The Milk Hours. John James

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       The Milk Hours

       for J.E.J., 1962–1993

       and C.S.M.J., 2013–

      We lived overlooking the walls overlooking the cemetery.

      The cemetery is where my father remains. We walked

      in the garden for what seemed like an hour but in reality must

      have been days. Cattail, heartseed—these words mean nothing to me.

      The room opens up into white and more white, sun outside

      between steeples. I remember, now, the milk hours, leaning

      over my daughter’s crib, dropping her ten, twelve pounds

      into 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.