Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Gary Snyder’s "Talking Late with the Governor About the Budget" is a contemplative, subtly ironic poem that juxtaposes the bureaucratic machinery of government with the vast, uncontrollable forces of nature. Written for then-Governor Jerry Brown, the poem offers a glimpse into the alienating work of political leadership, contrasting the sterile, rule-bound environment of the state capitol with the enduring presence of the natural world beyond. Snyder’s tone is neither wholly critical nor entirely sympathetic; instead, he presents an understated, almost bemused perspective on the human attempt to govern a land that ultimately follows its own rhythms.

The poem begins with an image of the legislative process as an overwhelming, mechanical force: "Iron carts full of printed bills / Filling life with rules." This depiction of government is cold and impersonal, suggesting an unrelenting bureaucratic system churning out regulations. The phrase "Filling life with rules" implies both necessity and excess, acknowledging the unavoidable structure of governance while also hinting at its absurdity. The setting—"the midnight / Halls of the capitol,"—places this moment in the late-night exhaustion of political negotiations, where decisions are made in isolation, removed from the people they affect.

Snyder then shifts focus to Governor Brown himself, alone in his office: "At the end of many chambers / Alone in a large tan room / The Governor sits, without dinner." The emphasis on "many chambers" reinforces the distance between leadership and the public, the layers of separation that define political work. The detail of "without dinner" humanizes Brown, suggesting both dedication and deprivation. He is not merely a politician but a man working past his physical needs, immersed in the overwhelming weight of governance.

The poem broadens its scope, reflecting on the vastness of California: "Scanning the hills of laws—budgets—codes— / In this land of twenty million / From desert to ocean." Snyder’s phrasing emphasizes the sheer scale of governance, the impossibility of truly grasping a state that encompasses so many landscapes, ecosystems, and people. The governor is not just dealing with policy; he is attempting to regulate an immense, diverse, and unpredictable entity.

Then comes the poem’s most striking critique: "Till the oil runs out / There's no end in sight." This statement is both literal and metaphorical. On the surface, it acknowledges California’s dependence on fossil fuels, an issue that was already pressing in the 1970s when the poem was written. More broadly, it suggests an unsustainable trajectory—not just in energy consumption but in governance itself. As long as resources flow, as long as legislation keeps being produced, the cycle of bureaucracy and consumption will continue indefinitely. There is no resolution, only a continuation of the same pattern.

The governor’s isolation is reinforced by the next image: "Outside, his car waits with driver / Alone, engine idling." The idling car serves as a quiet but potent symbol of waste—both of energy and of human effort. The governor, inside laboring over laws, is mirrored by the car, burning fuel without motion. This moment subtly critiques the inefficiency of political systems, where power is always present but often stagnant.

Snyder then widens the temporal frame, bringing in the natural world: "The great pines on the Capitol grounds / Are less than a century old." This detail reminds the reader that even these seemingly permanent fixtures of government—both the buildings and the trees surrounding them—are relatively young in the broader span of ecological time. The state may feel vast and overwhelming, but it is still subject to the forces of natural history, where a hundred years is a brief moment.

The poem’s final section shifts from the confined, artificial world of the capitol to the openness of the night sky. "Two A.M., / We walk to the street / Tired of the effort / Of thinking about 'the People.'” The exhaustion here is palpable, but the phrase "the People" in quotation marks suggests an ironic detachment. The idea of governing the People is abstract, theoretical, something debated in chambers and written into laws, but never fully grasped.

Then, Snyder turns to the cosmos: "The half-moon travels west / In the elegant company / Of Jupiter and Aldebaran." This celestial perspective dwarfs the concerns of government, offering a sense of scale that makes human worries seem small. The planets and stars move with a rhythm beyond politics, indifferent to legislation, budgets, and policies.

The final lines shift eastward, toward the Sierra Nevada: "And east, over the Sierra, / Far flashes of lightning— / Is it raining tonight at home?" The mention of home brings the poem to a personal, grounded close. After all the abstraction of politics, all the legal texts and legislative negotiations, the poet’s thoughts return to something elemental and intimate: the weather back home. The "flashes of lightning" serve as both a literal phenomenon and a reminder that true power—the kind that governs not through laws but through nature’s own rhythms—lies beyond the halls of government.

"Talking Late with the Governor About the Budget" is a poem of contrasts—between the rigid structures of human governance and the vast, untamed forces of the natural world. Snyder’s restrained tone allows the imagery to do the work, subtly critiquing the exhaustion and inefficiency of political systems without dismissing the people within them. The poem suggests that while government continues its endless cycle of lawmaking, the land, the trees, the stars, and the storms persist in their own way, indifferent yet enduring. In the end, Snyder’s gaze turns away from politics, away from the budget, and toward home—toward the sky, the mountains, and the rain that falls whether we legislate it or not.

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