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\title{Sun-Up and Other Poems}
\date{}
\author{Lola Ridge}
\subtitle{}
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\chapter{Dedication}
(To my Mother)
\begin{verse}
Let me cradle myself back \\{}
Into the darkness \\{}
Of the half shapes\dots{} \\{}
Of the cauled beginnings\dots{} \\{}
Let me stir the attar of unused air, \\{}
Elusive\dots{} ironically fragrant \\{}
As a dead queen’s kerchief\dots{} \\{}
Let me blow the dust from off you\dots{} \\{}
Resurrect your breath \\{}
Lying limp as a fan \\{}
In a dead queen’s hand.
\end{verse}
\part{Sun-Up}
\chapter{Sun-Up}
\begin{verse}
(Shadows over a cradle\dots{} \\{}
fire-light craning\dots{} \\{}
A hand \\{}
throws something in the fire \\{}
and a smaller hand \\{}
runs into the flame and out again, \\{}
singed and empty\dots{} \\{}
Shadows \\{}
settling over a cradle\dots{} \\{}
two hands \\{}
and a fire.)
\end{verse}
\section{I\forcelinebreak Celia}
\begin{verse}
Cherry, cherry, \\{}
glowing on the hearth, \\{}
bright red cherry\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
(Light all about you\dots{} \\{}
ginger\dots{} pouring out of green jars\dots{}) \\{}
You don’t believe he has gone away and left his great coat\dots{} \\{}
so you pretend\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
It comes again and again\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} and run \\{}
past the wild, wild towers\dots{} \\{}
and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet \\{}
and little frightened dolls \\{}
shut up in the shops \\{}
crying\dots{} and crying\dots{} because no one stops\dots{} \\{}
you spin like a penny thrown out in the street. \\{}
Then the man clutches her by the hair\dots{} \\{}
He always clutches her by the hair\dots{} \\{}
His eyes stick out like spears. \\{}
You see her pulled-back face \\{}
and her black, black eyes \\{}
lit up by the glare\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
\dots{}Celia saying \\{}
I’d beg the world with you\dots{} \\{}
Celia\dots{} holding on to the cab\dots{} \\{}
hands wrenched away\dots{} \\{}
wind in the masts\dots{} like Celia crying\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
Now I will slap her again\dots{} \\{}
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.
\end{verse}
\section{II\forcelinebreak The Alley}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
\dots{}you can pull out their legs \\{}
and stick pins in their bodies \\{}
but still they buzz\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
~~~till he showed you\dots{}
~~~: :
Blind wet sheets \\{}
flapping on the lines\dots{} \\{}
sun in your eyes, \\{}
dark gold sun \\{}
full of little black spots, \\{}
you have to blink and blink\dots{} \\{}
round eyes of Jimmie\dots{} \\{}
Jimmie’s blue jumper\dots{} \\{}
blue shadow of wall\dots{} \\{}
all the world holding still \\{}
as when a clock stops\dots{} \\{}
streets still\dots{} people still\dots{} \\{}
no streets\dots{} no people\dots{} \\{}
only sky and wall\dots{} \\{}
sun glaring bright as God \\{}
down at you and Jimmie\dots{} \\{}
shadow like a purple cloth \\{}
trailing off the wall\dots{}
Wild wet sheets \\{}
flapping in the wind\dots{} \\{}
big slippered feet flapping too\dots{} \\{}
big-balloon-face \\{}
rushing up the alley\dots{} \\{}
houses closing up again\dots{} \\{}
windows looking round\dots{} \\{}
\dots{} Mabel pulls you in the gate and shakes you \\{}
and tells you not to tell your mama\dots{} \\{}
And you wonder \\{}
if God has spoiled Jimmie.
\end{verse}
\section{III\forcelinebreak Mama}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
lights in the windows \\{}
play twinkling tunes \\{}
on crimson and blue \\{}
bottles like bubbles \\{}
big as balloons\dots{} \\{}
Faster and faster\dots{} \\{}
and pink light spurts \\{}
over cakes doing polkas \\{}
in little white shirts, \\{}
with cake-princesses \\{}
in flounced white skirts.
Pit-pat— \\{}
mama walks slower\dots{} \\{}
slower and\dots{} slower\dots{} \\{}
Eyes\dots{} lamps\dots{} stars\dots{} \\{}
acres and acres of stars\dots{} \\{}
bells\dots{} and sleepily \\{}
flapping feet\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
till it is only as big as a tiny silver bird \\{}
with nothing but moonlight around it.
