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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448071" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Celia</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cherry, cherry,<br>glowing on the hearth,<br>bright red cherry….<br>When you try to pick up cherry<br>Celia’s shriek<br>sticks in you like a pin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When God throws hailstones<br>you cuddle in Celia’s shawl<br>and press your feet on her belly<br>high up like a stool.<br>When Celia makes umbrella of her hand.<br>Rain falls through<br>big pink spokes of her fingers.<br>When wind blows Celia’s gown up off her legs<br>she runs under pillars of the bank—<br>great round pillars of the bank<br>have on white stockings too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Celia says my father<br>will bring me a golden bowl.<br>When I think of my father<br>I cannot see him<br>for the big yellow bowl<br>like the moon with two handles<br>he carries in front of him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grandpa, grandpa…<br>(Light all about you…<br>ginger… pouring out of green jars…)<br>You don’t believe he has gone away and left his great coat…<br>so you pretend… you see his face up in the ceiling.<br>When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa,<br>Celia crosses herself.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It isn’t a dream….<br>It comes again and again….<br>You hear ivy crying on steeples<br>the flames haven’t caught yet<br>and images screaming<br>when they see red light on the lilies<br>on the stained glass window of St. Joseph.<br>The girl with the black eyes holds you tight,<br>and you run… and run<br>past the wild, wild towers…<br>and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet<br>and little frightened dolls<br>shut up in the shops<br>crying… and crying… because no one stops…<br>you spin like a penny thrown out in the street.<br>Then the man clutches her by the hair….<br>He always clutches her by the hair….<br>His eyes stick out like spears.<br>You see her pulled-back face<br>and her black, black eyes<br>lit up by the glare….<br>Then everything goes out.<br>Please God, don’t let me dream any more<br>of the girl with the black, black eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Celia’s shadow rocks and rocks…<br>and mama’s eyes stare out of the pillow<br>as though she had gone away<br>and the night had come in her place<br>as it comes in empty rooms…<br>you can’t bear it—<br>the night threshing about<br>and lashing its tail on its sides<br>as bold as a wolf that isn’t afraid—<br>and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave<br>and pull it around to the light,<br>till the night draws backward… the night that walks alone<br>and goes away without end.<br>Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers.<br>Celia tucks the quilt about her feet,<br>but I run for my little red cloak<br>because red is hot like fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wish Celia<br>could see the sea climb up on the sky<br>and slide off again…<br>…Celia saying<br>I’d beg the world with you….<br>Celia… holding on to the cab…<br>hands wrenched away…<br>wind in the masts… like Celia crying….<br>Celia never minded if you slapped her<br>when the comb made your hairs ache,<br>but though you rub your cheek against mama’s hand<br>she has not said darling since….<br>Now I will slap her again….<br>I will bite her hand till it bleeds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is cool by the port hole.<br>The wet rags of the wind<br>flap in your face.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lola+Ridge">Lola Ridge</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448071" data-title="Celia de Lola Ridge" data-description="Cherry, cherry,
glowing on the hearth,
bright red cherry….
When you try to pick up cherry
Celia’s shriek
sticks in you like a pin.



When God throws hailstones
you cuddle in Celia’s shawl
and press your feet on her belly
high up like a stoo..."></div>
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