# The Poet in the Desert/Prologue

THE POET IN THE DESERT
PROLOGUE
POET:
I have entered into the Desert, the place of desolation. The Desert confronts me haughtily and assails me with solitude.
She sits on a throne of light,
Her hands clasped, her eyes solemnly questioning.
I have come into the lean and stricken land
Which fears not God, that I may meet my soul
Face to face, naked as the Desert is naked;
Bare as the great silence is bare:
I will question the Silent Ones who have gone before and are forgotten,
And the great host which shall come after.
By whom I also shall be forgot.
As the Desert is defiant unto all gods,
So am I defiant of all gods, Shadows of Man cast upon the fogs of his ignorance.
As a helpless child follows the hand of its mother.
So I put my hand into the hand of the Eternal.
I have come to lose myself in the wide immensity and know my littleness.
I have come to lie in the lap of my mother and be comforted.
I am alone but not alone—I am with myself.
My soul is my companion above all companions.
Behold the signs of the Desert:
A buzzard, afloat on airy seas,
Alone, between the two immensities, as I am alone between two immensities; ​A juniper-tree on a rocky hillside; A dark signal from afar off, where the weary may rest in the shade;
A monastery for the flocks of little birds which by night hurry across the Desert and hide in the heat of the day;
A basaltic-cliff, embroidered with lichens and illuminated by the sun, orange and yellow,
The work of a great painter, careless in the splash of his brush.
In its shadow lie timid antelope, which flit through the sage-brush and are gone;
But easily they become fearless unto love. The sea of sage-brush, breaking against the purple hills far away.
And the white alkali-flats which shimmer in the mirage as beautiful blue lakes, constantly retreating.
The mirage paints upon the sky, rivers with cool, willowy banks;
You can almost hear the lapping of the water, But they flee mockingly, leaving the thirsty to perish. I lie down upon the warm sand of the Desert and it seems to me Life has its mirages, also.
I sift the sand through my fingers.
Behold the signs of the Desert:
The stagnant water-hole, trampled with hoofs;
About it shine the white bones of those who came too late.
The whirling dust-pillar, waltz of Wind and Earth,
The dust carried up to the sky in the hot, furious arms of the wind, as I also am lifted up.
The glistening black wall of obsidian, where the wild tribes came to fashion their arrows, knives, spearheads.
The ground is strewn with the fragments, just as they dropped them, the strokes of the maker undimmed through the desperate years.
But the hunters have gone forever.
The Desert cares no more for the death of the tribes than
for the death of the armies of black crawling crickets. Silence. Invincible. Impregnable. Compelling the soul
to stand forth to be questioned. Dazzling in the sun, whiter than snow, I see the bones Of those who have existed as I now exist. The bones are
here; where are they who lived? Like a thin veil, I see a crowd of gnats, buzzing their
hour. I know that they are my brethren, I am less than the
shadow of this rock, For the shadow returneth forever. Night overwhelms me. The coyotes bark to the stars. Upon the warm midnight sand I lie thoughtfully sifting
the earth through my fingers. I am that dust. I look up unto the stars, knowing that to them my life is
not more valuable than that of the flowers ; The little, delicate flowers of the Desert, Which, like a breath, catch at the hem of Spring and are
gone.
I have come into the Desert because my soul is athirst as
the Desert is athirst; My soul which is the soul of all ; universal ; not different. We are athirst for the waters which make beautiful the
path And entice the grass, the willows and poplars. So that in the heat of the day we may lie in a cool shadow, Soothed as by the hands of quiet women, listening to the
discourse of running waters as the voices of women,
exchanging the confidences of love. The little rivers run away from the rugged Titans who
are wrapped in cloaks of azure. They steal out from the mountains into the bosom of the
Desert ; And the willows follow after them, waving their hands,
calling that they run not so fast away. ​
The river builds a safe fortress where the birds hide and
the antelopes come for shelter. The carpet is a weaving of sweet grasses ; But at last the impatient life-givers marry The marshes which in the Springtime are green with
tule-rush and in Autumn copper-red; Vast sanctuaries for the herons, ducks, pelicans and
plover. Here breed the stately cranes which in the fading year
mount high to the cloudless heavens and circle about
calling for the Southland. Who is their monitor? Who is their pilot?
