The Milk Hours. John James
the limp arms of her mother. The suckling sound as I crashed
into sleep. My daughter, my father—his son. The wet grass
dew-speckled above him. His face grows vague and then vaguer.
From our porch I watch snow fall on bare firs. Why does it
matter now—what gun, what type. Bluesmoke rises. The chopped
copses glisten. Snowmelt smoothes the stone cuts of his name.
§
History (n.)
I didn’t make these verses because I wanted to rival that fellow, or his poems,
in artistry—I knew that wouldn’t be easy—but to test what certain dreams
of mine might be saying and to acquit myself of any impiety, just in case they
might be repeatedly commanding me to make this music.
—Plato, Phaedo
Viewed from space, the Chilean volcano blooms.
I cannot see it. It’s a problem of scale. History—the branch
of knowledge dealing with past events; a continuous,
systematic narrative of; aggregate deeds; acts, ideas, events
that will shape the course of the future; immediate
but significant happenings; finished, done with—“he’s history.”
—
Calbuco: men shoveling ash from the street.
Third time in a week. And counting.
Infinite antithesis. Eleven
miles of ash in the air. What to call it—
just “ash.” They flee to Ensenada.
—
The power of motives does not proceed directly from the will—
a changed form of knowledge. Wind pushing
clouds toward Argentina. Knowledge is merely involved.
Ash falls, it is falling, it has fallen. Will fall. Already flights
cancelled in Buenos Aires. I want to call it “snow”—
what settles on the luma trees, their fruit black, purplish black,
soot-speckled, hermaphroditic—if this book is unintelligible
and hard on the ears—the oblong ovals of its leaves.
Amos, fragrant. Family name Myrtus. The wood is extremely hard.
—
Ash falling on the concrete, falling on cars, ash
on the windshields, windows, yards. They have lost
all sense of direction. They might as well be deep
in a forest or down in a well. They do not comprehend
the fundamental principles. They have nothing in their heads.
—
The dream kept
urging me on to do
what I was doing—
to make music—
since philosophy,
in my view, is
the greatest music.
—
History—from the Greek historía, learning
or knowing by inquiry. Historein (v.) to ask.
The asking is not idle. From the French
histoire, story. Hístor (Gk.) one who sees.
It is just a matter of what we are looking for.
Metamorphoses
what was it this
morning : you said
redgrass glistens
in surf : the pine
board fence collapsed
along the line : after
the storm a kestrel
in headwind : sand
accumulates on your
feet : puckered seal
skin : the salt-washed
flesh : wreckage towing
upshore : when the
gulls came out I saw
them circling in air :
saw them pecking
seals’ eyes from
torn skin : a boy
downstrand rolling
in dunes : I could see
the stomach’s red
wall : the small hairs
on its flippers : blubber
wrenched by shark
bite from the belly’s
swell : later seen
from a dune : black
water : fish spit
pooling : mouth open
enough to see teeth
trailing in sand : his lips
limp : there in
the storm’s wake
I wanted something
to say : the ocean
scraped his insides clean
April, Andromeda
I am in this world, not self, not seed, not stamen-dusted
pistil flicking in the wind—the eye sees past its limitations.
Crushed petals in the dirt, I’m courting a horse with an apple,
watching its white tail swish along the fence. Somewhere,
the galaxy spins. I smile at the cloudless sky.
—
Continuum of frequencies, Ptolemy’s
Almagest, the star charts called it Little Cloud—
chained constellations in The Book
of Fixed Stars. Nova for new, cut fish
for never. A heart held back for the knife.
—
The opening of large
tracts by the icecutters
cutters commonly causes
a pond to break
up earlier; for the water
agitated by the wind
even in cold weather
wears away
the