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diff --git a/4331.txt b/4331.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..05db149 --- /dev/null +++ b/4331.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2281 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun-Up and Other Poems, by Lola Ridge + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sun-Up and Other Poems + +Author: Lola Ridge + +Posting Date: August 17, 2012 [EBook #4331] +Release Date: August, 2003 +First Posted: January 8, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN-UP AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Catherine Daly + + + + + + + + + + + Sun-Up and Other Poems + By Lola Ridge + + + + DEDICATION + (To my Mother) + + Let me cradle myself back + Into the darkness + Of the half shapes... + Of the cauled beginnings... + Let me stir the attar of unused air, + Elusive... ironically fragrant + As a dead queen's kerchief... + Let me blow the dust from off you... + Resurrect your breath + Lying limp as a fan + In a dead queen's hand. + + Thanks is due to THE NEW REPUBLIC, POETRY, A MAGAZINE OF VERSE, PLAY-BOY, and + OTHERS for permission to reprint some of these poems. + + CONTENTS + + I + SUN UP + + SUN-UP + + II + MONOLOGUES + + JAGUAR + WILD DUCK + THE DREAM + ALTITUDE + COMRADES + NOCTURNE + CACTUS SEED + + III + WINDOWS + + TIME-STONE + TRAIN WINDOW + SCANDAL + ELECTRICITY + SKYSCRAPERS + WALL STREET AT NIGHT + EAST RIVER + + IV + SECRETS + + INTERIM + AFTER STORM + SECRETS + POTPOURRI + THAW + + V + PORTRAITS + + MOTHER + E.S. + H. + O.F.T. + E.A.R. + + VI + SONS OF BELIAL + + SONS OF BELIAL + + VII + REVEILLE + + IN HARNESS + REVEILLE + TO ALEXANDER BERKMAN + EMMA GOLDMAN + AN OLD WORKMAN + TO LARKIN + WIND RISING IN THE ALLEYS + + SUN-UP + + (Shadows over a cradle... + fire-light craning.... + A hand + throws something in the fire + and a smaller hand + runs into the flame and out again, + singed and empty.... + Shadows + settling over a cradle... + two hands + and a fire.) + + I + + CELIA + + Cherry, cherry, + glowing on the hearth, + bright red cherry.... + When you try to pick up cherry + Celia's shriek + sticks in you like a pin. + + : : + + When God throws hailstones + you cuddle in Celia's shawl + and press your feet on her belly + high up like a stool. + When Celia makes umbrella of her hand. + Rain falls through + big pink spokes of her fingers. + When wind blows Celia's gown up off her legs + she runs under pillars of the bank-- + great round pillars of the bank + have on white stockings too. + + : : + + Celia says my father + will bring me a golden bowl. + When I think of my father + I cannot see him + for the big yellow bowl + like the moon with two handles + he carries in front of him. + + : : + + Grandpa, grandpa... + (Light all about you... + ginger... pouring out of green jars...) + You don't believe he has gone away and left his great coat... + so you pretend... you see his face up in the ceiling. + When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa, + Celia crosses herself. + + : : + + It isn't a dream.... + It comes again and again.... + You hear ivy crying on steeples + the flames haven't caught yet + and images screaming + when they see red light on the lilies + on the stained glass window of St. Joseph. + The girl with the black eyes holds you tight, + and you run... and run + past the wild, wild towers... + and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet + and little frightened dolls + shut up in the shops + crying... and crying... because no one stops... + you spin like a penny thrown out in the street. + Then the man clutches her by the hair.... + He always clutches her by the hair.... + His eyes stick out like spears. + You see her pulled-back face + and her black, black eyes + lit up by the glare.... + Then everything goes out. + Please God, don't let me dream any more + of the girl with the black, black eyes. + + : : + + Celia's shadow rocks and rocks... + and mama's eyes stare out of the pillow + as though she had gone away + and the night had come in her place + as it comes in empty rooms... + you can't bear it-- + the night threshing about + and lashing its tail on its sides + as bold as a wolf that isn't afraid-- + and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave + and pull it around to the light, + till the night draws backward... the night that walks alone + and goes away without end. + Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers. + Celia tucks the quilt about her feet, + but I run for my little red cloak + because red is hot like fire. + + : : + + I wish Celia + could see the sea climb up on the sky + and slide off again... + ...Celia saying + I'd beg the world with you.... + Celia... holding on to the cab... + hands wrenched away... + wind in the masts... like Celia crying.... + Celia never minded if you slapped her + when the comb made your hairs ache, + but though you rub your cheek against mama's hand + she has not said darling since.... + Now I will slap her again.... + I will bite her hand till it bleeds. + + It is cool by the port hole. + The wet rags of the wind + flap in your face. + + II + + THE ALLEY + + Because you are four years old + the candle is all dressed up in a new frill. + And stars nod to you through the hole in the curtain, + (except the big stiff planets + too fat to move about much,) + and you curtsey back to the stars + when no one is looking. + You feel sorry for the poor wooden chair + that knows it isn't nice to sit on, + and no one is sad but mama. + You don't like mama to be sad + when you are four years old, + so you pretend + you like the bitter gold-pale tea-- + you pretend + if you don't drink it up pretty quick + a little gold-fish + will think it is a pond + and come and get born in it. + + : : + + It's hot in our street + and the breeze is a dirty little broom + that sweeps dust into our room + and bits of paper out of the alley. + You are not let to play + with the children in the alley + But you must be very polite-- + so you pass them and say good day + and when they fling banana