Rexroth Kenneth - In the Sierra: mountain writings

The bottle stayed on its rock, nobody could hit it. Looking back over the peaks and canyons from the last lake, The pattern of human beings seemed simpler Than the diagonals of water and stone. Climbing the chute, up the melting snow and broken rock, I remembered what you said about Sacco, How it slipped your mind and you demanded it be read into the record. Traversing below the ragged arte, One cheek pressed against the rock The wind slapping the other, I saw you both marching in an army You with the red and black flag, Sacco with the rattlesnake banner. I kicked steps up the last snow bank and came To the indescribably blue and fragrant Polemonium and the dead sky and the sterile Crystalline granite and final monolith of the summit. These are the things that will last a long time, Vanzetti, I am glad that once on your day I have stood among them.

Some day mountains will be named after you and Sacco. They will be here and your name with them, When these days are but a dim remembering of the time When man was wolf to man. I think men will be remembering you a long time Standing on the mountains Many men, a long time, comrade. NORTH PALISADE, THE END OF SEPTEMBER, 1939 The sun drops daily down the sky, The long cold crawls near, The aspen spills its gold in the air, Lavish beyond the mind. This is the last peak, the last climb. New snow freckles the granite.

The imperious seasons have granted Courage of a different kind. Once more only in the smother Of storm will the wary rope Vanquish uncertain routes, This year or another. Once more only will the peak rise Lucent above the dropping storm, Skilled hand and steadfast foot accord Victory of the brain and eye. Practice is done, the barren lake That mirrors this nights fire Will hold unwinking unknown stars In its unblemished glaze. Now winter nights enlarge The number of our hours, They march to test their power, We to betray their march. Their rabbit words and weasel minds Play at a losing game.

Ours is the unity of aim, Theirs the diversity of pride. Their victories on either side Drive more deep the iron. Ours is the victory to claim, Ours is the peace to find. HIKING ON THE COAST RANGE On the Anniversary of the Killing of
Sperry and Conderakias in the
San Francisco General Strike
Their Blood Spilled on the Pavement
Of the Embarcadero The skirl of the kingfisher was never More clear than now, nor the scream of the jay, As the deer shifts her covert at a footfall; Nor the butterfly tulip ever brighter In the white spent wheat; nor the pain Of a wasp stab ever an omen more sure; The blood alternately dark and brilliant On the blue and white bandana pattern. This is the source of evaluation, This minimal prince ruperts drop of blood; The patellae suspended within it, Leucocytes swimming freely between them, The strands of fibrin, the mysterious Chemistry of the serum; is alone The measure of time, the measure of space, The measure of achievement. There is no Other source than this.

ON WHAT PLANET Uniformly over the whole countryside The warm air flows imperceptibly seaward; The autumn haze drifts in deep bands Over the pale water; White egrets stand in the blue marshes; Tamalpais, Diablo, St. Helena Float in the air. Climbing on the cliffs of Hunters Hill We look out over fifty miles of sinuous Interpenetration of mountains and sea. Leading up a twisted chimney, Just as my eyes rise to the level Of a small cave, two white owls Fly out, silent, close to my face. They hover, confused in the sunlight, And disappear into the recesses of the cliff. All day I have been watching a new climber, A young girl with ash blonde hair And gentle confident eyes.

She climbs slowly, precisely, With unwasted grace. While I am coiling the ropes, Watching the spectacular sunset, She turns to me and says, quietly, It must be very beautiful, the sunset, On Saturn, with the rings and all the moons. TOWARD AN ORGANIC PHILOSOPHY SPRING, COAST RANGE The glow of my campfire is dark red and flameless, The circle of white ash widens around it. I get up and walk off in the moonlight and each time I look back the red is deeper and the light smaller. Scorpio rises late with Mars caught in his claw; The moon has come before them, the light Like a choir of children in the young laurel trees. It is April; the shad, the hot headed fish, Climbs the rivers; there is trillium in the damp canyons; The foetid adders tongue lolls by the waterfall.

There was a farm at this campsite once, it is almost gone now. There were sheep here after the farm, and fire Long ago burned the redwoods out of the gulch, The Douglas fir off the ridge; today the soil Is stony and incoherent, the small stones lie flat And plate the surface like scales. Twenty years ago the spreading gully Toppled the big oak over onto the house. Now there is nothing left but the foundations Hidden in poison oak, and above on the ridge, Six lonely, ominous fenceposts; The redwood beams of the barn make a footbridge Over the deep waterless creek bed; The hills are covered with wild oats Dry and white by midsummer. I walk in the random survivals of the orchard. In a patch of moonlight a mole Shakes his tunnel like an angry vein; Orion walks waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean; Leo crouches under the zenith.

There are tiny hard fruits already on the plum trees. The purity of the apple blossoms is incredible. As the wind dies down their fragrance Clusters around them like thick smoke. All the day they roared with bees, in the moonlight They are silent and immaculate. SPRING, SIERRA NEVADA Once more golden Scorpio glows over the col Above Deadman Canyon, orderly and brilliant, Like an inspiration in the brain of Archimedes. I have seen its light over the warm sea, Over the coconut beaches, phosphorescent and pulsing; And the living light in the water Shivering away from the swimming hand, Creeping against the lips, filling the floating hair.

Here where the glaciers have been and the snow stays late, The stone is clean as light, the light steady as stone. The relationship of stone, ice and stars is systematic and enduring; Novelty emerges after centuries, a rock spalls from the cliffs, The glacier contracts and turns grayer, The stream cuts new sinuosities in the meadow, The sun moves through space and the earth with it, The stars change places. The snow has lasted longer this year, Than anyone can remember. The lowest meadow is a lake, The next two are snowfields, the pass is covered with snow, Only the steepest rocks are bare. Between the pass And the last meadow the snowfield gapes for a hundred feet, In a narrow blue chasm through which a waterfall drops, Spangled with sunset at the top, black and muscular Where it disappears again in the snow. The world is filled with hidden running water That pounds in the ears like ether; The granite needles rise from the snow, pale as steel; Above the copper mine the cliff is blood red, The white snow breaks at the edge of it; The sky comes close to my eyes like the blue eyes Of someone kissed in sleep.