In 1965, three Beat poets, Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg, and Philip Whalen met at the base of Mount Tamalpais, just north of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Echoing the example of Tibetan monks, they walked clockwise around the mountain, modeling the path of the sun in a posture of meditation and contemplation. They started a unique tradition for many who make the mountain pilgrimage to participate in the 15-mile circumambulation (“circumTam”), four times a year. Although it began with Shinto and Buddhist influences, Snyder says its purpose is simply a creative one: “The main thing is to pay your regards, to play, to engage, to stop and pay attention. It’s just a way of stopping and looking — at yourself too.”
The talking tribe, I find, want sensation from the mountain — not in Keat’s sense. Beginners, not unnaturally, do the same — I did myself. They want the startling view, the horrid pinnacle — sips of beer and tea instead of milk. Yet often the mountain gives itself most completely when I have no destination, when I reach nowhere in particular, but have gone out merely to be with the mountain as one visits a friend with no intention but to be with him.” —Nan Shepard, The Living Mountain
Try it: Mountain Pilgrimage Poems
Have you felt the pull of mountains on your soul? Have your family vacations taken you there? Think about what draws you, or others, to their peaks of crisp air. What is it about a mountain that inspires you? Write a poem reflecting on a mountain pilgrimage, either real or imagined.
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Featured Poem:
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here is a recent poem from Rick we enjoyed:
Window
Outside, the Maple seeds turn as they fall,
turn in complex spirals from their branches.
Sleep, baby, as I rock, as the Maple sways
in the gusts of air, shaking loose its twirling birds.
I have been you, wrapped warm near a forgotten pane,
seasons rushing, now it seems, through dresses, shoes,
cap and veil, the leaves rolling behind my eyes,
over Fall lawns, then buried under flawless snows.
What shapes and sound conspire to bring you dreams,
before you discover the scattering force of the world.
There will be a morning when you rise and find a road away
from me, my love left pressed like Maple leaves in a book.
Years will pass in pages I write to keep you
in my heart; the years will turn in orbits near and far.
For now, by this window, I hold you, your touch
like the small fingers of the rain—beyond us,
the leaves, and the indifferent arms of the wind.
—by Rick Maxson
Photo by Pawel Pacholec. Creative Commons via Flickr.
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Megan Willome says
Love this, Heather! I’ve written a few poems about hikes I’ve taken in Rocky Mountain National Park, where we spent practically every family vacation when the kids were growing up. Unlike Nan Shepard, I like specific destinations, There and Back Again. Each poem is named after an actual destination.
Bear Lake
When you were two, one
hike was all I — pregnant — could handle.
We picked the easiest, most popular hike.
Bear Lake, elevation 9,450. But a trail
the length of a lonely football field
threaded between boulders and pines
was almost too much for me.
“Where are the bears?” You wanted to know.
I said, “It’s hot. They’re napping.”
They weren’t
They were watching
Donna Falcone says
GULP!
I love it, Megan!
Rick Maxson says
Ah! Megan, smart answer. They’re always watching. Love your poem. I used to live in the Rockies and I miss them. It’s on my list, with Sequoias, Yellowstone, Vancouver, and the Snake river.
Megan Willome says
The Snake is wonderful! By late June there should be good snowmelt.
Rick Maxson says
Heather, thank you for featuring Window.
Rick Maxson says
Mountain
We wrestle with the mountains,
climb their sheer bluffs to the top,
lie down in their crown of snow.
It has always been there, never melting,
never falling to the ground.
On the mountain we would be invisible
in moonlight, like those who are there now.
When they speak to us, their echoes
follow the shadows of the clouds
down into the valleys, into the towns
and fall silent under trees,
where the wind moves
the speckled sunlight over the bowing grasses.
lynn says
Love these mountain poems! I grew up in Denver and we will return soon…my husband plans to climb Long’s Peak so I wrote this “Planned Pilgrimage”:
sixty-one years young,
he feels lean, fit and
needs mountain to climb;
wants to test stamina on
tough colorado 14er, even
if summit proves stronger.
silence any fear of lion or bear,
concentrate on challenges of
altitude, rock scale, exposure.
drawn from flatland stress
toward heights of serenity,
he packs gear for one, solo
climb yet won’t be alone;
God descends mountain and
i will long for him at the peak.
Megan Willome says
Long’s is in my bucket list, and I have family in Estes. But I need to be up there more than a few days to get acclimated for that climb.