\end{verse}
\section{IV\forcelinebreak Betty}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
they come out at dark when the young snakes play \\{}
and tell each other secrets \\{}
in the deaf logs.
Sometimes\dots{} before rain\dots{} \\{}
when the stars have gone inside\dots{} \\{}
the night comes close to your window \\{}
and sniffs at the light\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} and up\dots{} and up\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
but still she smiled\dots{} \\{}
so I scratched her between the eyes with a pin. \\{}
Now she doesn’t love me anymore\dots{} \\{}
she scowls\dots{} and scowls\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
Ah\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
something sad and terrible\dots{} \\{}
Now I remember\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} and stare\dots{} \\{}
till the faces come\dots{} \\{}
yellow faces with leering eyes \\{}
drifting in a greeny mist\dots{} \\{}
I wonder \\{}
if Janie sees faces \\{}
out there\dots{} alone in the dark\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
their shadows lie down at their feet\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
most times it moves a little\dots{} \\{}
everything moves a little \\{}
though you mayn’t know it\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
it is a thing itself. \\{}
When you meet this shadow \\{}
you must not look at it too long\dots{} \\{}
it grows with your looking at it\dots{} \\{}
till you are all alone \\{}
with nothing around you\dots{} \\{}
nothing\dots{} nothing\dots{} nothing\dots{} \\{}
but a shadow \\{}
with its eyes full of black light.
~~~: :
There’s a shadow in the corner of the shed, \\{}
crouching, lying in wait\dots{} \\{}
a black coiled shadow, \\{}
watching\dots{} ready to strike\dots{} \\{}
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?
\end{verse}
\section{V\forcelinebreak Jude}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
he looks into his stone beard. \\{}
\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
and then \\{}
the light goes out\dots{} \\{}
shivers into blackened bits\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
and mama puts on cold wet rags \\{}
that get hot soon\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
He was the kind of boy you knew when you had Celia\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
he mightn’t have struck you with his whip\dots{} \\{}
How the daisies stared\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
he couldn’t shake me off, \\{}
but his man did\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} silly wind playing with your hair\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
I know now \\{}
what I shall do\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
and his blazing hair \\{}
shall light up the world.
~~~: :
Before he hit me— \\{}
I knew he was going to— \\{}
I thought about Jude\dots{} \\{}
I thought if he’d fight\dots{} \\{}
but he shriveled all up\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
He is fading now\dots{} \\{}
He is just lines\dots{} like a drawing\dots{} \\{}
You can see mama in between. \\{}
When she moves \\{}
she rubs some of him out.
\end{verse}
\part{Monologues}
\chapter{Jaguar}
\begin{verse}
Nasal intonations of light \\{}
and clicking tongues\dots{} \\{}
publicity of windows \\{}
stoning me with pent-up cries\dots{} \\{}
smells of abattoirs\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
with a blue-black night coming on \\{}
and a painted cloud \\{}
stalking the first star— \\{}
I shall go alone into the Silence\dots{} \\{}
the coiled Silence\dots{} \\{}
where a cry can run only a little way \\{}
and waver and dwindle \\{}
and be lost.
And there\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
I too \\{}
will make covert of a crevice in the night, \\{}
and turn and watch\dots{} \\{}
nose at the cleft’s edge.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Wild Duck}
\begin{verse}
\end{verse}
\section{I}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the river\dots{} \\{}
Lights dwindling to shining slits \\{}
In the wet asphalt\dots{} \\{}
Purring lights\dots{} red and green and golden-whiskered\dots{} \\{}
Digging daintily pointed claws in the soft mud\dots{} \\{}
\dots{} But you did not know\dots{} \\{}
As the trains made golden augers \\{}
Boring in the darkness\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
You did not know \\{}
How wild ducks’ wings \\{}
Itch at dawn\dots{} \\{}
How at dawn the necks of wild ducks \\{}
Arch to the sun \\{}
And new-mown air \\{}
Trickles sweet in their gullets.
\end{verse}
\section{II}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} emptied of the known you\dots{} utterly\dots{} \\{}
Is yet vibrant with the cadence of the song \\{}
You might have been\dots{} \\{}
‘Twas a great night\dots{} \\{}
With never a waste look over a shoulder \\{}
Curved to the crook of the wind\dots{} \\{}
And a great word we threw \\{}
For memory to play knuckles with\dots{} \\{}
A word the waters of the world have washed, \\{}
Leaving it stark and without smell\dots{} \\{}
A world that rattles well in emptiness: Good-by.