skins + you fling them back again. + + : : + + There is no one to play with + and the flies on the window + buzz and buzz... + ...you can pull out their legs + and stick pins in their bodies + but still they buzz... + and mama says: + When Nero was a little boy + he caught flies on his mama's window + and pulled out their legs + and stuck pins in their bodies + and nobody loved him. + Buzz, blue-bellied flies-- + buzz, nasty black wheel + of mama's machine-- + you are the biggest fly of all-- + you have the loudest buzz. + I hear you at dawn before the locusts. + But I like the picture of the Flood + and the little babies getting drowned.... + If I were there I would save them, + but as I can't save them + I like to watch them + getting drowned. + + : : + + When mama buys of Ling Ho, + he smiles very wide + and picks her the largest loquots. + The greens-man gave her a cabbage + and she held it against her black bodice + and said what a beautiful green it was + and put it on the table + as though it had been a flower. + But next day we boiled and ate it with salt. + It was our dinner. + + : : + + Christmas day + I found Janie on my pillow. + Janie is made of rubber. + Her red and blue jacket won't come off. + Christmas dinner was green and white + chicken and lettuce and peas + and drops of oil on the salad + smiley and full of light + like the gold on the lady's teeth. + + But mama said politely + Thank you, we are dining out. + She wouldn't let you take one pea + to put in the hole where the whistle was + at the back of Janie's head, + so Janie should have some dinner + So you went to the park with biscuits + and black tea in a bottle. + + : : + + You feel very sad + when you climb on the fence + to watch mama out of sight. + The women in the alley + poke their heads out of doorways + and watch her too. + You know her + by the way she holds her shoulders + till she is only a speck + in a chain of specks-- + till she is swallowed up. + But suppose + that day after day + you were to watch for her face + and it didn't come back? + Suppose + it were to drop out of the string of white faces + like the pearl out of my chain + I never found again? + + : : + + Mabel minds you while mama is out, + she washes while she sings + Three blind mice! + they all run away from the farmer's wife + who cut off their tails + with a carving knife-- + Wind blows out Mabel's sheets, + way you blow in a bag before you burst it. + Wind has a soapy smell. + It's heavier'n sun + that lies all over you without any weight + and makes you feel happy + and crinkly like bubbling water. + There's no sun on the empty house-- + sly-looking house-- + you can't see in its windows + that watch you out of their corners. + Perhaps there's a big spider there + spinning gray threads over the windows + till they look like dead people's faces.... + Jimmie says: + Jimmie's hair is white as a white mouse. + His lashes are gold as mama's wedding ring + and his mouth feels cool and smooth + like a flower wet with rain. + You wouldn't believe Jimmie was different... + till he showed you.... + + : : + + Blind wet sheets + flapping on the lines... + sun in your eyes, + dark gold sun + full of little black spots, + you have to blink and blink... + round eyes of Jimmie.... + Jimmie's blue jumper... + blue shadow of wall... + all the world holding still + as when a clock stops... + streets still... people still... + no streets... no people... + only sky and wall... + sun glaring bright as God + down at you and Jimmie... + shadow like a purple cloth + trailing off the wall... + + Wild wet sheets + flapping in the wind... + big slippered feet flapping too... + big-balloon-face + rushing up the alley... + houses closing up again... + windows looking round... + ... Mabel pulls you in the gate and shakes you + and tells you not to tell your mama... + And you wonder + if God has spoiled Jimmie. + + III + + MAMA + + Mama's face + is smooth and pale as tea-rose leaves. + That ivory oval of aunt Gem + you sucked the miniature off + had black black hair like mama. + + : : + + Pit-it-ty-pat, + Mama walks so fast, + street lamps jig + without bending a leg... + lights in the windows + play twinkling tunes + on crimson and blue + bottles like bubbles + big as balloons... + Faster and faster... + and pink light spurts + over cakes doing polkas + in little white shirts, + with cake-princesses + in flounced white skirts. + + Pit-pat-- + mama walks slower... + slower and... slower... + Eyes... lamps... stars... + acres and acres of stars... + bells... and sleepily + flapping feet.... + You're glad mama walks slow. + It's nice to be carried along + up high near the stars + that look at you with a grave, great look. + + : : + + Every night + mama sings you to sleep. + When she sings, O for the light of thine eyes Dolores, + there's a castle on a cliff + and the sea roars like lions. + It leaps at the castle + and the cliff knocks it down + but always the sea + shakes its flattened head + and gets up again. + The castle has no roof + so the rain spins silvery webs in it, + and Dolores' face + floats dim and beautiful + the way flowers do when they are drowned. + Step by white step + she goes up the castle stairs, + but the stair goes up into the sky + and the sky keeps going up too, + and none of them ever get there. + + When mama sings Ba ba black sheep, + the stars seem to shine through her voice + so everything has to be still, + and when she has finished singing + her song goes up off the earth, + higher and higher... + till it is only as big as a tiny silver bird + with nothing but moonlight around it. + + IV + + BETTY + + You can see the sandhills from our new room. + Butterflies + live in the sandhills + and lizards + and centipedes. + If you keep very still + lizards will think you a stone + and run over your lap. + Butterflies' liveries + are scarlet and black. + They drive chariots in air. + People in the chariots + are pale as dew-- + you can see right through them-- + but the chariots + are made of gold of the sun. + They go up to heaven + and never catch fire. + There are