The Poet is Dead

On this day in 1962, Robinson Jeffers gazed out to sea from his bed, then closed his eyes and died. It had been 75 years since he was born in a snowstorm. It had been 40 years since he discovered his muse—while building his 40-foot tower. It had also been 40 years since the last snowfall on the Monterey Peninsula. Jeffers never spoke a word, so far as I am aware, of the abandoned golf course that he built his house upon, nor did he acknowledge the existence of the newer course at Pebble Beach. Jeffers, it seems, was not very fond of golf. The morning after he died, 1.5″ of snow fell, causing the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am (the Crosby Clambake) to be postponed. The poet is dead. Long live his ghost!

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