{"id":553,"date":"2010-04-09T23:11:53","date_gmt":"2010-04-09T23:11:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.beliefnet.com\/apagansblog\/2010\/04\/mt-tamalpais-two-poems-and-national-poetry-month.html"},"modified":"2010-04-09T23:11:53","modified_gmt":"2010-04-09T23:11:53","slug":"mt-tamalpais-two-poems-and-national-poetry-month","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/apagansblog\/2010\/04\/mt-tamalpais-two-poems-and-national-poetry-month.html","title":{"rendered":"Mt. Tamalpais, Two Poems, and National Poetry Month"},"content":{"rendered":"

This is National Poetry Month, and as spring caresses the hills of northern California, one of the most magickal places in the San Francisco Bar Area, Mt. Tamalpais, is rising serenely above the hustle and bustle below, the good and the bad, the nasty and the generous, clothed in waving grasses and spring flowers and trees of infinite shape.  Mt. Tam is one of my most treasured places, one of the most ethereal places I know, and I’ll be there tomorrow.  <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Here are two poems about that wonderful place, by J. L. Stanley and Kenneth Rexroth.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n


\n<\/p>\n

Firetrail at Midnight on Mt. Tamalpais<\/a><\/b><\/font><\/div>\n

<\/font><\/div>\n
I walk by starlight<\/font><\/div>\n
up the winding fire-trail<\/font><\/div>\n
between sandstone and scrub oak,<\/font><\/div>\n
up to the edge of a terrible cliff<\/font><\/div>\n
and listen to the waves break<\/font><\/div>\n
so far below.<\/font><\/div>\n

<\/font><\/div>\n
The stars explode here<\/font><\/div>\n
Away from the city glare,<\/font><\/div>\n
They skitter and hiss<\/font><\/div>\n
Making me gasp<\/font><\/div>\n
As they fall from the sky.<\/font><\/div>\n

<\/font><\/div>\n
I feel several thousand years<\/font><\/div>\n
Younger, as I pause,<\/font><\/div>\n
Closed in and breathless<\/font><\/div>\n
On this moonless night wondering<\/font><\/div>\n
When I had forgotten the sea<\/font><\/div>\n
And the stars and roads that wind slowly.<\/font><\/div>\n

<\/font><\/div>\n
And if I could believe<\/font><\/div>\n
This road would lead<\/font><\/div>\n
To other roads and on and on<\/font><\/div>\n
It would be enough.<\/font><\/div>\n

<\/span><\/font><\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
\u00a9 J.L.Stanley<\/font><\/div>\n

<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
ANDREE REXROTH<\/a><\/b><\/span><\/font><\/div>\n

<\/b><\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Mt. Tamalpais<\/i><\/span><\/font><\/div>\n

<\/i><\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
The years have gone.  It is spring<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Again. Mars and Saturn will<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Soon come on, low in the West,<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
In the dusk.  Now the evening<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Sunlight makes hazy girders<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Over Steep Ravine above<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
The waterfalls.  The winter<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Birds from Oregon, robins<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
And varied thrushes, feast on<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Ripe toyon and madrone<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Berries. The robins sing as<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
The dense light falls.<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
                            Your ashes<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Were scattered in this place. Here<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
I wrote you a farewell poem,<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
And long ago another,<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
A poem of peace and love,<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Of the lassitude of a long<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Spring evening in youth. Now<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
It is almost ten years since<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
You came here to stay. Once more<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
The pussy willows that come<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
After the New Year in this<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Outlandish land are blooming.<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
There are deer and racoon tracks<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
In the same places. A few <\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
New sand bars and cobble beds<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Have been left where erosion<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Has gnawed deep into the hills.<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
The sounds of life are narrow.<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
War and peace have past like ghosts.<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
The human race sinks towards<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Oblivion. A bittern<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Calls from the same rushes where<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
You heard one on our first year<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
In the West; and where I heard<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
One again in the year<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
Of your death.<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n

<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n
– Kenneth Rexroth<\/span><\/font><\/div>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This is National Poetry Month, and as spring caresses the hills of northern California, one of the most magickal places in the San Francisco Bar Area, Mt. Tamalpais, is rising serenely above the hustle and bustle below, the good and the bad, the nasty and the generous, clothed in waving grasses and spring flowers and trees of…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[16,112,106],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-553","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-art","category-nature","category-pagan-culture"],"yoast_head":"\nMt. 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