green centipedes + and brown centipedes + and black centipedes, + because green and brown and black + are the colors in hell's flag. + Centipedes + have hundreds of feet + because it is so far from hell + to come up for air. + Centipedes + do not hurry. + They are waiting for the last day + when they will creep over the false prophets + who will have their hands tied. + + : : + + Night calls to the sandhills + and gathers them under her. + she pushes away cities + because their sharp lights + hurt her soft breast. + Even candles make a sore place + when they stick in the night. + + There are things in the sandhills + that no one knows about... + they come out at dark when the young snakes play + and tell each other secrets + in the deaf logs. + + Sometimes... before rain... + when the stars have gone inside... + the night comes close to your window + and sniffs at the light.... + But you must not run away-- + you must keep your face to the night + and walk backward. + + : : + + When it rains + and you are pulling off flies' legs... + mama lets you play houses + with Lizzie and Clara. + Because you are the Only One-- + and because Only Ones have to live alone + while sisters stay together, + Lizzie and Clara + give you the dry house + and take the one with the leaking roof. + + Rain like curly hairpins + blows on Lizzie and Clara's two heads + turned like one head-- + two mouths + spread into one laugh. + Lizzie is saying: + why don't you want to play-- + when you feel you'd like to braid + the crinkled-silver rain + into a shining rope + to climb up... and up... and up... into the wet sky + and never see any one again. + + Our gate doesn't hang right. + It must have pawed at the wind + and gotten a kick + as the wind passed over. + The sitting sky + puffs out a gray smoke + and the wind makes a red-striped sound + blowing out straight, + but our gate drags its foot + and whines to itself on one hinge. + + : : + + What do you think I've found-- + two wee knickers of fairy brass, + or two gold sovereigns folded up + in a bit of green silk, + or two gold bugs + in little green shirts? + If you want to know, + you must walk tip-toe + so your feet just whisper in the grass-- + you must carry them careful + and very proud, + for their stems bleed drops of milk-- + but Lizzie and Clara shout in glee: + Pee-a-bed, pee-a-bed-- + dandelions! + You look in the eyes of grown-up people + to see if they feel + the way you feel... + but they hide inside of themselves, + and so you do not find out. + Grown-up people say: + The stars are bright to-night, + but they do not say + what you are thinking about stars-- + not even mama says what you are thinking about stars. + This makes you feel very lonely. + + : : + + It's strange about stars.... + You have to be still when they look at you. + They push your song inside of you with their song. + Their long silvery rays + sink into you and do not hurt. + It is good to feel them resting on you + like great white birds... + and their shining whiteness + doesn't burn like the sun-- + it washes all over you + and makes you feel cleaner'n water. + + : : + + My doll Janie has no waist + and her body is like a tub with feet on it. + Sometimes I beat her + but I always kiss her afterwards. + When I have kissed all the paint off her body + I shall tie a ribbon about it + so she shan't look shabby. + But it must be blue-- + it mustn't be pink-- + pink shows the dirt on her face + that won't wash off. + + : : + + I beat Janie + and beat her... + but still she smiled... + so I scratched her between the eyes with a pin. + Now she doesn't love me anymore... + she scowls... and scowls... + though I've begged her to forgive me + and poured sugar in the hole at the back of her head. + + : : + + Mama says Janie is a fairy doll + and she has forgiven me-- + that she's gone to the market + to buy me some sweets. + --Now she's at the door + and a little bag tied to her neck-- + I run to Janie + and kiss her all over.... + Ah... she is still frowning. + I let the sweets drop on the floor-- + mama + has told you a lie. + + : : + + Chinaman + singing in street: + gleen ledd-ish-es, gleen ledd-ish-es-- + hot sun + shining on your face-- + it must be a new day. + But why aren't you happy + if it's a new day? + Because something has happened... + something sad and terrible.... + Now I remember... it's Janie. + Yesterday + I took Janie out + and tied my handkerchief over her face + and put sand in it + and threw her into the ditch + down in the black water + under the dock leaves... + and when mama asked me where Janie was + I said I had lost her. + + : : + + I'm glad it is night-time + so I'll be able to go to sleep + and forget all about it.... + But mama looks at my tongue + and says she will give me senna tea. + When you smell the tea + you shut your eyes tight + and pretend not to hear + the soft, cool voice of mama + that goes over your forehead + like a little wind. + And then you lie in the dark + and stare... and stare... + till the faces come... + yellow faces with leering eyes + drifting in a greeny mist.... + I wonder + if Janie sees faces + out there... alone in the dark.... + I wonder + if she has got the handkerchief off + or if the water has gone in the hole + where the whistle was + at the back of her head + and drowned her... + or if the stars + can see her under the dock leaves? + + : : + + It's smoky-blue and still + over the red road. + Wind must be lying down with its tail under it-- + doesn't even flick off the flies. + And you can hear the silence + buzzing in the gum trees, + the way the angels buzzed + when they flew through the cedars of Lebanon + with thin gauze wings + you could see through. + Nice to hear the silence buzzing-- + till it comes too close + and booms in your ears + and presses all over you + till you scream.... + When you scream at the silence + it goes to jingling pieces + like a silver mirror + broken into tiny bits. + Perhaps its wings are made of glass-- + perhaps it lives down in a dark, dark cave + and only comes up + to warm its wings in the sun.... + It's cold