Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE DESERT, by HENRY (HARRY) HERBERT KNIBBS Poet's Biography First Line: Twas the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul Last Line: Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun and the old home trail ahead. Subject(s): Cowboys; Coyotes; Death; Deserts; Food & Eating; Ranch Life; West (u.s.); Dead, The; Southwest; Pacific States | ||||||||
'TWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry! "He came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell; And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done. He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell, Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop just one." "His name?" I asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin: "His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, And I watched his face as he spelled it out laughed as I laughed, and died. "And thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast, And mine." I fumbled and pulled my gun emptied it wild and fast, But one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast; There lay the shape of the Liar, dead! 'Twas I that should laugh the last. Laugh? Nay, now I would write my name as the Upland Rider wrote; Write? What need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line I saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float Into a mist as the world grew dark; and I knew that the name was mine. Dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain; Hands that proffered a brimming cup empty, ere I could take; Then the burst of a thunder-head rain! It was rude, fierce rain! Blindly down to the hole I crept, shivering, drenched, awake! Dawn and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame, As stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that I thought was dead; But never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name; Just a rain-washed track and an empty gun and the old home trail ahead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WESTERN WAGONS by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET DRIVING WEST IN 1970 by ROBERT BLY IN THE HELLGATE WIND by MADELINE DEFREES A PERIOD PORTRAIT OF SYMPATHY by EDWARD DORN ASSORTED COMPLIMENTS by EDWARD DORN AT THE COWBOY PANEL by EDWARD DORN IT WAS OVERLAND THE RED by HENRY (HARRY) HERBERT KNIBBS |
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