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Sun-Up and Other Poems   By: (1883-1941)

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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... Continue reading book >>




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