The Ship in the Desert E-Book

Joaquin Miller

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In "The Ship in the Desert," Joaquin Miller masterfully intertwines themes of exploration and nostalgia within the realm of American poetry. The work reflects both a deep appreciation for the majestic landscapes of the Western United States and an acute awareness of the human condition. Miller employs vivid imagery and rich symbolism, drawing parallels between the seafaring vessels and the steadfastness of the desert, suggesting a broader commentary on yearning and isolation. The poem's lyrical style is representative of the late 19th-century American Romantic movement, highlighting the tension between humanity and nature in an increasingly industrialized society. Joaquin Miller, often heralded as the "Poet of the Sierras," was a pioneering figure in American literature, known for his adventurous spirit and bohemian lifestyle. His experiences, including travels to the American West and even a stint as a gold miner, deeply influenced his writing. Miller's works often reflect his personal encounters with nature and the struggles emboldened by the American experience, providing a rich backdrop for the powerful themes explored in "The Ship in the Desert." This collection is a must-read for enthusiasts of American poetry and anyone intrigued by the complexities of nature and the human spirit. Miller's evocative language invites readers on a poignant journey through the arid landscapes of the desert, encouraging reflection on one's own voyages. Delve into this poetic masterpiece to explore the evocative intersections of adventure, solitude, and the search for meaning.

Leseprobe

Joaquin Miller

The Ship in the Desert

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4057664561701

Table of Contents

PREFACE.

THE SHIP IN THE DESERT.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

PREFACE.

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WITH deep reverence I inscribe these lines, my dear parents, to you. I see you now, away beyond the seas, beyond the lands where the sun goes down in the Pacific like some great ship of fire, resting still on the green hills, watching your herds, waiting

"Where rolls the Oregon, And hears no sound save its own dashing."

Nearly a quarter of a century ago you took me the long and lonesome half-year's journey across the mighty continent, wild, and rent, and broken up, and sown with sand and ashes, and crossed by tumbling, wooded rivers that ran as if glad to get away, fresh and strange and new as if but half-fashioned from the hand of God.

All the time as I tread this strange land I re-live those scenes, and you are with me. How dark and deep, how sullen, strong, and lion-like the mighty Missouri rolled between his walls of untracked wood and cleft the unknown domain of the middle world before us!

Then the frail and buffeted rafts on the river, the women and children huddled together, the shouts of the brawny men as they swam with the bellowing cattle; the cows in the stormy stream, eddying, whirling, spinning about, calling to their young, their bright horns shining in the sun.... The wild men waiting on the other side, painted savages leaning silent on their bows, despising our weakness, opening a way, letting us pass on to the unknown distances, where they said the sun and moon lay down together and brought forth the stars.... The long and winding lines of wagons, the graves by the wayside, the women weeping together as they passed on. Then hills, then plains, parched lands like Syria, dust, and ashes, and alkali, cool streams with woods, camps by night, great wood fires in circles, tents in the centre like Cæsar's battle-camps, painted men that passed like shadows, showers of arrows, the wild beasts howling from the hill....

You, my dear parents, will pardon the thread of fiction on which I have strung these scenes and descriptions of a mighty land of mystery, and wild and savage grandeur, for the world will have its way, and, like a spoiled child, demands a tale.

"Yea, We who toil and earn our bread Still have our masters...."

A ragged and broken story it is, with long deserts, with alkali and ashes, yet it may, like the land it deals of, have some green places, and woods, and running waters, where you can rest....

Three times now I have ranged the great West in fancy, as I did in fact for twenty years, and gathered unknown and unnamed blossoms from mountain-top, from desert level, where man never ranged before, and asked the world to receive my weeds, my grasses, and blue-eyed blossoms. But here it ends. Good or bad, I have done enough of this work on the border. The Orient promises a more grateful harvest.

I have been true to my West. She has been my only love. I have remembered her greatness. I have done my work to show to the world her vastness, her riches, her resources, her valor and her dignity, her poetry and her grandeur. Yet while I was going on, working so in silence, what were the things she said of me? But let that pass, my dear parents. Others will come after us. Possibly I have blazed out the trail for great minds over this field, as you did across the deserts and plains for great men a quarter of a century ago.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

Lake Como, Italy.

THE SHIP IN THE DESERT.

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I.

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A MAN in middle Aridzone

Stood by the desert's edge alone,

And long he look'd, and lean'd. He peer'd,

Above his twirl'd and twisted beard,

Beneath his black and slouchy hat ...

Nay, nay, the tale is not of that.

A skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip,

Stood on a mountain top, and he

Look'd long and still and eagerly.

