by Reizan Bob Penny
December 16, 2009
These poems were read on the opening evening of the annual Mountains and Rivers retreat in the cedar grove at Hawk Meadow Farm. At this point of the evening it was completely dark in the woods where we sat, and many of the poems were selected for their relationship to the night, sleep and dreams, and the process of waking up.
The Tent - I wrote this poem while in Florida, obviously camping out near some construction site. This was during a long period of time on the road when I had a regular practice of zazen in my tent each morning. The poem utilizes all the words of the first stanza in various recombinations for each of the successive stanzas - in essence, four reflections of a single moment.
THE TENT by Bob Penny
In the dream morning I awaken
to raven calls.
Outside the tent the bulldozers whine and rev.
Through the small opening of the flap
I see transparent sky.
In that moment I don’t know where I am.
-------
The raven calls in the tent,
whining through the opening.
My dream sees the morning as a small moment,
transparent, outside. The bulldozers
flap the sky and rev into an awakening
and I know I am not here.
-------
The opening of the morning
flapping out through the tent, revolves and calls
in the sky. I know
ravens and bulldozers, small and transparent.
A whining in that moment of the dream
awakens, and I see that I am.
-------
I don’t know the transparent
dream which I see through.
The raven, the bulldozer, the tent,
Flap the morning past my small opening.
Outside I whine, I rev, I awaken.
In that moment where I am the sky calls.
Winter Rain - This was written during one of my first winters at Hawk Meadow, after having been away from the northwest for many years. It is basically a recognition of homecoming. Living here we can see that rain has many qualities and moods. Winter rain is distinct from rain at other seasons. This is a simple ode to the kind of rain we live with through the dark months of the year, and how it is essential to our lives in this place.
WINTER RAIN by Bob Penny
Where have you been?
Across the swirled sea,
down to it’s south shore
and back?
In the dark tonight
you come,
drifting over the forest,
so long away.
Now you fall
without question.
You came when you needed to
bringing me home.
The Lost Trail - This poem may require a slight explanation. The shades of imagery are subtle, and the action is not fully explained. It is about some hypothetical time when the bombs are about to drop - where would you go, and what would you do? If there was time, heading to the high country, far away from the madness, might be a choice. But what would you be leaving behind, and what would you be going towards? In this poem you will see a description of me practicing one of the first skills of woodcraft my father taught me while out on hikes together - look behind frequently to get the view looking backwards fixed in your mind. Then finding your way back becomes easier because things will look familiar.
THE LOST TRAIL by Bob Penny
All day in the woods
I turned often,
watching my backtrail,
noting the look of things
the other way around,
a way to know where I’m going
and how to get back.
Now I kick dirt
into the coals, and they dim
and glow through.
Their radiating heat is a shadow
of something larger.
I water the dark ground
with the last of my cup,
and the last dark cities have lost themselves
into cloud covered valleys
of the far Northwest.
Do they wait in a paralyzed silence
for bursts of light
coming over the northern hemisphere?
Would it matter then
about going back?
Even the easy breeze,
grazing evenings up the slopes of snow,
would carry deaths disfiguring touch.
Night comes close,
the stars fall into position,
and a cricket by the melted stream
shouldered against a dark mountain is
alone and perfect.
Everything
that might be hunched in the pine shadows
listens with me.
Passing a Log Truck ... This poem was chosen because it is about a bridge on the road we travel each year to our hike trailhead. Getting to and from the back country is part of the journey, and sometimes the reentry process from the wilderness can provide the same kind of startling contrasts and sensitivity to sights and smells that one experiences when first returning from a meditation retreat.
PASSING A LOG TRUCK ON
A NARROW BRIDGE CROSSING
THE NOOKSACK RIVER by Bob Penny
First Fall day
and the warm breeze flows
in my car window.
Up ahead
I see it coming
swaying under a big load
- Old Growth-
only three or four huge logs
hanging on the trailer
like when I was a kid.
Now they’re back in there
for the last ones.
The diesel cloud is going to engulf me.
I hug the right railing
this guy coming straight down.
In the final instant I actually flinch,
yanking my elbow
off the windowsill -
huge knobbed tires grinding bits of gravel,
a loose log chain jangles
and the blue
smoke whisks through,
clears out to blue sky
over the river -
and from the moist forest floor,
fresh cut, trailing behind,
the fragrant smell of fir.