"jeffers" poems
I say to my woman, "Jeffers was
a great poet. think of a title
like Be Angry At The Sun. don't you
realize how great that is?
"you like that negative stuff." she
says
"positively," I agree, finishing my
drink and pouring another.
"in one of Jeffers' poems, not the sun poem,
this woman ***** a stallion because her
husband is such a gross spirit. and it's
believable. then the husband goes out
to **** the stallion and the stallion
kills him."
"I never heard of Jeffers," she
says.
"you never heard of Big Sur? Jeffers
made Big Sur famous just like D. H. Lawrence
made Taos famous. when a
great writer writes about where he
lives the mob comes in and takes
over."
"well you write about San Pedro," she
says.
"yeah," I say, "and have you read the
papers lately? they are going to construct
a marina here, one of the largest in the
world, millions and billions of dollars,
there is going to be a huge shopping
center, yachts and condominiums every-
where!"
"and to think," my woman says smiling, "that you've only
lived here for three years!"
"I still think," I say,
changing the subject,
"you ought to read Jeffers."
8k
I have shared in my time the human illusions,
the muddy foolishness and craving passions.
But something years ago pulled me out of the tide-wash;
I cannot even pretend to be one of the people.
I stand here with open eyes in the clear air growing old.
Watching with interest and considerable nausea,
this time of the demagogues, the shifts of power,
and the pitiless wars that prepare for the fall.
But also the enormous unhuman beauty of things;
rock, sea and stars; fool-proof and permanent.
But as for my children, I would have them
keep their distance from the thickening center,
corruption never has been compulsory.
When the cities lie at the monster's feet
there are left the mountains.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
run with you in the evening along the shore, Exceptin a kind of dream; and you, if you dreamt a moment, too see me there.
so leave awhile the paw-marks along the front door
where I used to scratch and go out or in, and you'd soon open' and you'd soon open; leave on the kichen floor
the marks of my drinking -pan
I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
on the warm stone, nor at the foot of your bed;
no all the night through I lie alone.
but your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
outside your window where the firelight so often plays, and where you sit to read--and I fear grieving for me--
every night your lamplight lies on my play.
you, man, and woman live so long, it's hard
to think of you ever dying
a little dog would get tired of living so long.
I hope that then you are lying
under the ground like me your lives will appear
as good and joyful as mine.
no, dear, thtat's to much hope: you are not cared for
as I have been.
and never have known the passionate undivided
fidelities that I knew.
your minds are perhaps to active, to many sided...
but to me were true.
you were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well' and was well loved. deep love endures
to the end and far past the end. if this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
Ai, as it is, in my nature,
my bend in the river, rounding an edge,
drop
off…
question I have ever had, is how's they do it?
Jeffers and Emerson, rich men, to begin with,
eh, what a difference
a childhood makes,
or a pension, I suppose, as good as rich,
growing old and happy, satisfied,
with what the rich man had, had he had
this satisfactory mind,
in my time.
Nov 2, 2022
Nov 2, 2022 at 10:33 PM UTC
8/17/2014
Her name was Joy Jenny Jeffers,
known only really as Jenny.
I loved her for the way she’d sometimes
sit up in bed at four twenty three am,
the linen bunched all around her naked
knees,
and she’d proudly and dully proclaim
to her imaginary friend
perched on the wall:
“Frankly, Frankie,
I don’t
think this
relationship
is going
anywhere”
I’d laugh, call her a doll
“Oh Joy Jenny Jeffers,
I love you too much,”
with a slap, call me Jenny,
she’d plop back in the bed.
(This all happened
in the dark,
don't you remember..?)
I loved her for the way she would
put wildflower honey
in her black coffee
and one time, hungover, she poured in
canola oil,
which she drank anyways,
Which would prompt a swift
“Oh Joy Jenny Jeffers,
I love you too much,”
as i drank my St. John’s tea
laced with Bacardi.
I loved her for the way she hated
animals and music,
for the way she burned off a strand of
hair when curling it,
for the way she blinked when an eyelash brushed up against her iris.
I loved her for the way she said Frankly, Frankie, and I loved her the very same
when she started preforming old tricks
in front of new patrons,
when Frankly Frankie became
Frankly Johnnie or Frankly Helen,
I loved her all the same,
And in this i realised i didn’t love Joy Jenny Jeffers,
but I loved the way a certain woman
got an eyelash out of her way,
fixed her earrings when they caught,
comforted sickly children halfheartedly,
and I loved the way a woman went about waking up at exactly four twenty three am every night or morning to say
"Frankly,
Frankie,
I don’t think this relationship
is going
anywhere.”
With the linen
all around
her knees.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Peter has gotten a new job
as a bookstore clerk from one to ten
down by the river
in a sunny little house.
I've come to visit and I'm thumbing through
a book of poems
by Robinson Jeffers' brother.
Incoherent but
more interesting than this.
Out of the river rises a *** of a blob
dripping with water and begging a yen.
While he shivers
I call him a louse
and say This isn't Nippon, you!
So off he roams
probably back to his mother.
He was a nut
because he wasn't a fish.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Robinson Jeffers: The House-Dog's Grave
I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you,
If you dream a moment,
You see me there.
So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.
I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your bed; no,
All the nights through I lie alone.
But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read‚
And I fear often grieving for me‚
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.
You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
To think of you ever dying.
A little dog would get tired, living so long.
I hope that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dears, that's too much hope:
You are not so well cared for as I have been.
And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided...
But to me you were true.
You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 9:41 AM UTC
Robinson Jeffers (1887 – 1962)
While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster’s feet there are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught–they say– God, when he walked on earth.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Jeffers on salvation- the eventuality, winning by grace.
Meditation On Saviors
"
Love, the mad wine of good and evil, the saint's and murderer's,
the mote in the eye that makes its object
Shine the sun black; the trap in which it is better to catch the
inhuman God than the hunter's own image.
"
Little dare I care if I hold, comprehending,
holding center most attention, intending
to behold a beauty we all share below our cares,
cast away, worry of worthlessness being made known,
when I die, and you are not made aware I was ever there.
To all the unread poets,
a muse I used has gone to offer solace devoted
to silence.
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 5:19 PM UTC
There is a jaggle of masonry here, on a small hill
Above the gray-mouthed Pacific, cottages and a thick-walled tower, all made of rough sea rock
And Portland cement. I imagine, fifty years from now,
A mist-gray figure moping about this place in mad moonlight, examining the mortar-joints, pawing the
Parasite ivy: "Does the place stand? How did it take that last earthquake?" Then someone comes
From the house-door, taking a poodle for his bedtime walk. The dog snarls and retreats; the man
Stands rigid, saying "Who are you? What are you doing here?" "Nothing to hurt you," it answers, "I am just looking
At the walls that I built. I see that you have played hell
With the trees that I planted." "There has to be room for people," he answers. "My God," he says, "That still!"
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Where have all the writers gone?
Where are all the poets?
Where is our Sandberg with his easy lines,
our Jeffers with his discontent,
our Frost playing tennis without a net
or with a net it doesn't matter?
Where is the greatness that defines us?
Where is our crying Ginsberg
our Bukowski with his rough blackbirds
and our Cohen of the Modern Miracle
(we're still waiting)?
Where is the voice of the internet age?
It'd better come soon.
Because it's lonely here with no one to read,
no modern sage to turn to
and I wonder how many people today
turn away from their windows
to their keyboards,
like me,
and type this in.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion.
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain.
The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC