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Gary Snyder

Gary Snyder

Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
 
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.

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Other works by Gary Snyder...
Axe Handles

One afternoon the last week in Ap… Showing Kai how to throw a hatche… One-half turn and it sticks in a s… He recalls the hatchet-head Without a handle, in the shop
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All this new stuff goes on top turn it over, turn it over wait and water down from the dark bottom turn it inside out
How Poetry Comes to Me

It comes blundering over the Boulders at night, it stays Frightened outside the Range of my campfire I go to meet it at the
Saying Farewell at the Monastery after Hearing the Old Master Lecture on “Return to the Source”

At the last turn in the path “goodbye—” —bending, bowing, (moss and a bit of wild
At Tower Peak

Every tan rolling meadow will turn… Freeways are clogged all day Academies packed with scholars wri… City people lean and dark This land most real
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Kisiabaton

Beat-up datsun idling in the road shreds of fog almost-vertical hillsides drop awa… huge stumps fading into mist soft warm rain
Meeting the Mountains

He crawls to the edge of the foami… He backs up the slab ledge He puts a finger in the water He turns to a trapped pool Puts both hands in the water
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For All

Ah to be alive on a mid-September morn fording a stream barefoot, pants rolled up, holding boots, pack on,
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Burning Island

O Wave God who broke through… Sea Bream massive pink and silver cool swimming down with me watchin… staying away from the spear
Finding the Space in the Heart

I first saw it in the sixties, driving a Volkswagen camper with a fierce gay poet and a lovely but dangerous girl with a h… we came down from Canada
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Hay for the Horses

He had driven half the night From far down San Joaquin Through Mariposa, up the Dangerous Mountain roads, And pulled in at eight a.m.
The Dance

Izanami gave birth to rocks, trees, rivers… and last, a blazing child so burned she died. In the land of darkness
Night Song of The Los Angeles Basin

Owl calls, pollen dust blows Swirl of light strokes writhing knot-tying light paths,
Old Bones

Out there walking round, looking o… a rootstock, a birdcall, a seed th… plucking, digging, snaring, snaggi… barely getting by, no food out there on dusty slopes…
Piute Creek

One granite ridge A tree, would be enough Or even a rock, a small creek, A bark shred in a pool. Hill beyond hill, folded and twist…



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