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

*** 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