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.     Then - when needles move more slowly on the cloth     And sweaty fingers slacken     And hair falls in damp wisps over the eyes -     Sped by some power within,     Sadie quivers like a rod...     A thin black piston flying,     One with her machine.     She - who stabs the piece-work with her bitter eye     And bids the girls: "Slow down -     You'll have him cutting us again!"     She - fiery static atom,     Held in place by the fierce pressure all about -     Speeds up the driven wheels     And biting steel - that twice     Has nipped her to the bone.     Nights, she reads     Those books that have most unset thought,     New-poured and malleable,     To which her thought     Leaps fusing at white heat,     Or spits her fire out in some dim manger of a hall,     Or at a protest meeting on the Square,     Her lit eyes kindling the mob...     Or dances madly at a festival.     Each dawn finds her a little whiter,     Though up and keyed to the long day,     Alert, yet weary... like a bird     That all night long has beat about a light.     The Gentile lover, that she charms and shrews,     Is one more pebble in the pack     For Sadie's mother,     Who greets him with her narrowed eyes     That hold some welcome back.     "What's to be done?" she'll say,     "When Sadie wants she takes...     Better than Bennie with his Christian woman...     A man is not so like,     If they should fight,     To call her Jew..."     Yet when she lies in bed     And the soft babble of their talk comes to her     And the silences...     I know she never sleeps     Till the keen draught blowing up the empty hall     Edges through her transom     And she hears his foot on the first stairs.     Sarah and Anna live on the floor above.     Sarah is swarthy and ill-dressed.     Life for her has no ritual.     She would break an ideal like an egg for the winged thing at the core.     Her mind is hard and brilliant and cutting like an acetylene torch.     If any impurities drift there, they must be burnt up as in a clear flame.     It is droll that she should work in a pants factory.      - Yet where else... tousled and collar awry at her olive throat.     Besides her hands are unkempt.     With English... and everything... there is so little time.     She reads without bias -     Doubting clamorously -     Psychology, plays, science, philosophies -     Those giant flowers that have bloomed and withered, scattering their seed...      - And out of this young forcing soil what growth may come - what amazing blossomings.     Anna is different.     One is always aware of Anna, and the young men turn their heads to look at her.     She has the appeal of a folk-song     And her cheap clothes are always in rhythm.     When the strike was on she gave half her pay.     She would give anything - save the praise that is hers     And the love of her lyric body.     But Sarah's desire covets nothing apart.     She would share all things...     Even her lover.     III     The sturdy Ghetto children     March by the parade,     Waving their toy flags,     Prancing to the bugles -     Lusty, unafraid...     Shaking little fire sticks     At the night -     The old blinking night -     Swerving out of the way,     Wrapped in her darkness like a shawl.     But a small girl     Cowers apart.     Her braided head,     Shiny as a black-bird's     In the gleam of the torch-light,     Is poised as for flight.     Her eyes have the glow     Of darkened lights.     She stammers in Yiddish,     But I do not understand,     And there flits across her face     A shadow     As of a drawn blind.     I give her an orange,     Large and golden,     And she looks at it blankly.     I take her little cold hand and try to draw her to me,     But she is stiff...     Like a doll...     Suddenly she darts through the crowd     Like a little white panic     Blown along the night -     Away from the terror of oncoming feet...     And drums rattling like curses in red roaring mouths...     And torches spluttering silver fire     And lights that nose out hiding-places...     To the night -     Squatting like a hunchback     Under the curved stoop -     The old mammy-night     That has outlived beauty and knows the ways of fear -     The night - wide-opening crooked and comforting arms,     Hiding her as in a voluminous skirt.     The sturdy Ghetto children     March by the parade,     Waving their toy flags,     Prancing to the bugles,     Lusty, unafraid.     But I see a white frock     And eyes like hooded lights     Out of the shadow of pogroms     Watching... watching...     IV     Calicoes and furs,     Pocket-books and scarfs,     Razor strops and knives     (Patterns in check...)     