in the cave-- + no matter how you cover yourself up. + Little girls sit there + dressed in white + and the dolls in their arms + all have white handkerchiefs + over their faces. + Their shadows cannot play with them... + their shadows lie down at their feet... + for the little girls sit stiff as stones + with their backs to the mouth of the cave + where a little light falls off + the wings of the silence + when it comes down out of the sun. + + : : + + Moon catches the flying fish + as they dive in the bay. + Flying fish + spin over and over + slippity-silver + into the water. + Mom bends over jungles + and touches the foreheads of tigers + as they pass under openings made by dropped leaves. + Tigers stop on the trail of the deer + while the moon is on their foreheads-- + they let the stags go by. + + Moon is shining strangely + on the white palings of the fence. + Fence keeps very still... + most times it moves a little... + everything moves a little + though you mayn't know it... + but now the little fence + wouldn't change places with the great cross + that stands so stiff and high + with its back to the moon. + Moon shining strangely + on the white palings of the fence, + I am shining too + but my light is shut inside of me + and can't get out. + + : : + + Old house with black windows-- + blind house begging moonlight + to put out the shadows-- + why do you want so much light? + You creak when the wind steps on you-- + you cough up dust + and your beams ache-- + you know you will soon fall, + the moon just pities you! + Don't waste yourself moon-- + come on my bed and play with me. + Wrap me up in blue light, + you who are cool. + I am too hot, + I am all alive + and the shadows are outside of me. + + : : + + There are different kinds of shadows. + The blind ones + are the shadows of things. + These are the tame shadows-- + they love to play on the wall with you + and follow you about like cats and dogs. + Sometimes + they hiss at you softly + like snakes that do not bite, + or swish like women's dresses, + but if you poke a candle at them + they pull in their heads and disappear. + + But there is a shadow + that is not the shadow of a thing... + it is a thing itself. + When you meet this shadow + you must not look at it too long... + it grows with your looking at it... + till you are all alone + with nothing around you... + nothing... nothing... nothing... + but a shadow + with its eyes full of black light. + + : : + + There's a shadow in the corner of the shed, + crouching, lying in wait... + a black coiled shadow, + watching... ready to strike... + but I mustn't be afraid of it-- + I mustn't be afraid of anything. + Poor evil shadow, + the candle would chase it away + only she can't get at it. + Do you think that every one hates you, + shadow with your back to the wall, + afraid to lie down and sleep? + But I don't hate you. + Even the moon means to be kind. + She just treads on you + as I'd tread on a worm that I didn't see. + Don't be afraid of me, shadow. + See--I've no light in my hand-- + nothing to save myself with-- + yet I walk right up to you-- + if you'll let me + I'll put my arms around you + and stroke you softly. + Are you surprised I'd put my arms around you? + Is it your black black sorrow + that nobody loves you? + + V + + JUDE + + When you tell mama + you are going to do something great + she looks at you + as though you were a window + she were trying to see through, + and says she hopes you will be good + instead of great. + + : : + + When you are five years old + you spend the day in the Gardens. + The grass is greener than cabbages, + and orange lilies + stand up very straight + and will not curtsey to the sun + when the wind tells them. + Only pansies bow down very low. + Pansies make little purple cushions + for queen bees to stand on. + Bees + have brown silk hair on their bodies. + If you are careful + they will let you stroke them. + + The trees over the marble man + catch up all the sunbeams + so the shadows have it their way-- + the shadows swallow him up + like a blue shark. + When you scoop a sunbeam up on your palm + and offer it to the marble man, + he does not notice... + he looks into his stone beard. + ... When you do something great + people give you a stone face, + so you do not care any more + when the sun throws gold on you + through leaf-holes the wind makes + in green bushes.... + This thought makes me very sad. + + : : + + Jude has eyes like tobacco + with yellow specks on it + and his hair is red as a red orange. + Jude and I + have made a garden in the field + that no one knows about. + We creep in and out + through a little place + where the barbed wire is down. + We lie in the long grass + and crush dandelions + between our two cheeks + till the milk comes out on our faces. + We hold each other tight + and the wind tip-toes all over us + and pelts us with thistle-down. + + : : + + Jude isn't afraid of shadows-- + not even of the ones that have eyes in them. + And he can look in the face of the sun + without blinking at all. + Hush! don't say sun so loud. + The sun gets angry when you stare at him. + If you peek in his glory-windows + he spreads into a great white flame + like God out of his Burning Bush... + till you put your hands up on your face + and tremble like a drop of rain upon a flower + that some one throws into the fire... + and then + the sun makes himself small, + the sun swings down out of the sky-- + littler'n a star, + little as a spark + little as a fierce red spider + on a burning thread... + and then + the light goes out... + shivers into blackened bits.... + You hold on to a wall that whirls around + and the gate is a black hole. + You grope your way in like a toad + that's blinded by a stone... + and mama puts on cold wet rags + that get hot soon.... + Hush! don't let's talk about the sun. + + : : + + When you pass by the ditch where Janie is + You run very fast + and look at the other side. + Jude says Janie did love me + only she couldn't forgive me, + and that you can love people very much + and never, never, never forgive them.... + so