\end{verse}
\chapter{The Dream}
\begin{verse}
I have a dream \\{}
to fill the golden sheath \\{}
of a remembered day\dots{} \\{}
(Air \\{}
heavy and massed and blue \\{}
as the vapor of opium\dots{} \\{}
domes \\{}
fired in sulphurous mist\dots{} \\{}
sea \\{}
quiescent as a gray seal\dots{} \\{}
and the emerging sun \\{}
spurting up gold \\{}
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay\dots{}) \\{}
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?
\end{verse}
\chapter{Altitude}
\begin{verse}
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.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Comrades}
\begin{verse}
Life \\{}
You have been good to me\dots{} \\{}
You have not made yourself too dear \\{}
to juggle with.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Nocturne}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{}
Boy, I met to-night, \\{}
Your eyes are two red-glowing arcs shifting with my vision\dots{} \\{}
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?
\end{verse}
\chapter{Cactus Seed}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} rats know what thickness of\dots{} plastered wall\dots{} \\{}
I might fathom \\{}
your golden delirium \\{}
with throttle of finger and thumb \\{}
shutting valve of bright song.
\end{verse}
\section{II}
\begin{verse}
But if\dots{} away off\dots{} on a fork of grassed earth \\{}
socketing an inlet reach of blue water\dots{} \\{}
if canaries (do they sing out of cages?) \\{}
flung such luminous notes, \\{}
they would sink in the spirit\dots{} \\{}
lie germinal\dots{} \\{}
housed in the soul as a seed in the earth\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} why cactus? \\{}
God\dots{} God\dots{} \\{}
somewhere\dots{} away off\dots{} \\{}
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.
\end{verse}
\part{Windows}
\chapter{Time-Stone}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} like the cats in the alley\dots{} 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.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Train Window}
\begin{verse}
Small towns \\{}
Crawling out of their green shirts\dots{} \\{}
Tubercular towns \\{}
Coughing a little in the dawn\dots{} \\{}
And the church\dots{} \\{}
There is always a church \\{}
With its natty spire \\{}
And the vestibule— \\{}
That’s where they whisper: \\{}
Tzz-tzz\dots{} tzz-tzz\dots{} tzz-tzz\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} tzz-tzz\dots{}tzz-tzz\dots{}
\end{verse}
\chapter{Scandal}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
Or what winds do to canyons \\{}
Under the tall stars\dots{} \\{}
Or even \\{}
How that old roué, Neptune, \\{}
Cranes over his bald-head moons \\{}
At the twinkling heel of a sky-scraper.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Electricity}
\begin{verse}
Out of fiery contacts\dots{} \\{}
Rushing auras of steel \\{}
Touching and whirled apart\dots{} \\{}
Out of the charged phallases \\{}
Of iron leaping \\{}
Female and male, \\{}
Complete, indivisible, one, \\{}
Fused into light.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Skyscrapers}
\begin{verse}
Skyscrapers\dots{} remote, unpartisan\dots{} \\{}
Turning neither to the right nor left \\{}
Your imperturbable fronts\dots{} \\{}
Austerely greeting the sun \\{}
With one chilly finger of stone\dots{} \\{}
I know your secrets\dots{} better than all the policemen \\{}
~~~like fat blue mullet along the avenues.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Wall Street at Night}
\begin{verse}
Long vast shapes\dots{} cooled and flushed through with darkness\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} pale without heat\dots{} \\{}
Like the pallor of dead bodies.
\end{verse}
\chapter{East River}
\begin{verse}
Dour river \\{}
Jaded with monotony of lights \\{}
Diving off mast heads\dots{} \\{}
Lights mad with creating in a river\dots{} turning its sullen back\dots{} \\{}
Heave up, river\dots{} \\{}
Vomit back into the darkness your spawn of light\dots{} \\{}
The night will gut what you give her.
\end{verse}
\part{Secrets}
\chapter{Interim}
\begin{verse}
The earth is motionless \\{}
And poised in space\dots{} \\{}
A great bird resting in its flight \\{}
Between the alleys of the stars. \\{}
It is the wind’s hour off\dots{} \\{}
The wind has nestled down among the corn\dots{} \\{}
The two speak privately together, \\{}
Awaiting the whirr of wings.
