street lights shine
on a leafless tree
my girlfriend trembles
shading in
an oil portrait of us
or when fading out of love
watching a silent red sky
having lost hope
by the seaside green
yet composing a jazz solo
among swaying dunes
under a solitary gazebo
from my old telescope
viewing the meteoric stars
above Brighton Beach
when Whitman or Crane
visited the Brooklyn Bridge
those spans between
parental storms
of my own visibility
here in Manhattan
writing in nine circled bars
on this voiceless night
by an unmade bed,
anonymous sunglasses
a live elm
with my initials on it
a comatose clock,
with my name and memory
returning to me.
B.Z. Niditch, 17 september 2016
These October mornings
waiting for a line of bass
or any fish to appear
losing no time
on the shore's tall grass
by dawn's dock
in a row boat or kayak
over the motionless shore
on Atlantic's ocean waters
embracing an opening wave
by a back up school
of salmon in a frenzy
then motionless
in an A.M. silence
of too much cool memory
already tasting the filet
fried and cooked
along the sea.
Satish Verma, 16 september 2016
Hauled up
the breast suture.
You were following the milk route,
epitomizing the fall. From the
golden clouds. Wanting to
swim in blue veins,
you were drowned. The fire
has spurted the blood. A carbon
copy of exit strategy
in your hands, you unreel
the chains of libido in failed
state of limbs.
The cartel has littered
the street with gentle greens,
to buy the lips. Spurned
lover commits a suicide.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2016
Immersion in a regal
carnage. Ash colored dawn
was gang-raped.
A bullet-ridden sexism
shuts out the fame.
Starts a chilling confession.
O, my orion
I adore your ruffled
stance. Do not make a kill.
Sunflower, why your
seeds were participating
in bonfire of a moon?
They came for a sexual
encounter. But found a prism
exacting a gun.
Satish Verma, 14 september 2016
It was
a graceful exit
with audacious idiocity.
A cyclops was going
for a dress disaster.
Visitation
of flesh, mars the beauty.
Cheating starts
between the pails of tears.
I start hitting the planet.
Let the bride
sleep in fog. A volcano
was going to shed
the sperms on your
shirt.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
The poet asks how much
as his Dutch friend
puts his hand
on the meter
does not dare
to talk about money
at new year's time
they are both tired
and stood up tonight
by their double dates
two bouquets of roses
lie on the front seat,
the poet needs to
study French
in the library
on the back bench
waiting for his exam,
but he will not take
the cab driver away
from his grave yard shift
lasting a life time.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
To rock the boat over me
knowing an aging poet
is always in exile
shipwrecked on the ocean
or by merely visiting
the company of another.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
Watching
"The Seagull"
with my friends
up in the balcony
with a confessional
love poem
slowly emerging
in my smiling
imagination,
there is no language
that could sabotage
or upstage
the Beat in me
with my sax of a soul
out here
in the provinces
of France
anyway
it is starting to rain
off the islands
and my girl friend
suddenly asks me
for tickets
to see Adele
wondering if our life
merely repeats
the family dialogue
from any generation
in any lyrical play
or musical language
will send me back
to my early childhood
making my thoughts
and aching spirit rise
between two continents.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
Who will wish
to become a poet
is a dreamer
of the surreal
who dresses
in a white suit
and coat of many colors
speaks in dada
from two tongues,
Polish and French
plays hide and seek
by a bench of a monastery
under hidden garden walls
the winds rise up
from the dusty rain
round his eyelids
near the edge
of the shore.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
In the dark grove
near the Seine
at the finish line
here at a church
near a Paris road race
midnight becomes the tree
of life in an Eden's garden
where exiles are conceived
in river bed dreams
of prayers to St. Joan of Arc
to deliver
a murmuring baby
who emerges smiling
by the greensward park
in a laurel crib's
smiling stroller.
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