1. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Poet(s) of the Week: Gary Snyder (1930- ) and Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) [Presentation TBA] Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

2. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Poet(s) of the Week: Gary Snyder (1930- )

3. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Poet(s) of the Week: Gary Snyder (1930- )

4. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

5. The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (CBS, 1959- 1963) Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

6. Michael McClure Gary Snyder Allen Ginsberg Jack Kerouac Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

7. Jack Kerouac’s fictional Gary Snyder: Japhy Ryder in The Dharma Bums Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

8. Allen Ginsberg, Howl (1955) I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

9. Allen Ginsberg, Howl (1955) publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares,... Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

10. I am setting the Way Back Machine for 1975. A much publicized event at the University of Florida would bring some major figures from the Beat Movement—Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg, Michael McClure—to campus to honor the great ecologist (and U of F faculty member) Howard T. Odum. It was a fascinating week. I was teaching U of F's first-ever course on Native American Literature, and Snyder, who had made himself available for classroom visits, came to talk to my students. It was a wonderful 50 minutes, and Snyder struck me, as he had when I first saw him in Saint Cloud, Minnesota three years before, as just about the most fully- actualized human being I had ever met. (I should note that this was my LSD period, and I was attentive to such things.) Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

11. Michael McClure Gary Snyder Allen Ginsberg Howard Odum Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

12. But the highlight of the week was a poetry reading to be held in a natural amphitheater around a small pond in the heart of the campus. For events such as these, a platform/stage was laid across the water, and Snyder, McClure, and Ginsberg would read from a podium placed upon it to the assembled multitude. A crowd of several hundred filled the outdoor theatre-in-the- round. (A couple of years later I remember hearing Norman Mailer and Hunter Thompson—who pleaded with the crowd to bring him any good drugs they had—read in the same location.) Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

13. The reading would have been memorable in its own right (Snyder is the greatest reader of his own poetry I have ever heard in person)—even without the heckler. Wandering through the audience a very, very drunk guy in his twenties continued to harangue the poets on the pond. It seemed he wanted to be included on the program— wanted to read his poetry. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

14. Finally, Snyder, who was acting as MC for the evening, took the mike and, in an effort to quiet the heckler (where was security?) offered to let him read one poem if that would shut him up. He accepted the offer and made an anything-but-straight-line for the stage over the pond. The aspiring poet took the podium and pulled a large manuscript of his poetry out of his backpack (the size of the tome brought a moan from the audience) and threw it on podium. As he announced to the hostile crowd "I want to read you my first poem, "Getting a B*#@ J%*," he leaned forward, seeking to steady himself, on the podium, and it tumbled, the manuscript with it, into the pond. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

15. With barely a moment's hesitation, Gary Snyder, in what seems now over thirty years later a surreal moment, leaped down into the shallow pond and retrieved the manuscript. Soon after security arrived and hauled the drunk off, and the reading commenced without further incident. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

16. “The Pagan Poet” “seeks to contact in a very special way an 'other' that was not within the human sphere, something that could not only be learned by venturing outside the orders and going into your own mind-wilderness..." (The Old Ways 36-37) Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

17. From ”Long Hair” Once every year, the Deer catch human beings. They do various things which irresistibly draw men near them: each one selects a certain man. The deer shoots the man, who is then compelled to skin it and carry its meat home and eat it. Then the Deer is inside the man. He waits and hides in there. But the man doesn't know it. When enough Deer have occupied enough men, they will strike all at once. The men who don't have Deer in them will also be taken by surprise, and everything will change some. This is called "takeover from inside.” a prose poem Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

18. Why Log Truck Drivers Rise Earlier Than Students of Zen In the high seat, before-dawn dark, Polished hubs gleam And the shiny diesel stack Warms and flutters Up the Tyler Road grade To the logging on Poorman creek. Thirty miles of dust. There is no other life. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

19. Changing Diapers How intelligent he looks! on his back both feet caught in my one hand his glance set sideways on a piant poster of Geronimo with a Sharp’s repeating rifle by his knee. I open, wipe, he doesn’t even notice nor do I. Baby legs and knees toes like little peas little wrinkles, good-to-eat, eyes bright, shiny ears, chest swelling, drawing air, No trouble, friend, you and me and Geronimo are men. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

20. Song of the Taste Eating the living germs of grasses Eating the ova of large birds the fleshy sweetness packed around the sperm of swaying trees The muscles of the flanks and thighs of soft-voiced cows the bounce in the lamb’s leap the swish in the ox’s tail Eating roots grown swoll inside the soil Drawing on life of living clustered points of light spun out of space hidden in the grape. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

21. Song of the Taste Eating each other’s seed eating ah, each other. Kissing the lover in the mouth of bread: lip to lip. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

