Poems [John Allen Cann]
Below are Links to the eight individual poems in Word;
a Word document with all eight poems, and
all eight poems in this window...
To speak of trees in a closed room
is one thing, to say
trees are truth,
they embody
the imagination---
is fine---one might even say
somewhere exists
an ideal tree
from which all other trees
take root---
yet to stand among redwoods
that rise so high
you must look straight up
to observe how they
portion the sky above you---
to feel their antiquity
and know they were giving back oxygen
long before the Mayflower
or wagon trains,
makes me a bit breathless.
The soft play of morning light
among the noble shafts
of redwood, how brightness
happens so far up
the dark, time-textured trunks
gives us a visible telling
of how the soul makes its ascent.
These redwoods around us
here at Big Basin
make stillness & silence
divinely companionable.
---John Allen Cann
10:22 am
25 March 07
Sequoia Camp
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
What is it
about a mountain
that makes us want
to climb it?
Are we ever
the molehill ready
to turn ourselves
into something
immensely momentous?
What ancient impulse
dares us
to seek the peak?
Why is it we look mostly
at our feet
while we climb to the top
of a mountain?
Why do we become miffed
when the air thins
and the steep
just gets steeper
and you’re more winded
than you care to admit?
What’s that feeling
sloshing thru
snow-melt slush
while the vista of forest and lakes
lightens the soul
even as the boots grow heavier?
What is the wind telling us
as it thrums
around our heads
so all our words
are lost
before they reach our ears?
And how do we shape
into speech
the lyric satisfaction
once on the summit
& anywhere you look
the world is at your feet?
---15 June 07
Lassen Outing
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Morning light still high
in the firs along the east edge
of the mirror-still lake---
on the other side
the trees are already in full sun,
taller it appears
reflected in the smooth surface of the waters
than they stand
against the pale azure blue
of the sky we all live under.
Birds chatter in the branches
blending with the modest pandemonium
of voices over near the fire & coffee,
first thud & clink of thrown horeshoes,
& the wakening hum of winged insects.
Everything seems possible
when the mountain & all its life
brighten in the cool
of the morning air.
Cody Lake
7:17 am
29 July 07
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A JEWELLED THOUGHT
As the sun makes its circuit overhead
the waters below
are like a mind going through changes---.
Morning is reflective;
stillness lends the shore trees
their doubles
in the unruffled surface of the lake.
Soon quick gems
scatter on the slight ripples.
The wind starts coming on strong,
pulsations & gems
multiply & magnify---then
grow calm as the wind vanishes
so to gather breath;
shadows keep
slipping behind things.
So many jeweled thoughts
ride the quickened palpitations
of the sudden gusts,
& when the sun sinks
behind the ridge
& the wind dies away,
the surface of the lake grows dark
& tranquil
until the midnight moon
slashes molton silver
aslant the canyon
upon white fir doubled in the serene waters.
2:42 pm
31 July 07
North Bank of Cody
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
INTERIOR MOUNTAINS
The shadow grows across the valley,
wind settles into a half-sleep,
lime-yellow moss
glows on downward limbs
of lodge-pole pines
as if they’d left on their fur coats.
Clouds for the first time
since we arrived,
pale & thin at the horizon---
one, wide & flat,
smack in front of the after dinner sun.
We need these chunks & jags of granite,
the red & white fir, the sugar pine,
jabbering birds & glimmering waters
more than they need us.
We need Pyramid Peak speaking to us
of the mountains inside
we have to climb.
7:01pm
29 July o7
Up From the Cody Range
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
COVERED WITH SACRED DIRT
Night, sizzle of lamp,
moon coming soon, one revolution
past full,
memory of a rosy dusk
still fresh.
Voices wrap together,
stories interweave
guys coming from different
points of view,
talking family, talking pastimes, talking stars.
Soda, moon pies in young bellies;
bodies sink to sleep
covered with sacred dirt.
Down into dreams,
dreams where fear & desire come real,
dreams from which we wake
ready for the free air of day,
the keen light of the possible.
11:00 pm
29 July 07
Shady Acres
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
First hour after mid-day
climb the thin trail up to Chapel Rock,
a deep wind,
a squadron of white cloud-planes
glide the azure,
fir wiggle in place,
the mountain hums
to itself in stone tones.
Like the man said,
we are always refreshed
when we can see
a great distance clearly.
Twit of bird, click of insect,
slow exclamation
of the wind
coming hard up the valley.
Only the clockwork of the stars
in my head
measures time,
the ants at my feet don’t bother.
As the wind flows up the mountain
washing all things alike,
what matter
how long I feel like a tree afoot?
1:41 pm
1 Aug 07
Cody
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Morning belongs to the one hummingbird,
delicate speedster
gorging discreetly
with its stilleto beak
the night blue flowerets of the larkspur
that stand
among the profusion
of yellow daisies just off the creek,
omen of the unnameable.
We paced past the scorched corn lilies,
turned in the open
and let the first light
beam over treetops
blessing us with our arms open wide,
hearts alive,
birdsong & clanging cowbells
softly blending in the vivid meadow air,
kids back in camp
still asleep in their bags,
safely breathing in two worlds at once.
2 Aug 07
Cody Meadow