Betsy’s boy could shuffle and clog,
Though you couldn’t get him to saw a log,
Laziest boy about the place
Till he started to dance—and you saw his face!
It was all lit up like a mask of bronze
Set in a niche between temple gongs—
For he would dance and never stop
Till he fell on the floor like a spun-out top.
His feet hung loose from his supple waist,
He danced without stopping, he danced without haste.
Like Shiva the Hindu his feet were bound
In the rhythm of stars and of streams underground:
_Banjo playin’ and de sanded floor,
Fiddle cryin’, always callin’ more,
Can’t help dancin’ though de preacher says
Can’t git to heaven doin’ no sich ways,
Can’t help dancin’ though de devil stan’s
With a pitch-fork waitin’ in his brimstone han’s;
Got—ter—keep—dancin’,—can’t—stop—now,
Got—ter—keep—dancin’, I—doan—know—how ..._
_Banjo playin’ and de sanded floor,
Fiddle cryin’, always callin’ more,
People’s faces lookin’ scared an’ white,
Hands a clappin’ an’ eyes starin’ bright.
Can’t help dancin’ though de candle’s dyin’,
Can’t help dancin’ while de fiddle’s cryin’;
Got—ter—keep—dancin’, can’t—stop—now,
Got—ter—keep—dancin’,—I—doan—know—how!_
_Lola Ridge_
Lola Ridge was born in Dublin, Ireland, leaving there in infancy and
spending her childhood in Sydney, Australia. After living some years
in New Zealand, she returned to Australia to study art. In 1907, she
came to the United States, supporting herself for three years by
writing fiction for the popular magazines. She stopped this work
only, as she says, “because I found I would have to do so if I
wished to survive as an artist.” For several years she earned her
living in a variety of ways—as organizer for an educational
movement, as advertisement writer, as illustrator, artist’s model,
factory-worker, etc. In 1918, _The New Republic_ published her long
poem _The Ghetto_ and Miss Ridge, until then totally unknown, became
the “discovery” of the year.
Her volume _The Ghetto and Other Poems_ (1918) contains one poem
that is brilliant, several that are powerful and none that is
mediocre. Her title-poem is its pinnacle; in it Miss Ridge touches
strange heights. It is essentially a poem of the city, of its sodden
brutalities, its sudden beauties. Swift figures shine from these
lines, like barbaric colors leaping out of darkness; images that are
surprising but never strained glow with a condensed clarity. In her
other poems—especially in “The Song of Iron,” “Faces” and “Frank
Little at Calvary”—the same dignity is maintained, though with less
magic.
_Sun-Up_ (1920) is less integrated, more frankly experimental. But
the same vibrancy and restrained power that distinguished her
preceding book are manifest here. Her delineations are sensitive and
subtle; she accomplishes the maximum in effects with a minimum of
effort.