The Ghetto and Other Poems By Lola Ridge THE GHETTO I Cool, inaccessible air Is floating in velvety blackness shot with steel-blue lights, But no breath stirs the heat Leaning its ponderous bulk upon the Ghetto And most on Hester street... The heat... Nosing in the body's overflow, Like a beast pressing its great steaming belly close, Covering all avenues of air... The heat in Hester street, Heaped like a dray With the garbage of the world. Bodies dangle from the fire escapes Or sprawl over the stoops... Upturned faces glimmer pallidly- Herring-yellow faces, spotted as with a mold, And moist faces of girls Like dank white lilies, And infants' faces with open parched mouths that suck at the air as at empty teats. Young women pass in groups, Converging to the forums and meeting halls, Surging indomitable, slow Through the gross underbrush of heat. Their heads are uncovered to the stars, And they call to the young men and to one another With a free camaraderie. Only their eyes are ancient and alone... The street crawls undulant, Like a river addled With its hot tide of flesh That ever thickens. Heavy surges of flesh Break over the pavements, Clavering like a surf- Flesh of this abiding Brood of those ancient mothers who saw the dawn break over Egypt... And turned their cakes upon the dry hot stones And went on Till the gold of the Egyptians fell down off their arms... Fasting and athirst... And yet on... Did they vision-with those eyes darkly clear, That looked the sun in the face and were not blinded- Across the centuries The march of their enduring flesh? Did they hear- Under the molten silence Of the desert like a stopped wheel- (And the scorpions tick-ticking on the sand...) The infinite procession of those feet? II I room at Sodos'-in the little green room that was Bennie's- With Sadie And her old father and her mother, Who is not so old and wears her own hair. Old Sodos no longer makes saddles. He has forgotten how. He has forgotten most things-even Bennie who stays away and sends wine on holidays- And he does not like Sadie's mother Who hides God's candles, Nor Sadie Whose young pagan breath puts out the light- That should burn always, Like Aaron's before the Lord. Time spins like a crazy dial in his brain, And night by night I see the love-gesture of his arm In its green-greasy coat-sleeve Circling the Book, And the candles gleaming starkly On the blotched-paper whiteness of his face, Like a miswritten psalm... Night by night I hear his lifted praise, Like a broken whinnying Before the Lord's shut gate. Sadie dresses in black. She has black-wet hair full of cold lights And a fine-drawn face, too white. All day the power machines Drone in her ears... All day the fine dust flies Till throats are parched and itch And the heat-like a kept corpse- Fouls to the last corner.... We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.