we poked a stick in the bottle-green water. + But only weeds came up + and an old top with the paint washed off. + + : : + + Jude and I + wave to the new moon + curled right up like one gold hair + on the bald-head sandhill. + Mama peeps out the window and smiles. + She thinks + I am playing with myself... + Run, Jude, run with the wind-- + but hold my hand tight + or the wind, + looking for some one to play with, + will take me away from you! + Wind with no one to play with + cooees the orange-trees-- + stay-at-home orange trees, + have to nurse oranges, + greeny-gold. + Wind shouts to the grass-- + run-away-grass + tugs at its roots, + but the earth holds tight + and the grass falls down + and wind boos over it. + Wind whistles the bees-- + bees too busy + with taking home stuff out of flowers + won't look back-- + bees always going somewhere. + Only Jude and I-- + heads over shoulders + watching all roads at one time-- + run with the wind, + going to nowhere. + + : : + + Jude and I + were weeding our garden + when we heard his whip-- + must have been a new whip + to cut off dandelion-heads at one swing.... + He was the kind of boy you knew when you had Celia.... + with nice clothes on and curls + crawling about his collar + like little golden slugs, + and his man was leading his horse. + I wish I hadn't run to meet him.... + If you hadn't run to meet him + he mightn't have trod on your garden and said: + Get out of my field you dirty little beggar... + he mightn't have struck you with his whip.... + How the daisies stared.... + I hate daisies-- + stupid white faces-- + skinny necks + craning over the grass! + I said It is not your field, + and he struck me again. + But he didn't make me run. + His hand + smelled of sweet soap... + he couldn't shake me off, + but his man did.... + Funny--how the sky fell down + and turned over and over + like a blue carpet rolling you up, + and the grass caught at your face-- + it couldn't have been spiteful-- + it must have been saving itself. + Hot road... silly wind playing with your hair.... + The road smelled of horses. + I only got up + when I heard a dray. + + : : + + Mama has sung ba ba black sheep, + and put a chair with a cloth on it + between me and the light. + But the clock keeps saying: + Dirty little beggar, + dirty little beggar.... + Some day + I will get that boy. + I will pull off his arms and legs + and put him in a box + and hide the box + under the bed.... + I wonder + will he buzz + when I take him out to look at his body + that will have no arms to whip me? + + Mama drew my cot to the window + so I can look at the stars. + I will not look at the stars. + There is a black chimney + throwing up sparks + and one tall flame + like gold hair in a blaze.... + I know now + what I shall do.... + I will set fire to him + and he will burn up into a tall flame-- + he will scream into the sky + and sparks will fly out of him-- + he will burn and burn... + and his blazing hair + shall light up the world. + + : : + + Before he hit me-- + I knew he was going to-- + I thought about Jude.... + I thought if he'd fight... + but he shriveled all up... + he lay down like a fear. + + Mama never knew about Jude. + You always wanted to tell her, + but somehow you never did. + You were afraid she'd smile + and say he wasn't real-- + that he was only a little dream-boy, + because the grass didn't fall down under his feet.... + He is fading now.... + He is just lines... like a drawing.... + You can see mama in between. + When she moves + she rubs some of him out. + + + MONOLOGUES + + JAGUAR + + Nasal intonations of light + and clicking tongues... + publicity of windows + stoning me with pent-up cries... + smells of abattoirs... + smells of long-dead meat. + + Some day-end-- + while the sand is yet cozy as a blanket + off the warm body of a squaw, + and the jaguars are out to kill... + with a blue-black night coming on + and a painted cloud + stalking the first star-- + I shall go alone into the Silence... + the coiled Silence... + where a cry can run only a little way + and waver and dwindle + and be lost. + + And there... + where tiny antlers clinch and strain + as life grapples in a million avid points, + and threshing things + strike and die, + letting their hate live on + in the spreading purple of a wound... + I too + will make covert of a crevice in the night, + and turn and watch... + nose at the cleft's edge. + + WILD DUCK + + I + + That was a great night we spied upon + See-sawing home, + Singing a hot sweet song to the super-stars + Shuffling off behind the smoke-haze... + Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the river... + Lights dwindling to shining slits + In the wet asphalt... + Purring lights... red and green and golden-whiskered... + Digging daintily pointed claws in the soft mud... + ... But you did not know... + As the trains made golden augers + Boring in the darkness... + How my heart kept racing out along the rails, + As a spider runs along a thread + And hauls him in again + To some drawing point... + You did not know + How wild ducks' wings + Itch at dawn... + How at dawn the necks of wild ducks + Arch to the sun + And new-mown air + Trickles sweet in their gullets. + + II + + As water, cleared of the reflection of a bird + That has lately flown across it, + Yet trembles with the beating of its wings, + So my soul... emptied of the known you... utterly... + Is yet vibrant with the cadence of the song + You might have been.... + 'Twas a great night... + With never a waste look over a shoulder + Curved to the crook of the wind... + And a great word we threw + For memory to play knuckles with... + A word the waters of the world have washed, + Leaving it stark and without smell... + A world that rattles well in emptiness: Good-by. + + THE DREAM + + I have a dream + to fill the golden sheath + of a remembered day.... + (Air + heavy and massed and blue + as the vapor of opium... + domes + fired in sulphurous mist... + sea + quiescent as a gray seal... + and the emerging sun + spurting up gold + over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay....) + But