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Lola Ridge
(1871-1941)
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.
Lola Ridge poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
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Lola Ridge
(1871-1941)
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.
Lola Ridge poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
Purpurrote Rosen binden
Purpurrote Rosen binden
möcht ich mir für meinen Tisch
und, verloren unter Linden,
irgendwo ein Mädchen finden,
klug und blond und träumerisch.
Möchte seine Hände fassen,
möchte knieen vor dem Kind
und den Mund, den sehnsuchtblassen,
mir von Lippen küssen lassen,
die der Frühling selber sind.
Rainer Maria Rilke
(1875-1926)
Hans Hermans Natuurdagboek
Poem: Rainer Maria Rilke – Photos: Hans Hermans – April 2011
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Hans Hermans Photos, Rilke, Rainer Maria
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NEEM ME MEE
Een vrachtwagen verdwijnt
verscholen achter een wolk smook
Kinderen rennen erachteraan
‘neem me mee,’ roepen ze
‘neem me mee!’
Steeds luider klinkt hun roep
tot hun keel dichtslaat van rook
en ze oplossen
in een wolk van stof
Ton van Reen
Ton van Reen: De naam van het mes. Afrikaanse gedichten In 2007 verschenen onder de titel: De straat is van de mannen bij BnM Uitgevers in De Contrabas reeks. ISBN 9789077907993 – 56 pagina’s – paperback
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -De naam van het mes, Archive Q-R
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MANNEN VAN MOBIL
De mannen van Mobil houden Afrika in beweging
in hun vuilrode overalls met het Mobillogo
hurken ze bij de roestige benzinepomp
waarvan de teller op een getal zonder einde staat
ze kaarten en roken scherpe Sportsmansigaretten
De benzine wordt aangevoerd met ezels
die wie weet waar vandaan komen
in ieder geval van ver over de berg
geduldig schenken de mannen van Mobil
de zakken benzine over in plastic waterflessen
en betalen de ezeldrijver met beloftes
Ze kaarten verder en roken Sportsmansigaretten
rond de middag vallen ze in slaap
hurkend tegen de geblakerde benzinepomp
tot iemand de mannen van Mobil wakker maakt
iemand die een paar flessen benzine koopt
van de mannen die Afrika in beweging houden
Van het geld kopen ze white cap beer
en hurken weer neer bij de benzinepomp
ze delen de kaarten en roken Sportsmansigaretten
Ton van Reen
Ton van Reen: De naam van het mes. Afrikaanse gedichten In 2007 verschenen onder de titel: De straat is van de mannen bij BnM Uitgevers in De Contrabas reeks. ISBN 9789077907993 – 56 pagina’s – paperback
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -De naam van het mes, Archive Q-R, Ton van Reen
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Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
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.
LOLA RIDGE POETRY
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
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Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
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.
LOLA RIDGE POETRY
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
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Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
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?
LOLA RIDGE POETRY
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
Ton van Reen
DALI LEEFT IN TURKANA
Het is al jaren droog in Turkana
alles wat leeft smeekt om water
ook de koeien, de geiten en de ezels
Maar de ezels hebben pech
ze zijn overbodig geworden
en de mensen tot last
al weken krijgen ze geen water
als ze omvallen worden ze weggesleept
Ver van de mensen
liggen ze in de brandende zon
nog te min voor een dood door genade
hun buiken staan bol van dorst
stervend draaien ze op hun rug
de poten afwerend omhoog
naar de gieren die boven hen zweven
Dali leeft in Afrika
hij schept een schilderij van gruwel
een stilleven van stervende ezels
grijszwarte vlekken, in wit dood zand
Ton van Reen: De naam van het mes. Afrikaanse gedichten
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -De naam van het mes, Archive Q-R, Ton van Reen
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Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
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.
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?
LOLA RIDGE POETRY
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
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Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
DEDICATION
I would be a torch unto your hand,
A lamp upon your forehead, Labor,
In the wild darkness before the Dawn
That I shall never see…
We shall advance together, my Beloved,
Awaiting the mighty ushering…
Together we shall make the last grand charge
And ride with gorgeous Death
With all her spangles on
And cymbals clashing…
And you shall rush on exultant as I fall–
Scattering a brief fire about your feet…
Let it be so…
Better–while life is quick
And every pain immense and joy supreme,
And all I have and am
Flames upward to the dream…
Than like a taper forgotten in the dawn,
Burning out the wick.
FACES
A late snow beats
With cold white fists upon the tenements–
Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutters,
Like tall old slatterns
Pulling aprons about their heads.
Lights slanting out of Mott Street
Gibber out,
Or dribble through bar-room slits,
Anonymous shapes
Conniving behind shuttered panes
Caper and disappear…
Where the Bowery
Is throbbing like a fistula
Back of her ice-scabbed fronts.
Livid faces
Glimmer in furtive doorways,
Or spill out of the black pockets of alleys,
Smears of faces like muddied beads,
Making a ghastly rosary
The night mumbles over
And the snow with its devilish and silken whisper…
Patrolling arcs
Blowing shrill blasts over the Bread Line
Stalk them as they pass,
Silent as though accouched of the darkness,
And the wind noses among them,
Like a skunk
That roots about the heart…
Colder:
And the Elevated slams upon the silence
Like a ponderous door.
Then all is still again,
Save for the wind fumbling over
The emptily swaying faces–
The wind rummaging
Like an old Jew…
Faces in glimmering rows…
(No sign of the abject life–
Not even a blasphemy…)
But the spindle legs keep time
To a limping rhythm,
And the shadows twitch upon the snow
Convulsively–
As though death played
With some ungainly dolls.
LOLA RIDGE POETRY
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
Manhattan
Out of the night you burn, Manhattan,
In a vesture of gold –
Span of innumerable arcs,
Flaring and multiplying –
Gold at the uttermost circles fading
Into the tenderest hint of jade,
Or fusing in tremulous twilight blues,
Robing the far-flung offices,
Scintillant-storied, forking flame,
Or soaring to luminous amethyst
Over the steeples aureoled –
Diaphanous gold,
Veiling the Woolworth, argently
Rising slender and stark
Mellifluous-shrill as a vender’s cry,
And towers squatting graven and cold
On the velvet bales of the dark,
And the Singer’s appraising
Indolent idol’s eye,
And night like a purple cloth unrolled –
Nebulous gold
Throwing an ephemeral glory about life’s vanishing points,
Wherein you burn…
You of unknown voltage
Whirling on your axis…
Scrawling vermillion signatures
Over the night’s velvet hoarding…
Insolent, towering spherical
To apices ever shifting.
kempis poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
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