Gary Snyder (born May 8, 1930)

Gary Snyder: Mountain Poems Edited by Peter Y. Chou WisdomPortal.com

Mountains and Rivers Without End (1996)

When Gary Snyder came to Stanford for a Poetry Colloquium (4-10-2013), I told him on attending my first poetry reading in California on Nov. 28, 1986 where he read "The Persimmons" poem (1986). I composed a web page on Mu Chi's Persimmons (1270) comparing it to his poem. Gary Snyder said he has a newer "Mu Chi's Persimmons" poem to send me. He gave me his business card with his home address and UC Davis email. He also signed his Mountains and Rivers Without End (1996) for me. Below are some poems on mountains from this book.

The Black-tailed Hare (pp. 71-72)) The mountains singing to gather th sky and the mist     to bring it down snow-breath                                     ice-banners—     and gather it water sent from the peaks     flanks and folds down arroyos and ditches by highways the water the people to use it, the     mountains and juniper do it for us                 said the rabbit. ************************************ An Offering for Tara (pp. 106-112) These steep eroding mountains, no place for lakes or meadows newest mountains, Bay Krishna Himalaya, snowy Storehouse Mountains, snow-basket Mountains, (p. 109)       On the lofty mountain       Is the nest of a hawk;       On the lofty rock,       The nest of a white hawk (p. 112) ************************************ We Wash Our Bowls in This Water (pp.137-139) Su Tung-p'o sat out on whole night by a creek on the slopes of Mt. Lu. Next morning he showed this poem to his teacher: The stream with its sounds     is a long broad tongue The looming mountain     is a wide-awake body Throughout the night     song after song How can I     speak at dawn. Old Master Chang-tsung approved him. Two centuries later Dogen said, "Sound of streams and shapes of mountains. The sounds never stop and the shapes never cease. Was it Su who woke or was it the mountains and streams? Billioms of beings see the morning star and all become Buddhas! If you, who are valley streams and looming mountains, can't throw some light on     the nature of ridges and rivers, who can?" (pp. 138-139) ************************************

The Mountain Spirit (pp. 140-147) Mountain ranges violet haze back fading in the east puffs of sailing dark-lit cloud, a big owl's swift soft whip between the trees, unroll the bedding, stretch out blankets on the crunchy dry pine needles sun-warm         resinous ground. (p. 142)                         A meteor swift and streaking     like a tossed white pebble               arcing down the sky— the Mountain Spirit stands there.                   Old woman? white ragged hair?         in the glint of Algol, Altair, Deneb, Sadr, Aldebaran— saying, "I came to hear—" I can't say no: I speak       The Mountain Spirit             Walking on walking             under foot earth turns       Streams and mountains never stay the same. (p. 143) The Mountain Spirit whispers back: "All art and song is sacred to the real. As such." Bristlecone pines live long on the taste of carbonate,             dolomite, spiraled standing coiling dead wood with the living, four thousand years of mineral glimmer spaced out growing in the icy airy sky white bones under summer stars. — The Mountain Spirit and me like ripples of the Cambrian Sea dance the pine tree old arms, old limbs, twisting, twining scatter cones across the ground stamp te root-foot DOWN                 and then she's gone. Ceaseless wheel of lives red sandstone and white dolomite.           A few more shooting stars           back to the bedroll, sleep till dawn. (pp. 146-147) ************************************