the day is an up-turned cup + and its sun a junk of red iron + guttering in sluggish-green water-- + where shall I pour my dream? + + ALTITUDE + + I wonder + how it would be here with you, + where the wind + that has shaken off its dust in low valleys + touches one cleanly, + as with a new-washed hand, + and pain + is as the remote hunger of droning things, + and anger + but a little silence + sinking into the great silence. + + COMRADES + + Life + You have been good to me.... + You have not made yourself too dear + to juggle with. + + NOCTURNE + + Indigo bulb of darkness + Punctured by needle lights + Through a fissure of brick canyon shutting out stars, + And a sliver of moon + Spigoting two high windows over the West river.... + + Boy, I met to-night, + Your eyes are two red-glowing arcs shifting with my vision.... + They reflect as in a fading proof + The deadened eyes of a woman, + And your shed virginity, + Light as the withered pod of a sweet pea, + Moist and fragrant + Blows against my soul. + What are you to me, boy, + That I, who have passed so many lights, + Should carry your eyes + Like swinging lanterns? + + CACTUS SEED + + Radiant notes + piercing my narrow-chested room, + beating down through my ceiling-- + smeared with unshapen + belly-prints of dreams + drifted out of old smokes-- + trillions of icily + peltering notes + out of just one canary, + all grown to song + as a plant to its stalk, + from too long craning at a sky-light + and a square of second-hand blue. + + Silvery-strident throat-- + so assiduously serenading my brain, + flinching under + the glittering hail of your notes-- + were you not safe behind... rats know what thickness of... + plastered wall... + I might fathom + your golden delirium + with throttle of finger and thumb + shutting valve of bright song. + + II + + But if... away off... on a fork of grassed earth + socketing an inlet reach of blue water... + if canaries (do they sing out of cages?) + flung such luminous notes, + they would sink in the spirit... + lie germinal... + housed in the soul as a seed in the earth... + to break forth at spring with the crocuses into young smiles + on the mouth. + Or glancing off buoyantly, + radiate notes in one key + with the sparkle of rain-drops + on the petal of a cactus flower + focusing the just-out sun. + + Cactus... why cactus? + God... God... + somewhere... away off... + cactus flowers, star-yellow + ray out of spiked green, + and empties of sky + roll you over and over + like a mother her baby in long grass. + And only the wind scandal-mongers with gum trees, + pricking multiple leaves + at his amazing story. + + + WINDOWS + + TIME-STONE + + Hallo, Metropolitan-- + Ubiquitous windows staring all ways, + Red eye notching the darkness. + No use to ogle that slip of a moon. + This midnight the moon, + Playing virgin after all her encounters, + Will break another date with you. + You fuss an awful lot, + You flight of ledger books, + Overrun with multiple ant-black figures + Dancing on spindle legs + An interminable can-can. + But I'd rather... like the cats in the alley... count time + By the silver whistle of a moonbeam + Falling between my stoop-shouldered walls, + Than all your tally of the sunsets, + Metropolitan, ticking among stars. + + TRAIN WINDOW + + Small towns + Crawling out of their green shirts... + Tubercular towns + Coughing a little in the dawn... + And the church... + There is always a church + With its natty spire + And the vestibule-- + That's where they whisper: + Tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz... + How many codes for a wireless whisper-- + And corn flatter than it should be + And those chits of leaves + Gadding with every wind? + Small towns + From Connecticut to Maine: + Tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz...tzz-tzz... + + SCANDAL + + Aren't there bigger things to talk about + Than a window in Greenwich Village + And hyacinths sprouting + Like little puce poems out of a sick soul? + Some cosmic hearsay-- + As to whom--it can't be Mars! put the moon--that way.... + Or what winds do to canyons + Under the tall stars... + Or even + How that old roue, Neptune, + Cranes over his bald-head moons + At the twinkling heel of a sky-scraper. + + ELECTRICITY + + Out of fiery contacts... + Rushing auras of steel + Touching and whirled apart... + Out of the charged phallases + Of iron leaping + Female and male, + Complete, indivisible, one, + Fused into light. + + SKYSCRAPERS + + Skyscrapers... remote, unpartisan... + Turning neither to the right nor left + Your imperturbable fronts.... + Austerely greeting the sun + With one chilly finger of stone.... + I know your secrets... better than all the policemen + like fat blue mullet along the avenues. + + WALL STREET AT NIGHT + + Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness.... + Lidless windows + Glazed with a flashy luster + From some little pert cafe chirping up like a sparrow. + And down among iron guts + Piled silver + Throwing gray spatter of light... pale without heat... + Like the pallor of dead bodies. + + EAST RIVER + + Dour river + Jaded with monotony of lights + Diving off mast heads.... + Lights mad with creating in a river... turning its sullen back... + Heave up, river... + Vomit back into the darkness your spawn of light.... + The night will gut what you give her. + + + SECRETS + + INTERIM + + The earth is motionless + And poised in space... + A great bird resting in its flight + Between the alleys of the stars. + It is the wind's hour off.... + The wind has nestled down among the corn.... + The two speak privately together, + Awaiting the whirr of wings. + + AFTER STORM + + Was there a wind? + Tap... tap... + Night pads upon the snow + with moccasined feet... + and it is still... so still... + an eagle's feather + might fall like a stone. + Could there have been a storm... + mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind... + tearing up the sky... + loose-flapping like a tent + about the ice-capped stars? + + Cool, sheer and motionless + the frosted pines + are jeweled with a