Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Gary Snyder’s "Dead by the Side of the Road" is a stark, meditative poem that engages directly with the violent intersection of human infrastructure and the natural world. In its unflinching imagery of roadkill, hunting, and preservation, the poem explores the consequences of modern expansion on wildlife while also revealing a form of reverence for the dead. Snyder does not present these animals as mere casualties of civilization but instead situates them within a continuum of use, transformation, and ritual acknowledgment.

The opening question, "How did a great Red-tailed Hawk come to lie—all stiff and dry— / on the shoulder of Interstate 5?" sets the tone of inquiry and contemplation. The specificity of Interstate 5 immediately places the poem within a contemporary American landscape, where highways cut through ecosystems, often unnoticed except for the bodies they leave behind. The hawk, a symbol of vision and power in many Indigenous traditions, is now reduced to a dried corpse on the roadside. There is no direct answer to the question of how it died—the cause is left ambiguous, implying that death by road is now an inevitability, part of the landscape itself.

The shift to "Her wings for dance fans" suggests that the body, though lifeless, will not be discarded. The hawk’s remains are repurposed, its wings transformed into ceremonial objects, perhaps akin to those used in Indigenous or shamanic traditions. This act of reclamation contrasts with the wastefulness of modern roadkill, where death is often seen as meaningless. Instead, Snyder introduces the idea that these animals, though struck down, are still part of a cycle in which their bodies retain significance.

The poem continues with another instance of salvaging: "Zac skinned a skunk with a crushed head / washed the pelt in gas; it hangs, tanned, in his tent." The bluntness of "crushed head" leaves no room for romanticization. The body is broken, the result of an impact that is both violent and impersonal. Yet, again, there is a transformation—the pelt is cleaned, preserved, and hung as something valued. The use of gasoline to clean the skunk hints at another layer of irony: fossil fuels, the very thing enabling highways and vehicles, are now being used to treat the damage they cause.

The fawn struck by a truck is repurposed as food: "Fawn stew on Hallowe’en / hit by a truck on highway forty-nine / offer cornmeal by the mouth; skin it out." The mention of Hallowe’en suggests a convergence of ritual and survival, as if the act of eating the fawn aligns with an older tradition of honoring the dead. The offering of cornmeal by the mouth echoes Indigenous practices of feeding the spirits, acknowledging the fawn’s life before using its body. Snyder does not allow death to be meaningless—each life is taken into account, repurposed, transformed.

The next lines—"Log trucks run on fossil fuel"—stand alone, a sudden, almost accusatory recognition of the larger machinery behind these collisions. It is not just passenger cars killing animals; it is the entire industrial system, powered by long-dead organisms, cutting through landscapes and leaving behind fresh casualties in its wake. This awareness punctuates the poem, a reminder that the road itself is an extension of human consumption, one that predates even our own time.

The discovery of a Ringtail in the road follows the same pattern as the hawk and the skunk: "case-skinned it with the toenails footpads, nose, and whiskers on; / it soaks in salt and water / sulphuric acid pickle; she will be a pouch for magic tools." The level of detail in the preservation process—keeping the delicate features intact, soaking it in a mixture of salt and acid—suggests a form of care rather than simple extraction. The Ringtail is not being skinned for profit or sport but to become "a pouch for magic tools," implying that its spirit, in some way, will continue on. Snyder does not just catalog these deaths; he engages with them, recognizing that even in death, these beings hold power.

The poem then turns to a doe, but this death is different—it was not an accident. "The Doe was apparently shot / lengthwise and through the side— / shoulder and out the flank / belly full of blood." The tone shifts to forensic examination, the bullet’s path through the body detailed with clinical precision. The fact that "she didn’t lie too long" means that some of her body can still be used—again, death is followed by assessment and salvaging. But unlike the roadkill, this death was intentional. The shooter’s motivation remains unknown, leaving open the possibility that it was done out of necessity or recklessness. The "belly full of blood" is a haunting image, suggesting both a wound and an unrealized potential—was she pregnant? Was her body preparing for another cycle of life before being cut down?

The poem then moves from individual deaths to a broader lamentation: "Pray to their spirits. / Ask them to bless us: / our ancient sisters’ trails the roads were laid across / and kill them: night-shining eyes." These lines mark a shift from observation to a form of ritual recognition. The dead animals are not just bodies to be used—they are spirits that must be acknowledged, honored, and, in a way, appeased. The "ancient sisters’ trails" remind us that these roads were not always here. Before the highways, there were animal paths, migratory routes, ecosystems that had their own order. The roads did not just displace human communities; they severed the deep routes of animals who had been moving through these landscapes for millennia.

The final line, "The dead by the side of the road," is stark and unadorned. It lingers, a simple statement that refuses embellishment. It is neither judgment nor resignation but an acknowledgement that this is the world we have created. The poem does not advocate for a return to some idealized past, nor does it offer a solution—it simply sees, records, and remembers.

Snyder’s "Dead by the Side of the Road" is a meditation on collision, not just between animals and vehicles, but between ways of living. It contrasts the extractive, industrial mode of existence—fueled by fossil remains of past life—with an older, reciprocal relationship where death is honored, bodies are repurposed, and the spirits of animals are recognized. The poem is neither sentimental nor indifferent; it inhabits a liminal space where death is constant but never meaningless. In its quiet, detailed witness, it asks us to see what we have paved over, what we have killed, and what still might be salvaged.

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