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Walking in the Snow to Hear Gary Snyder

White “frass” fills the overpass air,

a new word from the Master,

living off the dew of pine needles,

4,000 feet above the Han deluge.

 

What a luxury to trudge

through the city snow

to �����ջ� Island,

afloat above Crystal Springs,

and the Portland premise of rain.

 

All manner of disheveled diehards

hearing him first or heavy hardbacks later,

Firooz from Persia,

explaining how Ginsberg 35 years on the clock,

translated the Iranian Revolution

through the mercuric sieve of Blake.

 

He holds onto his invisible IWW card,

perpetual check-out privileges,

1951 Senior paper,

“He Who Hunted Birds in His Father's Village:

 The Dimensions of a Haida Myth,”

alphabetically found in the round

upper library dome.

 

New Cold Mountain edition,

all calligraphic as his earlier--

famous even with the Party leaders--

not good at it, no patience,

split 3 foot rounds of beetle-kill

instead. 

 

Hay for the Horses,

     Oil,    

          Piute Creek,

sleep by a stream

to purify your ears,

like the Snow Mountain

Mayday first dew hike,

heard the spring song

singing.

[Posted with permission from the author.]