the rivers of it, abridged

New York City skyline at night




B. Z. Nidtich

Joy Street

Memory so close
to earth
through the eyes
of hundred year
up on the hill
of poets,
Plath, Lowell
all passed by
eclipsed by legends
and the open air fervor
of nameless heat
over narrow attic voices
from red brick buildings
uncovering the hatless
of maddening psyche
over the academic
and streetwise sounds
of mouthpiece traffic
dodging the void
in each seasonal circle
and landscapes
change in Boston
along the Charles river
unforgotten tone.



A cool greeting
prolongs your day
makes French bread
taste sweeter,
the Matisse
"Red Interior"
at the museum
looks more liquid
than any vase's rose
over the blue table.

Outside a granite road
the sun weighs us down
gives an aimless dawn
a patchwork of sunlight
you never expected,
or the mystery person
you are about to meet
over a new trail
on the snow lift
at a ski lodge
who follows
among the leaves.

We are always
at the crossroads
of words which leads
to an epiphany
especially at daybreak,
when an absence
of speech
sings to us alone
which stays with us
all winter
reminding you
of a solo cardinal's voice
when you hear it again.


Adrienne Rich's Gone

One short year ago
on a cold March day
trailing dust
snow and ashes
you passed us by
in the early dawn
you were never late
for a woman's expression
to astonish us
with words, glances, pain
even at your readings,
you rightly disturbed us
we watching your wise face
with lively silver threads
from your pocket poems
now opened up
to feminine freedoms
from hidden woolen scarves
and a daughter's handkerchief
of controlled tears
you, Adrienne knitted out
those kept oppressed
by some man's power trip
in bondage and shelters
from home wreckers
and violent quarrels,
you offer a way
through a poetry
of confessional talk
to look at our nature



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