THE IMMOBILE WIND Blue waves within the stone Emotion, undulant, alone. Curled wings flow beyond perceiving. Swift points of sight, mystic and amorous little hands, The wind has drunk as water swallows sifting sands. The wings of a butterfly Tentatively; as men die In thought, that have not sinned. THE PRIESTHOOD We stand apart That men may see The lines about our eyes. We perish, we Who die in art, Of one who speaks Wherein he lies. DEATH GOES BEFORE ME Death goes before me on his hands and knees, And we go down among the bending trees. Weeping I go, and no man gives me ease I am that strange thing that each strange eye sees. Eyes of the silence, and all life an eye, Turn in the wind; and always I walk by. Too still I go, and all things go from me As down far autumn beaches a man runs to the sea. My hands are cold, my lips are thin and dumb. Charles Erskine Scott Wood THE POET IN THE DESERT Extracts from the Prologue 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 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 mountains afar girdle the desert as a zone of amethyst; Girdling the desert as life is girt by eternity. They lift their heads high above our tribulation Into the asure 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 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, 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 dazzelry 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, 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 sufficientIt is the song of her being. Oh, 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; 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. Edith Wyatt ON THE GREAT PLATEAU In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Cool-breathed waters dip and dally, linger towards another dayFar and far away-far away. Slow their floating step, but tireless, terraced down the great plateau. Towards our ways of steam and wireless, silver-paced the brook beds go. Past the ladder-walled pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, Where the back-locked river's ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, Shining backwards, singing downwards; towards horizons blue and bay. All the roofs the roads ensconce so dream of visions far awaySanta Cruz and Ildefonso, Santa Clara, Santa Fé. Ancient, sacred fears and faiths, ancient, sacred faiths and fearsSome were real, some were wraiths-Indian, Franciscan years, Built the kivas, swung the bells; while the wind sang plain and free, Turn your eyes from visioned hells!-look as far as you can see!" In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Dying dreams divide and dally, crystal-terraced waters sallyLinger towards another day, far and far away-far away. As you follow where you find them, up along the high plateau, Past the ladder-walled pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, Where the trenched waters' ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, Shining backwards, singing downwards towards horizons blue and bay. |