Gary Snyder- A Cool Guy? That's a Generous Understatement.

By K. T. Mitchell
Last Friday, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Gary Snyder gave an intimate talk to about sixty or so poetry lovers at UC Davis. Introduced by Professor John Boe as a "Cool guy," Snyder assumed the podium in characteristically Zen form, relaxed and in Snyder's words, "script-less."One could sense the gentle affection between the two former colleagues and current friends.

That informal air perfectly fit Snyder's tone for the talk. Clad in jeans, a vest and well worn farming boots, Snyder began with the intent of discussing what is useful for writers but, thankfully, he meandered through a variety of topics.

To start with, he expressed the difficulty of trying to catch up on one's work as well as the satisfaction of going through one's files, looking at a project and saying to himself, "I don't need to do that."He told the writers in the audience if they wanted to complete their projects, "Don't be tempted by going on too many trips."(Gulp. This writer has been guilty of that.)

Snyder shared had just attended the annual Association of Writers & Writing Programs conference in Denver where he was "the entertainment," one performing poet among many. He asked the UC Davis audience, "Was anybody there?" Silence was the reply. "Nobody?" He raised his brow and said, "Good for you!"

Aside from the identity politics Snyder noted at the conference, he also observed the industry's interest were oriented towards prose, not poetry. Snyder asserted poetry is not a career. It is a calling. Poets have to find other ways to make a living then relax into their artistry. He encouraged the writers present to write fiction or another type of prose if they want to have a chance, albeit a slim one, of becoming a writer. Still, Snyder emphasized the importance of poets' contributions to society. "The community poet" and the "national poet" are "equally valuable," said Snyder, but "it doesn't matter too much to be a poet in

Then Snyder turned to a topic he admitted he rarely spoke of-- how his family affected his development as a poet. "I think there is a gene for language," said Snyder before revealing the talents that ran on his maternal side. Snyder's maternal grandmother and great grandmother had a talent for writing eloquent letters in gorgeous handwriting. His mother ran away to college to study English because Snyder's grandmother thought college would make his mother "worldly." Snyder's mother hid in the womens' dorms until his grandmother came in attempt to retrieve her. The women of the dorm convinced Snyder's grandmother to let his mother stay, in spite of the older woman's wishes.

Unfortunately, the Great Depression forced Snyder's mother quit school. Snyder grew up listening to his mother's stories, her talk about her inherent greatness as a writer and her complaints that she never got to completely exercise her skill as a writer. He recalled as a child living during the Depression there were only two books on their subsistence farm outside of Seattle, a Bible and a book by Robert Browning. In spite of the adversity Snyder's mother faced, she went on to become an investigative reporter at a few newspapers, starting at the Vancouver Sun during WWII. It was from her Snyder learned it was "ok to become a writer."Moreover he learned one "has to be nuts and obsessed to keep writing, even when it seems like there is no reason to."

At an early age, Snyder absorbed that message. In seventh grade, when a teacher asked Snyder what wanted to do when he grew up, Snyder surprised himself when he replied he "wanted to write essays on wilderness conservation." During that time,Snyder wrote a letter to Congress against logging that did not got a response. Snyder never felt attracted to journalism. It was "too capitalist" for his taste. Snyder left home at age fifteen. He ended up getting involved in snow peak mountaineering. The dangers of climbing ice with ropes and pick axes fascinated him. It was during his mountaineering days that Snyder found poetry because he couldn't find another language to express the "cold discomfort" of his "sensory experience."Snyder felt that poetry was the only language that could engage with the senses while "expressing complex feelings about doing things when other people are in sleeping bed."

From there, Snyder recounted the more well known aspects of his writing career, particularly studying Asian languages and his time in San Francisco during its literary renaissance. He revealed some little known gems; Rip Rap was written by campfire light in the high country of Yosemite, the original title of Ginsburg's Howl was "Strophs."

Snyder also shared that during his time in Japan his Zen master taught his poetry would be good as long as it came from his true self. Initially, he worried quite a bit about that teaching, so much so he stopped writing for some time. Eventually he stopped worrying about that or whether his work was good. "I don't write poems unless they force themselves on me and I don't write prose unless I can't help myself," Snyder said. As he ended the talk, Snyder pondered aloud if that could have been what his teacher meant by "the true self."

This writer felt thankful that Snyder, who seemed incapable of pretension or insincerity, freely revealed his truest self throughout the talk without premeditation and in one on one conversation. It felt enlightening to listen to him personally tell me about his recent activism in his woodland community against over development, oil drilling and gold mining that would destroy the ecosystem. It also felt nice to tell him how much I enjoyed his poetry as an escape from every day drudgery and as a study for my own work. I gave his arm a pat and we told each other we hoped to meet again.

In short, Snyder's charismatic languidity was pretty cool.