Olive hands and russet head,     Pickles red and coppery,     Green pickles, brown pickles,     (Patterns in tapestry...)     Coral beads, blue beads,     Beads of pearl and amber,     Gewgaws, beauty pins -     Bijoutry for chits -     Darting rays of violet,     Amethyst and jade...     All the colors out to play,     Jumbled iridescently...     (Patterns in stained glass     Shivered into bits!)     Nooses of gay ribbon     Tugging at one's sleeve,     Dainty little garters     Hanging out their sign...     Here a pout of frilly things -     There a sonsy feather...     (White beards, black beards     Like knots in the weave...)     And ah, the little babies -     Shiny black-eyed babies -     (Half a million pink toes     Wriggling altogether.)     Baskets full of babies     Like grapes on a vine.     Mothers waddling in and out,     Making all things right -     Picking up the slipped threads     In Grand street at night -     Grand street like a great bazaar,     Crowded like a float,     Bulging like a crazy quilt     Stretched on a line.     But nearer seen     This litter of the East     Takes on a garbled majesty.     The herded stalls     In dissolute array...     The glitter and the jumbled finery     And strangely juxtaposed     Cans, paper, rags     And colors decomposing,     Faded like old hair,     With flashes of barbaric hues     And eyes of mystery...     Flung     Like an ancient tapestry of motley weave     Upon the open wall of this new land.     Here, a tawny-headed girl...     Lemons in a greenish broth     And a huge earthen bowl     By a bronzed merchant     With a tall black lamb's wool cap upon his head...     He has no glance for her.     His thrifty eyes     Bend - glittering, intent     Their hoarded looks     Upon his merchandise,     As though it were some splendid cloth     Or sumptuous raiment     Stitched in gold and red...     He seldom talks     Save of the goods he spreads -     The meager cotton with its dismal flower -     But with his skinny hands     That hover like two hawks     Above some luscious meat,     He fingers lovingly each calico,     As though it were a gorgeous shawl,     Or costly vesture     Wrought in silken thread,     Or strange bright carpet     Made for sandaled feet...     Here an old grey scholar stands.     His brooding eyes -     That hold long vistas without end     Of caravans and trees and roads,     And cities dwindling in remembrance -     Bend mostly on his tapes and thread.     What if they tweak his beard -     These raw young seed of Israel     Who have no backward vision in their eyes -     And mock him as he sways     Above the sunken arches of his feet -     They find no peg to hang their taunts upon.     His soul is like a rock     That bears a front worn smooth     By the coarse friction of the sea,     And, unperturbed, he keeps his bitter peace.     What if a rigid arm and stuffed blue shape,     Backed by a nickel star     Does prod him on,     Taking his proud patience for humility...     All gutters are as one     To that old race that has been thrust     From off the curbstones of the world...     And he smiles with the pale irony     Of one who holds     The wisdom of the Talmud stored away     In his mind's lavender.     But this young trader,     Born to trade as to a caul,     Peddles the notions of the hour.     The gestures of the craft are his     And all the lore     As when to hold, withdraw, persuade, advance...     And be it gum or flags,     Or clean-all or the newest thing in tags,     Demand goes to him as the bee to flower.     And he - appraising     All who come and go     With his amazing     Slight-of-mind and glance     And nimble thought     And nature balanced like the scales at nought -     Looks Westward where the trade-lights glow,     And sees his vision rise -     A tape-ruled vision,     Circumscribed in stone -     Some fifty stories to the skies.     V     As I sit in my little fifth-floor room -     Bare,     Save for bed and chair,     And coppery stains     Left by seeping rains     On the low ceiling     And green plaster walls,     Where when night falls     Golden lady-bugs     Come out of their holes,     And roaches, sepia-brown, consort...     I hear bells pealing     Out of the gray church at Rutgers street,     Holding its high-flung cross above the Ghetto,     And, one floor down across the court,     The parrot screaming:     Vorwrts... Vorwrts...     The parrot frowsy-white,     Everlastingly swinging     On its iron bar.     A little old woman,     With a wig of smooth black hair     Gummed about her shrunken brows,     Comes sometimes on the fire escape.     An old stooped mother,     The left shoulder low     With that uneven droopiness that women know     Who have suckled many young...     