The mountains afar girdle the Desert as a zone of
amethyst ; Pale, translucent walls of opal, Girdling the Desert as Life is girt by Eternity, They lift their heads high above our tribulation Into the azure vault of Time; Theirs are the airy castles which are set upon foundations
of sapphire. My soul goes out to them as the bird to her secret nest. They are the abode of peace. The vexed soul's brooding
place. Behind them, Creation slumbers, a naked god ; His head pillowed on a rock, molten in the fires of chaos ; He dreams of gods to come. Who shall awake him? Shall the flowers awake him with their tender fingers, or
with the fairy music of their tremulous bells? Larkspur and blue-bells, lupins, spikes of lapislazuli ; Wild sweet-william, pink as Aurora's bed? Sunflowers which on rocky hillsides flaunt the banners of
their conquest? And golden seas of rabbit-brush which roll to the sunset,
commingling ?
6 ​
The flowers bloom in the Desert joyously. They do not weary themselves with questioning ; They are careless whether they be seen, or praised. They blossom unto life perfectly and unto death perfectly,
leaving nothing unsaid. They spread a voluptuous carpet for the feet of the Wind And to the frolic Breezes which overleap them, they
whisper: "Stay a moment. Brother ; plunder us of our passion ; "Our day is short, but our beauty is eternal."
Never have I found a place, or a season, without beauty. Neither the sea, where the white stallions champ their
bits and rear against their bridles. Nor the Desert, bride of the Sun, which sits scornful,
apart, Like an unwooed Princess, careless ; indifferent. She spreads her garments, wonderful beyond estimation. And embroiders continually her mantle. She is a queen, seated on a throne of gold In the Hall of Silence. She insists upon humility. She insists upon meditation. She insists that the soul be free. She requires an answer. She demands the final reply to thoughts which cannot be
answered. She lights the Sun for a torch And sets up the great cliffs as sentinels ; The morning and the evening are curtains before her
chambers. She displays the stars as her coronet. She is cruel and invites victims. Restlessly moving her wrists and ankles, Which are loaded with sapphires. Her brown breasts flash with opals. She slays those who fear her, ​
But runs her hand lovingly over the brow of those who
know her, Soothing with a voluptuous caress. She is a courtesan, wearing jewels. Enticing, smiling a bold smile ; Adjusting her brilliant raiment negligently, Lying brooding upon her floor which is richly carpeted ; Her brown thighs beautiful and naked. She toys with the dazzlry of her diadems, Smiling inscrutably.
She is a nun, withdrawing behind her veil; Gray, subdued, silent, mysterious, meditative ;
unapproachable. She is fair as a goddess sitting beneath a flowering peach- tree, beside a clear river. Her body is tawny with the eagerness of the Sun And her eyes are like pools which shine in deep canyons. She is beautiful as a swart woman, with opals at her
throat. Rubies on her wrists and topaz about her ankles. Her breasts are like the evening and the day stars ; She sits upon her throne of light, proud and silent,
indifferent to her wooers. The Sun is her servitor, the Stars are her attendants ;
running before her. She sings a song unto her own ears, solitary, but it is
sufficient. It is the song of her being. O if I may sing the song of
my being it will be sufficient. She is like a jeweled dancer, dancing upon a pavement of
gold; Dazzling, so that the eyes must be shaded. She wears the stars upon her bosom and braids her hair
with the constellations.
I know the Desert is beautiful, for I have lain in her arms
and she has kissed me. I have come to her, that I may know Freedom;
8 ​
That I may lie upon the breast of the Mother and breathe
the air of primal conditions. I have come out from the haunts of men ; From the struggle of wolves upon a carcass, To be melted in Creation's crucible and be made clean ; To know that the law of Nature is freedom.
These are the signs of the Desert :
Light, brilliant and blinding.
Sky and earth ; the pale rim of mountains ; and here, by
my feet, The skull of him that was. I will go out from the Desert while yet I am. I will cast off my fetters and even in rags I will, like a street singer, sing my song. I will sing my song of meditation and defiance ; But even as I go I look back and see the Desert smiling
scornfully. I hear her mocking whisper.
Only Man has enforced his brother;
Only Man has compelled servitude.