\end{verse}
\chapter{After Storm}
\begin{verse}
Was there a wind? \\{}
Tap\dots{} tap\dots{} \\{}
Night pads upon the snow \\{}
with moccasined feet\dots{} \\{}
and it is still\dots{} so still\dots{} \\{}
an eagle’s feather \\{}
might fall like a stone. \\{}
Could there have been a storm\dots{} \\{}
mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind\dots{} \\{}
tearing up the sky\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
and blinding \\{}
blue-forked \\{}
flowers of the lightning \\{}
in their leaves? \\{}
Tap\dots{} tap\dots{} \\{}
slow-ticking centuries\dots{} \\{}
Soft as bare feet upon the snow\dots{} \\{}
faint\dots{} lulling as heard rain \\{}
upon heaped leaves\dots{} \\{}
Silence \\{}
builds her wall \\{}
about a dream impaled.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Secrets}
\begin{verse}
Secrets \\{}
infesting my half-sleep\dots{} \\{}
did you enter my wound from another wound \\{}
brushing mine in a crowd\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
I shall know you, secrets \\{}
by the litter you have left \\{}
and by your bloody foot-prints.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Potpourri}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
Miraculously whole.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Thaw}
\begin{verse}
Blow through me wind \\{}
As you blow through apple blossoms\dots{} \\{}
Scatter me in shining petals over the passers-by\dots{} \\{}
Joyously I reunite\dots{} sway and gather to myself\dots{} \\{}
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.
\end{verse}
\part{Portraits}
\chapter{Mother}
\section{I}
\begin{verse}
Your love was like moonlight \\{}
turning harsh things to beauty, \\{}
so that little wry souls \\{}
reflecting each other obliquely \\{}
as in cracked mirrors\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
evanescent as the reflection of a white swan \\{}
shimmering in broken water.
\end{verse}
\section{II}
(To E. S.)
\begin{verse}
You inevitable, \\{}
Unwieldy with enormous births, \\{}
Lying on your back, eyes open, sucking down stars, \\{}
Or you kissing and picking over fresh deaths\dots{} \\{}
Filth\dots{} worms\dots{} flowers\dots{} \\{}
Green and succulent pods\dots{} \\{}
Tremulous gestation \\{}
Of dark water germinal with lilies\dots{} \\{}
All in you from the beginning\dots{} \\{}
Nothing buried or thrown away\dots{} \\{}
Only the moon like a white sheet \\{}
Spread over the dead you carry.
\end{verse}
\section{III}
(To H.)
\begin{verse}
Speeding gull \\{}
Passing under a cloud \\{}
Caught on his white back \\{}
You\dots{} drop of crystal rain. \\{}
Now you gleam softly triumphant \\{}
Folding immensities of light.
\end{verse}
\section{IV}
(To O. F. T.)
\begin{verse}
You have always gotten up after blows \\{}
And smiled\dots{} and shaken off the dust\dots{} \\{}
Only you could not shake the darkness \\{}
From off the bruised brown of your eyes.
\end{verse}
\section{V}
(To E. A. R.)
\begin{verse}
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.
\end{verse}
\part{Sons of Belial}
\chapter{Sons of Belial}
\section{I}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
We knew where the peacocks went \\{}
And the white doe for sacrifice.
\end{verse}
\section{II}
\begin{verse}
We were the Sons of Belial. \\{}
One black night \\{}
Centuries ago \\{}
We beat at a door \\{}
In Gilead\dots{} \\{}
We took the Levite’s concubine \\{}
We plucked her hands from off the door\dots{} \\{}
We choked the cry into her throat \\{}
And stuck the stars among her hair\dots{} \\{}
We glimpsed the madly swaying stars \\{}
Between the rhythms of her hair \\{}
And all our mute and separate strings \\{}
Swelled in a raging symphony\dots{} \\{}
Our blood sang paeans \\{}
All that night \\{}
Till dawn fell like a wounded swan \\{}
Upon the fields of Gilead.
\end{verse}
\section{III}
\begin{verse}
We are old\dots{} \\{}
Old as song\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
March in bands of troubadours\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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.)
\end{verse}
\section{IV}
\begin{verse}
We are young. \\{}
When we rise up with singing roots, \\{}
(Warm rains washing \\{}
Gutters of Berlin \\{}
Where we stamped Rosa\dots{} 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\dots{} we trample\dots{} on.
