text: const garySnyder = {
    name: 'gary-snyder',
    genre: 'beat',
    data: [
  `He had driven half the night
  From far down San Joaquin
  Through Mariposa, up the
  Dangerous Mountain roads,
  And pulled in at eight a.m.
  With his big truckload of hay
  behind the barn.
  With winch and ropes and hooks
  We stacked the bales up clean
  To splintery redwood rafters
  High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
  Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
  Itch of haydust in the 
  sweaty shirt and shoes.
  At lunchtime under Black oak
  Out in the hot corral,
  ---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
  Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
  "I'm sixty-eight" he said,
  "I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
  I thought, that day I started,
  I sure would hate to do this all my life.
  And dammit, that's just what
  I've gone and done." `,
  
  `I slept under rhododendron
  All nightblossoms fell
  Shivering on	a sheet of cardboard
  Feet stuck in my pack
  Hands deepin my pockets
  Barelyableto sleep.
  I rememberedwhen we were in school
  Sleeping together in a big warm bed
  We were the youngest lovers
  When we broke up we were still nineteen
  Now our friends are married
  You teachschool back east
  I dont mind living this way
  Green hills the long blue beach
  But sometimes	sleeping in the open
  I think backwhen I had you.`,
  
  `Eight years ago this May
  We walked under cherry blossoms
  At night in an orchard in Oregon.
  All that I wanted then
  Is forgotten now, but you.
  Here in the night
  In a garden of the old capital
  I feel the trembling ghost of Yugao
  I remember your cool body
  Naked under a summer cotton dress.`,
  
  `Last night watching the Pleiades,
  Breath smoking in the moonlight,
  Bitter memory like vomit
  Choked my throat.
  I unrolled a sleeping bag
  On mats on the porch
  Under thick autumn stars.
  In dream you appeared
  (Three times in nine years)
  Wild, cold, and accusing.
  I woke shamed and angry:
  The pointless wars of the heart.
  Almost dawn. Venus and Jupiter.
  The first time I have
  Ever seen them close.`,
  
  `You said, that October, 
  In the tall dry grass by the orchard 
  When you chose to be free, 
  "Again someday, maybe ten years."
  
  After college I saw you
  One time. You were strange.
  And I was obsessed with a plan.
  
  Now ten years and more have 
  Gone by: I've always known
  where you were-- 
  I might have gone to you
  Hoping to win your love back.
  You still are single.
  
  I didn't.
  I thought I must make it alone. I
  Have done that.
  
  Only in dream, like this dawn,
  Does the grave, awed intensity
  Of our young love
  Return to my mind, to my flesh.
  
  We had what the others
  All crave and seek for;
  We left it behind at nineteen.
  
  I feel ancient, as though I had 
  Lived many lives.
  And may never now know
  If I am a fool
  Or have done what my 
  karma demands. `,
  
  `I sit in the white glow reading a thesis
  About you. Your poems, your life.
  
  The author's my student,
  He even quotes me.
  
  Forty years since we joked in a kitchen in Portland
  Twenty since you disappeared.
  
  All those years and their moments—
  Crackling bacon, slamming car doors,
  Poems tried out on friends,
  Will be one more archive,
  One more shaky text.
  
  But life continues in the kitchen
  Where we still laugh and cook,
  Watching snow.`,
  
  `Lay down these words
  Before your mind like rocks.
  placed solid, by hands
  In coice of place, set
  Before the body of the mind
  in space and time:
  Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall
  riprap of things:
  Cobble of milky way,
  straying planets,
  These poems, people,
  lost ponies with
  Dragging saddles--
  and rocky sure-foot trails.
  The worlds like an endless
  four-dimensional
  Game of Go.
  ants and pebbles
  In the thin loam, each rock a word
  a creek-washed stone
  Granite: ingrained
  with torment of fire and weight
  Crystal and sediment linked hot
  all change, in thoughts,
  As well as things.`,
  
  `There are those who love to get dirty
  and fix things.
  They drink coffee at dawn,
  beer after work,
  
  And those who stay clean,
  just appreciate things,
  At breakfast they have milk
  and juice at night.
  
  There are those who do both,
  they drink tea.`,
  
  `Lew Welch just turned up one day,
  live as you and me. "Damn, Lew" I said,
  "you didn't shoot yourself after all."
  "Yes I did" he said,
  and even then I felt the tingling down my back.
  "Yes you did, too" I said—"I can feel it now."
  "Yeah" he said,
  "There's a basic fear between your world and
  mine. I don't know why.
  What I came to say was,
  teach the children about the cycles.
  The life cycles. All other cycles.
  That's what it's all about, and it's all forgot."`,
  
  `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 `,
  
  `Swung from the toes out,
  Belly-breath riding on the knuckles,   
  The ten-pound maul lifts up,
  Sails in an arc overhead,
  And then lifts you!
  
  It floats, you float,
  For an instant of clear far sight—
  Eye on the crack in the end-grain   
  Angle of the oak round
  Stood up to wait to be split.
  
  The maul falls—with a sigh—the wood   
  Claps apart
                  and lies twain—
  In a wink. As the maul
  Splits all, may
  
  You two stay together.`,
  
  `The sour smell,
  blue stain,
          water squirts out round the wedge,
  
  Lifting quarters of rounds
  covered with ants,
  "a living glove of ants upon my hand"
  the poll of the sledge a bit peened over
  so the wedge springs off and tumbles
   ringing like high-pitched bells
          into the complex duff of twigs
          poison oak, bark, sawdust,
          shards of logs,
  
  And the sweat drips down.
   Smell of crushed ants.
  The lean and heave on the peavey
  that breaks free the last of a bucked
   three-foot round,
           it lies flat on smashed oaklings—
  
  Wedge and sledge, peavey and maul,
  little axe, canteen, piggyback can
  of saw-mix gas and oil for the chain,
  knapsack of files and goggles and rags,
  
  All to gather the dead and the down.
  the young men throw splits on the piles
  bodies hardening, learning the pace
  and the smell of tools from this delve
  in the winter
        death-topple of elderly oak.
  Four cords.`,
  
  `A few light flakes of snow
  Fall in the feeble sun;
  Birds sing in the cold,
  A warbler by the wall. The plum
  Buds tight and chill soon bloom.
  The moon begins first
  Fourth, a faint slice west
  At nightfall. Jupiter half-way
  High at the end of night-
  Meditation. The dove cry
  Twangs like a bow.
  At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white
  On top; in the clear air
  Folds of all the gullied green
  Hills around the town are sharp,
  Breath stings. Beneath the roofs
  Of frosty houses
  Lovers part, from tangle warm
  Of gentle bodies under quilt
  And crack the icy water to the face
  And wake and feed the children
  And grandchildren that they love.`
  ]}
  
  module.exports = garySnyder