Yet I have seen no other than the parrot there.     I watch her mornings as she shakes her rugs     Feebly, with futile reach     And fingers without clutch.     Her thews are slack     And curved the ruined back     And flesh empurpled like old meat,     Yet each conspires     To feed those guttering fires     With which her eyes are quick.     On Friday nights     Her candles signal     Infinite fine rays     To other windows,     Coupling other lights,     Linking the tenements     Like an endless prayer.     She seems less lonely than the bird     That day by day about the dismal house     Screams out his frenzied word...     That night by night -     If a dog yelps     Or a cat yawls     Or a sick child whines,     Or a door screaks on its hinges,     Or a man and woman fight -     Sends his cry above the huddled roofs:     Vorwrts... Vorwrts...     VI     In this dingy cafe     The old men sit muffled in woollens.     Everything is faded, shabby, colorless, old...     The chairs, loose-jointed,     Creaking like old bones -     The tables, the waiters, the walls,     Whose mottled plaster     Blends in one tone with the old flesh.     Young life and young thought are alike barred,     And no unheralded noises jolt old nerves,     And old wheezy breaths     Pass around old thoughts, dry as snuff,     And there is no divergence and no friction     Because life is flattened and ground as by many mills.     And it is here the Committee -     Sweet-breathed and smooth of skin     And supple of spine and knee,     With shining unpouched eyes     And the blood, high-powered,     Leaping in flexible arteries -     The insolent, young, enthusiastic, undiscriminating Committee,     Who would placard tombstones     And scatter leaflets even in graves,     Comes trampling with sacrilegious feet!     The old men turn stiffly,     Mumbling to each other.     They are gentle and torpid and busy with eating.     But one lifts a face of clayish pallor,     There is a dull fury in his eyes, like little rusty grates.     He rises slowly,     Trembling in his many swathings like an awakened mummy,     Ridiculous yet terrible.      - And the Committee flings him a waste glance,     Dropping a leaflet by his plate.     A lone fire flickers in the dusty eyes.     The lips chant inaudibly.     The warped shrunken body straightens like a tree.     And he curses...     With uplifted arms and perished fingers,     Claw-like, clutching...     So centuries ago     The old men cursed Acosta,     When they, prophetic, heard upon their sepulchres     Those feet that may not halt nor turn aside for ancient things.     VII     Here in this room, bare like a barn,     Egos gesture one to the other -     Naked, unformed, unwinged     Egos out of the shell,     Examining, searching, devouring -     Avid alike for the flower or the dung...     (Having no dainty antennae for the touch and withdrawal -     Only the open maw...)     Egos cawing,     Expanding in the mean egg...     Little squat tailors with unkempt faces,     Pale as lard,     Fur-makers, factory-hands, shop-workers,     News-boys with battling eyes     And bodies yet vibrant with the momentum of long runs,     Here and there a woman...     Words, words, words,     Pattering like hail,     Like hail falling without aim...     Egos rampant,     Screaming each other down.     One motions perpetually,     Waving arms like overgrowths.     He has burning eyes and a cough     And a thin voice piping     Like a flute among trombones.     One, red-bearded, rearing     A welter of maimed face bashed in from some old wound,     Garbles Max Stirner.     His words knock each other like little wooden blocks.     No one heeds him,     And a lank boy with hair over his eyes     Pounds upon the table.      - He is chairman.     Egos yet in the primer,     Hearing world-voices     Chanting grand arias...     Majors resonant,     Stunning with sound...     Baffling minors     Half-heard like rain on pools...     Majestic discordances     Greater than harmonies...      - Gleaning out of it all     Passion, bewilderment, pain...     Egos yearning with the world-old want in their eyes -     Hurt hot eyes that do not sleep enough...     Striving with infinite effort,     Frustrate yet ever pursuing     The great white Liberty,     Trailing her dissolving glory over each hard-won barricade -     Only to fade anew...     Egos crying out of unkempt deeps     And waving their dreams like flags -     Multi-colored dreams,     Winged and glorious...     A gas jet throws a stunted flame,     Vaguely illumining the groping faces.     And through the uncurtained window     Falls the waste light of stars,     As cold as wise men's eyes...     