Mad nights when we make ritual \\{}
(Feet running before the sleuth-light\dots{} \\{}
And the smell of burnt flesh \\{}
By a flame-ringed hut \\{}
In Missouri, \\{}
Sweet as on Rome’s pyre\dots{}) \\{}
We make ropes do rigadoons \\{}
With copper feet that jig on air\dots{} \\{}
We are the Mob\dots{} \\{}
Old as song. \\{}
Tyre knew us \\{}
And Israel.
\end{verse}
\part{Reveille}
\chapter{In Harness}
\section{I}
\begin{verse}
The foreman’s head \\{}
slowly circling\dots{} \\{}
White rims \\{}
under yellow disks of eyes\dots{} \\{}
Gold hairs \\{}
starting out of a blond scowl\dots{} \\{}
Hovering\dots{} disappearing\dots{} recurring\dots{} \\{}
the foreman’s head.
Droning of power-machines\dots{} \\{}
droning of girl with adenoids\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} piercing\dots{} shrill as a fife \\{}
the voice of a little Russian \\{}
breaks out of the shivered circle. \\{}
Another voice rises\dots{} 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\dots{} \\{}
Marchons!
Only the power machines drone \\{}
with metallic docility \\{}
under the flaxen head of the foreman \\{}
poised like an amazed gull.
\end{verse}
\section{II}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} accoutered and neatly caparisoned\dots{} \\{}
~~~plays the Marseillaise\dots{} \\{}
And I think of a wild stallion\dots{} newly caught\dots{} \\{}
flanks yet taut and nostrils spread \\{}
to the smell of a racing mare, \\{}
hitched to a grocer’s cart.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Reveille}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{}
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.
\end{verse}
\chapter{To Alexander Berkman}
\begin{verse}
Can you see me, Sasha? \\{}
I can see you\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
would not if I could, \\{}
though I know how warmly yours would close about them. \\{}
Why? \\{}
I do not know\dots{} \\{}
I have a sense of shame. \\{}
Your eyes hurt me\dots{} 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\dots{} projected, trembling against these bars filtering \\{}
~~~emaciated light\dots{} \\{}
will your eyes\dots{} that bore their lonely way through mine\dots{} \\{}
stop as at a friendly gate\dots{} \\{}
grow warm\dots{} and luminous? \\{}
\dots{} but I cannot stay\dots{} for the smell\dots{} \\{}
I know\dots{} how the days pass\dots{} \\{}
The prison squats \\{}
with granite haunches \\{}
on the young spring, \\{}
battened under with its twisting green\dots{} \\{}
and you\dots{} socket for every bolt \\{}
piercing like a driven nail. \\{}
Eyes stare you through the bars\dots{} \\{}
eyes blank as a graveled yard\dots{} \\{}
and the silence shuffles heavy dice of feet in iron corridors\dots{} \\{}
until the day\dots{} that has soiled herself in this black hole \\{}
to caress the pale mask of your face\dots{} \\{}
withdraws the last wizened ray \\{}
to wash in the infinite \\{}
her discolored hands. \\{}
Can you hear me, Sasha, \\{}
in your surrounded darkness?
\end{verse}
\chapter{Emma Goldman}
\begin{verse}
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.
\end{verse}
\chapter{An Old Workman}
\begin{verse}
Warped\dots{} gland-dry\dots{} \\{}
With spine askew \\{}
And body shrunken into half its space\dots{} \\{}
Well-used as some cracked paving-stone\dots{} \\{}
Bearing on his grimed and pitted front \\{}
A stamp\dots{} as of innumerable feet.
\end{verse}
\chapter{To Larkin}
\begin{verse}
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\dots{} \\{}
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\dots{} \\{}
You, and the like of you, that life \\{}
Is crushing for their frantic wines.
\end{verse}
\chapter{Wind Rising in the Alleys}
\begin{verse}
Wind rising in the alleys \\{}
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls. \\{}
You are full of unspent dreams\dots{} \\{}
You are laden with beginnings\dots{} \\{}
There is hope in you\dots{} not sweet\dots{} 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{verse}
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The Anarchist Library
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Anti-Copyright
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Lola Ridge
Sun-Up and Other Poems
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Retrieved on May 23, 2012 from \href{http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4332/pg4332.txt}{\texttt{http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4332/pg4332.txt}}
Produced by Catherine Daly
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