22. By Frazier Creek Falls Standing up on lifted, folded rock looking out and down— The creek falls to a far valley, hills beyond that facing, half-forested, dry —clear sky strong wind in the stiff glittering needle clusters of the pine—their brown round trunk bodies straight, still; rustling trembling limbs and twigs listen. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

23. By Frazier Creek Falls This flowing land is all there is, forever We are it it sings through us— We could live on this Earth without clothes or tools! Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

24. I Went Into the Maverick Bar I went into the Maverick Bar In Farmington, New Mexico. And drank double shots of bourbon backed with beer. My long hair was tucked up under a cap I'd left the earring in the car. Two cowboys did horseplay by the pool tables, A waitress asked us where are you from? a country-and-western band began to play "We don't smoke Marijuana in Muskokie" And with the next song, a couple began to dance. Merle Haggard Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

25. I Went Into the Maverick Bar They held each other like in High School dances in the fifties: I recalled when I worked in the woods and the bars of Madras, Oregon That short-haired joy and roughness— America—your stupidity I could almost love you again. We left-onto the freeway shoulders under the tough old stars— In the shadow of bluffs I came back to myself, To the real work, to "What is to be done." Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

26. Prayer for the Great Family Gratitude to Mother Earth, sailing through night and day- and to her soil: rich, rare, and sweet in our minds so be it. Gratitude to Plants, the sun-facing light-changing leaf and fine root-hairs; standing still through wind and rain; their dance is in the now in our minds, so be it. Gratitude to Air, bearing the roaring Swift and the silent Owl at dawn. Breath of our song clear spirit breeze in our minds, so be it. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

27. Prayer for the Great Family Gratitude to Wild Beings, our brothers, teaching secrets, freedoms, and ways; who share with us their milk; self-complete, brave, and aware in our minds, so be it. Gratitude to Water: clouds, lakes, rivers, glaciers; holding or releasing; streaming through all our bodies salty seas in our minds, so be it. Gratitude to the Sun: blinding pulsing light through trunks of trees, through mists, warming caves where bears and snakes sleep—he who wakes us— in our minds so be it Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

28. Prayer for the Great Family Gratitude to the Great Sky who holds billions of stars—and goes yet beyond that— beyond all powers, and thoughts and yet is within us— Grandfather Space. The Mind is his Wife. so be it. after a Mohawk prayer Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

29. How Poetry Comes to Me It comes blundering over the Boulders at night, it stays Frightened outside the Range of my campfire I go to meet it at the Edge of the light Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

30. What You Should Know to be a Poet all you can know about animals as persons. the names of trees and flowers and weeds. the names of stars and the movements of planets and the moon. your own six senses, with a watchful elegant mind. at least one kind of traditional magic: divination, astrology, the book of changes, the tarot; dreams. the illusory demons and the illusory shining gods. kiss the ass of the devil and eat shit; fuck his horny barbed cock, fuck the hag, and all the celestial angels and maidens perfum’d and golden— Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

31. What You Should Know to be a Poet & then love the human: wives husbands and friends children’s games, comic books, bubble-gum, the weirdness of television and advertising. work long, dry hours of dull work swallowed and accepted and lived with and finally loved. exhaustion, hunger, rest. the wild freedom of the dance, exstasy silent solitary illumination, entasy real danger. gambles and the edge of death. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Gary Snyder (1930- )

32. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Poets of the Week: Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) [Presentation TBA] Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

33. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

34. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

35. Ted Hughes (1930-1998) Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

36. The Bell Jar (Larry Peerce, 1979) 1963 Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

37. Sylvia (Christine Jeffs, 2003) Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

38. In the film, Sylvia Plath is, inexplicably, married to Bond, James Bond. Ted Hughes Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

39. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

40. Daddy You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

41. Daddy (2) In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

42. Daddy (3) An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You— Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

43. Daddy (4) Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

44. Daddy (5) But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two— The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

45. Daddy (6) There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through. 12 October 1962 Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

46. Lady Lazarus I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?— Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

47. Lady Lazarus (2) The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

48. Lady Lazarus (3) What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

49. Lady Lazarus (4) The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

50. Sylvia Plath Lady Lazarus (5) It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart— It really goes. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

51. Lady Lazarus (6) And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

52. Lady Lazarus (7) Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. 23-29 October 1962 Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

53. Morning Song Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

54. Morning Song (2) One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

55. Ariel Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God's lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees! — The furrow Splits and passes, sister to The brown arc Of the neck I cannot catch, Nigger-eye Berries cast dark Hooks —— Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

56. Ariel (2) Black sweet blood mouthfuls, Shadows. Something else Hauls me through air —— Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels. White Godiva, I unpeel —— Dead hands, dead stringencies. And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. The child's cry Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

57. Ariel (3) Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies, Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

58. Ariel (3) Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies, Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning. Major American Writers: Wallace Stevens Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)