Indifferent great stars,     Fortuitously glancing     At the secret meeting in this shut-in room,     Bare as a manger.     VIII     Lights go out     And the stark trunks of the factories     Melt into the drawn darkness,     Sheathing like a seamless garment.     And mothers take home their babies,     Waxen and delicately curled,     Like little potted flowers closed under the stars.     Lights go out     And the young men shut their eyes,     But life turns in them...     Life in the cramped ova     Tearing and rending asunder its living cells...     Wars, arts, discoveries, rebellions, travails, immolations, cataclysms, hates...     Pent in the shut flesh.     And the young men twist on their beds in languor and dizziness unsupportable...     Their eyes - heavy and dimmed     With dust of long oblivions in the gray pulp behind -     Staring as through a choked glass.     And they gaze at the moon - throwing off a faint heat -     The moon, blond and burning, creeping to their cots     Softly, as on naked feet...     Lolling on the coverlet... like a woman offering her white body.     Nude glory of the moon!     That leaps like an athlete on the bosoms of the young girls stripped of their linens;     Stroking their breasts that are smooth and cool as mother-of-pearl     Till the nipples tingle and burn as though little lips plucked at them.     They shudder and grow faint.     And their ears are filled as with a delirious rhapsody,     That Life, like a drunken player,     Strikes out of their clear white bodies     As out of ivory keys.     Lights go out...     And the great lovers linger in little groups, still passionately debating,     Or one may walk in silence, listening only to the still summons of Life -     Life making the great Demand...     Calling its new Christs...     Till tears come, blurring the stars     That grow tender and comforting like the eyes of comrades;     And the moon rolls behind the Battery     Like a word molten out of the mouth of God.     Lights go out...     And colors rush together,     Fusing and floating away...     Pale worn gold like the settings of old jewels...     Mauves, exquisite, tremulous, and luminous purples     And burning spires in aureoles of light     Like shimmering auras.     They are covering up the pushcarts...     Now all have gone save an old man with mirrors -     Little oval mirrors like tiny pools.     He shuffles up a darkened street     And the moon burnishes his mirrors till they shine like phosphorus...     The moon like a skull,     Staring out of eyeless sockets at the old men trundling home the pushcarts.     IX     A sallow dawn is in the sky     As I enter my little green room.     Sadie's light is still burning...     Without, the frail moon     Worn to a silvery tissue,     Throws a faint glamour on the roofs,     And down the shadowy spires     Lights tip-toe out...     Softly as when lovers close street doors.     Out of the Battery     A little wind     Stirs idly - as an arm     Trails over a boat's side in dalliance -     Rippling the smooth dead surface of the heat,     And Hester street,     Like a forlorn woman over-born     By many babies at her teats,     Turns on her trampled bed to meet the day.     LIFE!     Startling, vigorous life,     That squirms under my touch,     And baffles me when I try to examine it,     Or hurls me back without apology.     Leaving my ego ruffled and preening itself.     Life,     Articulate, shrill,     Screaming in provocative assertion,     Or out of the black and clotted gutters,     Piping in silvery thin     Sweet staccato     Of children's laughter,     Or clinging over the pushcarts     Like a litter of tiny bells     Or the jingle of silver coins,     Perpetually changing hands,     Or like the Jordan somberly     Swirling in tumultuous uncharted tides,     Surface-calm.     Electric currents of life,     Throwing off thoughts like sparks,     Glittering, disappearing,     Making unknown circuits,     Or out of spent particles stirring     Feeble contortions in old faiths     Passing before the new.     Long nights argued away     In meeting halls     Back of interminable stairways -     In Roumanian wine-shops     And little Russian tea-rooms...     Feet echoing through deserted streets     In the soft darkness before dawn...     Brows aching, throbbing, burning -     Life leaping in the shaken flesh     Like flame at an asbestos curtain.     Life -     Pent, overflowing     Stoops and faades,     Jostling, pushing, contriving,     Seething as in a great vat...     Bartering, changing, extorting,     Dreaming, debating, aspiring,     Astounding, indestructible     Life of the Ghetto...     Strong flux of life,     Like a bitter wine     Out of the bloody stills of the world...     Out of the Passion eternal.