million flaming points + that fling their beauty up in long white sheaves + till they catch hands with stars. + Could there have been a wind + that haled them by the hair.... + and blinding + blue-forked + flowers of the lightning + in their leaves? + Tap... tap... + slow-ticking centuries... + Soft as bare feet upon the snow... + faint... lulling as heard rain + upon heaped leaves.... + Silence + builds her wall + about a dream impaled. + + SECRETS + + Secrets + infesting my half-sleep... + did you enter my wound from another wound + brushing mine in a crowd... + or did I snare you on my sharper edges + as a bird flying through cobwebbed trees at sun-up + carries off spiders on its wings? + + Secrets, + running over my soul without sound, + only when dawn comes tip-toeing + ushered by a suave wind, + and dreams disintegrate + like breath shapes in frosty air, + I shall overhear you, bare-foot, + scatting off into the darkness.... + I shall know you, secrets + by the litter you have left + and by your bloody foot-prints. + + POTPOURRI + + Do you remember + Honey-melon moon + Dripping thick sweet light + Where Canal Street saunters off by herself among quiet trees? + And the faint decayed patchouli-- + Fragrance of New Orleans + Like a dead tube rose + Upheld in the warm air... + Miraculously whole. + + THAW + + Blow through me wind + As you blow through apple blossoms.... + Scatter me in shining petals over the passers-by.... + Joyously I reunite... sway and gather to myself.... + Sedately I walk by the dancing feet of children-- + Not knowing I too dance over the cobbled spring. + O, but they laugh back at me, + (Eyes like daisies smiling wide open), + And we both look askance at the snowed-in people + Thinking me one of them. + + + PORTRAITS + + I + + MOTHER + + I + + Your love was like moonlight + turning harsh things to beauty, + so that little wry souls + reflecting each other obliquely + as in cracked mirrors... + beheld in your luminous spirit + their own reflection, + transfigured as in a shining stream, + and loved you for what they are not. + + You are less an image in my mind + than a luster + I see you in gleams + pale as star-light on a gray wall... + evanescent as the reflection of a white swan + shimmering in broken water. + + II + + (To E. S.) + + You inevitable, + Unwieldy with enormous births, + Lying on your back, eyes open, sucking down stars, + Or you kissing and picking over fresh deaths... + Filth... worms... flowers... + Green and succulent pods... + Tremulous gestation + Of dark water germinal with lilies... + All in you from the beginning... + Nothing buried or thrown away... + Only the moon like a white sheet + Spread over the dead you carry. + + III + + (To H.) + + Speeding gull + Passing under a cloud + Caught on his white back + You... drop of crystal rain. + Now you gleam softly triumphant + Folding immensities of light. + + IV + + (To O. F. T.) + + You have always gotten up after blows + And smiled... and shaken off the dust... + Only you could not shake the darkness + From off the bruised brown of your eyes. + + V + + (To E. A. R.) + + Centuries shall not deflect + nor many suns + absorb your stream, + flowing immune and cold + between the banks of snow. + Nor any wind + carry the dust of cities + to your high waters + that arise out of the peaks + and return again into the mountain + and never descend. + + SONS OF BELIAL + + I + + We are old, + Old as song. + Before Rome was + Or Cyrene. + Mad nights knew us + And old men's wives. + We knew who spilled the sacred oil + For young-gold harlots of the town.... + We knew where the peacocks went + And the white doe for sacrifice. + + II + + We were the Sons of Belial. + One black night + Centuries ago + We beat at a door + In Gilead.... + We took the Levite's concubine + We plucked her hands from off the door.... + We choked the cry into her throat + And stuck the stars among her hair.... + We glimpsed the madly swaying stars + Between the rhythms of her hair + And all our mute and separate strings + Swelled in a raging symphony.... + Our blood sang paeans + All that night + Till dawn fell like a wounded swan + Upon the fields of Gilead. + + III + + We are old.... + Old as song.... + We are dumb song. + (Epics tingled + In our blood + When we haled Hypatia + Over the stones + In Alexandria.) + + Could we loose + The wild rhythms clinched in us.... + March in bands of troubadours.... + We would be of gentle mood. + When Christ healed us + Who were dumb-- + When he freed our shut-in song-- + We strewed green palms + At his pale feet... + We sang hosannas + In Jerusalem. + And all our fumbling voices blent + In a brief white harmony. + (But a mightier song + Was in us pent + When we nailed Christ + To a four-armed tree.) + + IV + + We are young. + When we rise up with singing roots, + (Warm rains washing + Gutters of Berlin + Where we stamped Rosa... Luxemburg + On a night in spring.) + Rhythms skurry in our blood. + Little nimble rats of song + In our feet run crazily + And all is dust... we trample... on. + + Mad nights when we make ritual + (Feet running before the sleuth-light... + And the smell of burnt flesh + By a flame-ringed hut + In Missouri, + Sweet as on Rome's pyre....) + We make ropes do rigadoons + With copper feet that jig on air.... + We are the Mob.... + Old as song. + Tyre knew us + And Israel. + + + REVEILLE + + IN HARNESS + + I + + The foreman's head + slowly circling... + White rims + under yellow disks of eyes.... + Gold hairs + starting out of a blond scowl... + Hovering... disappearing... recurring... + the foreman's head. + + Droning of power-machines... + droning of girl with adenoids... + Arms flapping with a fin-like motion + under sun burning down through a sky-light like a glass lid. + Light skating on the rims of wheels... + boring in gimlet points. + Needles flickering + fierce white threads of light + fine as a wasp's sting. + Light in sweat-drops brighter than eyes + and calico-pallid faces + and bodies throwing off smells-- + and the air a bloated presence pressing on the walls + and the silence a compressed