Only Man has dwarfed his own godhood, cherished
Poverty and exalted Ugliness. Only Man has defied Nature and set up the idols of his
ignorance. He has denied Freedom and Beauty.
I will not climb unto the Morning peaks and, like a lark, Shoot my exultant song down into the shadows where
the millions drudge and the children are born unto
Labor, But I will lie like a mourner upon the bare and barren
bosom of the Great Mother. I will chant a dirge unto Civilization. I cannot sing a song of Beauty, for Man has put a scar
upon her forehead and twisted her exquisite limbs. ​
I cannot sing a song of Truth, for Man has never yet
perceived the flashing of her eyes. I cannot sing a song of Justice, for Justice stands on a
great height, scornful, like a thunder-cloud brooding on
a dark mountain. I cannot sing a song of Freedom, for Freedom is beyond
this present Night, like a distant star kissing the edge
of the world. Poets have sung of Freedom, but never has Freedom
pressed Man's pale lips. Poets have sung of Justice, but Justice has not dwelt in
the haunts of men. Poets have sung of Beauty, but who has perceived her,
or been folded to the resilient perfection of her bosom? Unless all rejoice in beauty, there is no beauty. A palace is not beautiful if it rest upon a sewer which
defiles its pavements. The gilding gildeth not a charnel-house. Poets have sung of Truth, but who has been burned by
the lightnings of his eyes, or swept by the rushing of
his wings?
I have come into the primal solitude to seek Truth ;
To lie at ease upon the breast of my Mother,
And to be athirst amid the primal conditions.
Nothing will I sing of quaint conceit or purring softness.
Wresting my thought unto a rhyming word,
But I will sing a dirge unto Civilization.
It is a brazen mirror wherein all is distorted ;
A chattering of monkeys who are foolish proud
Because they have put on clothes.
They imitate each other in the follies of their ignorance ;
And all is falsity. They mould all to a false pattern.
The blind correcting the blind.
The more ignorant compelling the less ignorant.
The dumb sheep ordered not with a shepherd's crook, but
with a sword ; The souls of the Rare Ones ruled by the drooling Many,
lO ​
Or the souls of the hungry hordes ruled by their
Oppressors. Neither the freedom of the primal struggle, Nor the freedom of the ultimate peace. Society, a hoofed monster, trampling to death the race. Truth, dweller in the starry places, More elusive than moonlight upon the sea, tremulous. Let me behold your brow which is vague as night, infinite. Let me look into your eyes which are deeper than the
skies of this Desert.
Where are you. Truth, where are you?
Shadowy, appearing, disappearing, ever retreating.
As the mirage of the Desert which lures to the glittering
Death-spaces ; always advancing, never overtaken.
Your smile is serene as death.
And your hand is comforting.
Where are you, Truth, where are you?
The Desert is empty, vague, vast and terrifying ;
Its stillness is as the spaces between the stars.
So that I hear the murmur of my own heart and am afraid.
I look up to the sky, which is eternal,
And down to the hot sand, which is eternal,
And I am afraid of my littleness.
I know the brevity of my existence.
Which is like the passing of the shadow of a cloud.
I salute the little mottled lizard which intently watches me;
I salute you. Brother ;
Yet I know I am greater than you ; greater than all else.
I am to myself greater than the Desert, or the world.
Or the curiously peering stars.
I feel that I am, in a mysterious way,
Part of Time ; part of Eternity.
When I have saluted Death and taken him by the hand,
I shall be absolved and know no more ;
Even as these white skulls and ribs know no more.
Nevertheless, I am now a part of Time and I shall then be
II ​As fully as the sun or the stars.
Indestructibly a part of Eternity.
Where are you, Truth, where are you?
The Desert is pitiless.
I am frightened of its bigness and its indifference.
I am alone, an atom thrown out from Eternity,
Allotted to do my part.
I will do my part, and it shall be my own.
I refuse to be moulded in the common mould,
None different from another.
I refuse to step regularly according to custom; To measure myself among the monotonous patterns laid out before me.
I will be myself and obey the voice within me
Which impetuously cries to be free; To wander imperiously, destroying the paths,
The moulds and the patterns.
O Truth discover yourself unto me.
[Enter Truth, with shining wings.]
TRUTH:
Ask, and I will answer.