Histrionics, par Lola Ridge

Lola Ridge

Histrionics

—Albert Parsons

went to his death

singing Annie Laurie;

didn’t another have

a rose in his coat–

or was it a pink–

dramatizing himself–

Blooded rose

stalk

hanging out of an empty

coat lapel,

or was it a pink carnation

rose color soft as sunrise

glimmering upon a gallows,

and streak of silver song

ravelled with the rain

on a filthy Chicago morning in the Eighties–

you shall outlast horizons.

#Irish #Women

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Autres oeuvres par Lola Ridge...

Submerged

I have known only my own shallows… Safe, plumbed places, Where I was wont to preen myself. But for the abyss I wanted a plank beneath

The Dream

I have a dream to fill the golden sheath of a remembered day.... (Air heavy and massed and blue

Dreams

Men die’¦ Dreams only change their houses. They cannot be lined up against a… And quietly buried under ground, And no more heard of’¦

Bowery Afternoon

Drab discoloration Of faces, faÃ§ades, pawn-shops, Second-hand clothing, Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch… Odors of rancid life’¦

Debris

I love those spirits That men stand off and point at, Or shudder and hood up their souls… Those ruined ones, Where Liberty has lodged an hour

The Foundling

Snow wraiths circle us Like washers of the dead, Flapping their white wet cloths Impatiently About the grizzled head,

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 Everlasting Return

It is dark’¦ so dark, I remember… It is still’¦ so still, I hear t… Ten times we had watched the moon Rise like a thin white virgin out… And round into a full maternity’¦

The Fog

Out of the lamp—bestarred and clou… Snaring, illuding, concealing, Magically conjuring - Turning to fairy-coaches Beetle-backed limousines

In Harness

The foreman's head slowly circling... White rims under yellow disks of eyes.... Gold hairs

The Song of Iron

Not yet hast Thou sounded Thy clangorous music, Whose strings are under the mounta… Not yet hast Thou spoken The blooded, implacable Word...

To Larkin

Is it you I see go by the window,… at me nor any one, And your shadow swaying from East… Strange that you should be walking… And your legs tied up with a knot…

Mother

Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .

Frank Little at Calvary

He walked under the shadow of the… Where men are fed into the fires And walled apart… Unarmed and alone, He summoned his mates from the pit…

The Tidings

(Easter 1916) Censored lies that mimic truth’¦ Censored truth as pale as fear’¦ My heart is like a rousing bell - And but the dead to hear’¦

Lola Ridge

Histrionics

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Autres oeuvres par Lola Ridge...