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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...
Four Poems for Robin

Siwashing it out once in Siuslaw… I slept under rhododendron All night blossoms fell Shivering on a sheet of cardboar… Feet stuck in my pack
Above Pate Valley

We finished clearing the last Section of trail by noon, High on the ridge-side Two thousand feet above the creek Reached the pass, went on
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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…
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…
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Izanami gave birth to rocks, trees, rivers… and last, a blazing child so burned she died. In the land of darkness
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
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.
Kyoto: March

A few light flakes of snow Fall in the feeble sun; Birds sing in the cold, A warbler by the wall. The plum Buds tight and chill soon bloom.
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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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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
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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“O hell, what do mine eyes with grief behold?” Working with an old Singlejack miner, who can sense The vein and cleavage
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Clearing the mind and sliding in to that created space, a web of waters steaming over rock… air misty but not raining, seeing this land from a boat on a…
Getting in the Wood

The sour smell, blue stain, water squirts out round the wedge, Lifting quarters of rounds covered with ants,
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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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