scream. + + Allons enfants de la patrie-- + Electric... piercing... shrill as a fife + the voice of a little Russian + breaks out of the shivered circle. + Another voice rises... another and another + leaps like flame to flame. + And life--surging, clamorous, swarming like a rabble + crazily fluttering ragged petticoats-- + comes rushing back into torpid eyes + like suddenly yielded gates. + + The girl with adenoids + rocks on her hams. + A torrent of song + strains at her throat, + gurgles, rushes, gouges her blocked pipes. + Her feet beat a wild tattoo-- + head flung back and pelvis lifting + to the white body of the sun. + Mates now, these two-- + goddess and god.... + Marchons! + + Only the power machines drone + with metallic docility + under the flaxen head of the foreman + poised like an amazed gull. + + II + + To-day + little French merchant men + with pointed beards + and fat American merchant men + without any beards + drive to a feast of buttered squabs. + The band... accoutered and neatly caparisoned... + plays the Marseillaise.... + And I think of a wild stallion... newly caught... + flanks yet taut and nostrils spread + to the smell of a racing mare, + hitched to a grocer's cart. + + REVEILLE + + Come forth, you workers! + Let the fires go cold-- + Let the iron spill out, out of the troughs-- + Let the iron run wild + Like a red bramble on the floors-- + Leave the mill and the foundry and the mine + And the shrapnel lying on the wharves-- + Leave the desk and the shuttle and the loom-- + Come, + With your ashen lives, + Your lives like dust in your hands. + + I call upon you, workers. + It is not yet light + But I beat upon your doors. + You say you await the Dawn + But I say you are the Dawn. + Come, in your irresistible unspent force + And make new light upon the mountains. + + You have turned deaf ears to others-- + Me you shall hear. + Out of the mouths of turbines, + Out of the turgid throats of engines, + Over the whistling steam, + You shall hear me shrilly piping. + Your mills I shall enter like the wind, + And blow upon your hearts, + Kindling the slow fire. + + They think they have tamed you, workers-- + Beaten you to a tool + To scoop up hot honor + Till it be cool-- + But out of the passion of the red frontiers + A great flower trembles and burns and glows + And each of its petals is a people. + + Come forth, you workers-- + Clinging to your stable + And your wisp of warm straw-- + Let the fires grow cold, + Let the iron spill out of the troughs, + Let the iron run wild + Like a red bramble on the floors.... + + As our forefathers stood on the prairies + So let us stand in a ring, + Let us tear up their prisons like grass + And beat them to barricades-- + Let us meet the fire of their guns + With a greater fire, + Till the birds shall fly to the mountains + For one safe bough. + + TO ALEXANDER BERKMAN + + Can you see me, Sasha? + I can see you.... + A tentacle of the vast dawn is resting on your face + that floats as though detached + in a sultry and greenish vapor. + I cannot reach my hands to you... + would not if I could, + though I know how warmly yours would close about them. + Why? + I do not know... + I have a sense of shame. + Your eyes hurt me... mysterious openings in the gray stone of your face + through which your spirit streams out taut as a flag + bearing strange symbols to the new dawn. + + If I stay... projected, trembling against these bars filtering + emaciated light... + will your eyes... that bore their lonely way through mine... + stop as at a friendly gate... + grow warm... and luminous? + ... but I cannot stay... for the smell... + I know... how the days pass... + The prison squats + with granite haunches + on the young spring, + battened under with its twisting green... + and you... socket for every bolt + piercing like a driven nail. + Eyes stare you through the bars... + eyes blank as a graveled yard... + and the silence shuffles heavy dice of feet in iron corridors... + until the day... that has soiled herself in this black hole + to caress the pale mask of your face... + withdraws the last wizened ray + to wash in the infinite + her discolored hands. + Can you hear me, Sasha, + in your surrounded darkness? + + EMMA GOLDMAN + + How should they appraise you, + who walk up close to you + as to a mountain, + each proclaiming his own eyeful + against the other's eyeful. + + Only time + standing well off + shall measure your circumference and height. + + AN OLD WORKMAN + + Warped... gland-dry... + With spine askew + And body shrunken into half its space... + Well-used as some cracked paving-stone... + Bearing on his grimed and pitted front + A stamp... as of innumerable feet. + + TO LARKIN + + Is it you I see go by the window, Jim Larkin--you not looking + at me nor any one, + And your shadow swaying from East to West? + Strange that you should be walking free--you shut down without light, + And your legs tied up with a knot of iron. + + One hundred million men and women go inevitably about their affairs, + In the somnolent way + Of men before a great drunkenness.... + They do not see you go by their windows, Jim Larkin, + With your eyes bloody as the sunset + And your shadow gaunt upon the sky... + You, and the like of you, that life + Is crushing for their frantic wines. + + WIND RISING IN THE ALLEYS + + Wind rising in the alleys + My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls. + You are full of unspent dreams.... + You are laden with beginnings.... + There is hope in you... not sweet... acrid as blood in the mouth. + Come into my tossing dust + Scattering the peace of old deaths, + Wind rising in the alleys, + Carrying stuff of flame. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun-Up and Other Poems, by Lola Ridge + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN-UP AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 4331.txt or 4331.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/3/4331/ + +Produced by Catherine Daly + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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