Sons Of Belial
Lola Ridge
I We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us And old men’s wives. We knew who spilled the sacred oil For young-gold harlots of the town…. We knew where the peacocks went And the white doe for sacrifice. II We were the Sons of Belial. One black night Centuries ago We beat at a door In Gilead…. We took the Levite’s concubine We plucked her hands from off the door…. We choked the cry into her throat And stuck the stars among her hair…. We glimpsed the madly swaying stars Between the rhythms of her hair And all our mute and separate strings Swelled in a raging symphony…. Our blood sang paeans All that night Till dawn fell like a wounded swan Upon the fields of Gilead. III We are old…. Old as song…. We are dumb song. (Epics tingled In our blood When we haled Hypatia Over the stones In Alexandria.) Could we loose The wild rhythms clinched in us…. March in bands of troubadours…. We would be of gentle mood. When Christ healed us Who were dumb— When he freed our shut-in song— We strewed green palms At his pale feet… We sang hosannas In Jerusalem. And all our fumbling voices blent In a brief white harmony. (But a mightier song Was in us pent When we nailed Christ To a four-armed tree.) IV We are young. When we rise up with singing roots, (Warm rains washing Gutters of Berlin Where we stamped Rosa… Luxemburg On a night in spring.) Rhythms skurry in our blood. Little nimble rats of song In our feet run crazily And all is dust… we trample… on. Mad nights when we make ritual (Feet running before the sleuth-light… And the smell of burnt flesh By a flame-ringed hut In Missouri, Sweet as on Rome’s pyre….) We make ropes do rigadoons With copper feet that jig on air…. We are the Mob…. Old as song. Tyre knew us And Israel.