"It looks so like some lonesome ship

That sails this ghostly lonely sea,—

This dried-up desert sea," said he,

"These tawny sands of Arazit" ...

Avaunt! the tale is not of it.

A chief from out the desert's rim

Rode swift as twilight swallows swim,

Or eagle blown from eyrie nest.

His trim-limb'd steed was black as night,

His long black hair had blossom'd white,

With feathers from the koko's crest;

His iron face was flush'd and red,

His eyes flash'd fire as he fled,

For he had seen unsightly things;

Had felt the flapping of their wings.

A wild and wiry man was he,

This tawny chief of Shoshonee;

And O his supple steed was fleet!

About his breast flapp'd panther skins,

About his eager flying feet

Flapp'd beaded, braided moccasins:

He rode as rides the hurricane;

He seem'd to swallow up the plain;

He rode as never man did ride,

He rode, for ghosts rode at his side,

And on his right a grizzled grim—

No, no, this tale is not of him.

An Indian warrior lost his way

While prowling on this desert's edge

In fragrant sage and prickly hedge,

When suddenly he saw a sight,

And turn'd his steed in eager flight.

He rode right through the edge of day,

He rode into the rolling night.

He lean'd, he reach'd an eager face,

His black wolf skin flapp'd out and in,

And tiger claws on tiger skin

Held seat and saddle to its place;

But that gray ghost that clutch'd thereat ...

Arrête! the tale is not of that.

A chieftain touch'd the desert's rim

One autumn eve: he rode alone

And still as moon-made shadows swim.

He stopp'd, he stood as still as stone,

He lean'd, he look'd, there glisten'd bright

From out the yellow yielding sand

A golden cup with jewell'd rim.

He lean'd him low, he reach'd a hand,

He caught it up, he gallop'd on,

He turn'd his head, he saw a sight ...

His panther skins flew to the wind,

The dark, the desert lay behind;

The tawny Ishmaelite was gone;

But something sombre as death is ...

Tut, tut! the tale is not of this.

A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown,

From farthest desert touched the town,

And, striding through the crowd, held up

Above his head a jewell'd cup.

He put two fingers to his lip,

He whisper'd wild, he stood a-tip,

And lean'd the while with lifted hand,

And said, "A ship lies yonder dead,"

And said, "Doubloons lie sown in sand

In yon far desert dead and brown,

Beyond where wave-wash'd walls look down,

As thick as stars set overhead.

That three shipmasts uplift like trees" ...

Away! the tale is not of these.

An Indian hunter held a plate

Of gold above his lifted head,

Around which kings had sat in state ...

"'Tis from that desert ship," they said,

"That sails with neither sail nor breeze,

Or galleon, that sank below

Of old, in olden dried-up seas,

Ere yet the red men drew the bow."

But wrinkled women wagg'd the head,

And walls of warriors sat that night

In black, nor streak of battle red,

Around against the red camp light,

And told such wondrous tales as these

Of wealth within their dried-up seas.

And one, girt well in tiger's skin,

Who stood, like Saul, above the rest,

With dangling claws about his breast,

A belt without, a blade within,

A warrior with a painted face,

And lines that shadow'd stern and grim,

Stood pointing east from his high place,

And hurling thought like cannon shot,

Stood high with visage flush'd and hot ...

But, stay! this tale is not of him.

II.

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By Arizona's sea of sand

Some bearded miners, gray and old,

And resolute in search of gold,

Sat down to tap the savage land.

They tented in a canñon's mouth

That gaped against the warm wide south,

And underneath a wave-wash'd wall,

Where now nor rains nor winds may fall,

They delved the level salt-white sands

For gold, with bold and hornéd hands.

A miner stood beside his mine,

He pull'd his beard, then look'd away

Across the level sea of sand,

Beneath his broad and hairy hand,

A hand as hard as knots of pine.

"It looks so like a sea," said he.

He pull'd his beard, and he did say,

"It looks just like a dried-up sea."

Again he pull'd that beard of his,

But said no other thing than this.

A stalwart miner dealt a stroke,

And struck a buried beam of oak.

An old ship's beam the shaft appear'd,

With storm-worn faded figure-head.

The miner twisted, twirled his beard,

Lean'd on his pick-axe as he spoke:

"'Tis from some long-lost ship," he said,

"Some laden ship of Solomon

That sail'd these lonesome seas upon

In search of Ophir's mine, ah me!

That sail'd this dried-up desert sea." ...

Nay, nay, 'tis not a tale of gold,

But ghostly land storm-slain and old.

III.

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But this the tale. Along a wide

And sounding stream some silent braves,