The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (2 page)

 

Trees

The undeniable, satisfactory crunch

                                              of the sky through the leaves

                                                                                 that falls to catch our place,

how I would love to be able to roll

                                         the words off my tongue

                                                                          like branches that go on

forever. The trees say

                             our leaves are small and we move our feet

                                                                                     in time to the winds that sing

too softly for you to hear.

                                  A Dream in absolute knowledge,

                                                                          the very heart of the tree where

no birds sing. They say each bird

                                         was made to sing its own song,

                                                                                  different from the others,

and yet the same. They say each branch

                                               was meant to hold a different bird

                                                                                  each singing a different song.

Out here my head is as low

                                   to the ground as a root.

                                                              Our breath disappears

with each passing moment,

                                  a high pitched wail we do not hear

                                                                        restoring us to consciousness.

 

TreeSong

In this empty landscape we have gathered successfully (one house) among the leaves that float for miles along the sky and the leaves that go with them. What riches we have are of home. An acoustic guitar in the mouth of the sun. And passing… I was an oak and you were a birch. This clear dark sky has been pre-served here for all time in a version of itself (
VIEW
). And we live in the sun, we live in the wind. Painting our symbols for the eyes of our lovers. I was a maple and you were a poplar. We live in the rain. Married to the very thought of the wind to life. Satie would have been proud. Just look at the stars. I was a sycamore and you were a red ash. We were so ashamed to fuck like writhing snakes in our upper branches during the long hot summers that as we waited for winter we would fall apart. We would sleep so hard, like rocks or ice, just to cover up the scent of our bondage. What leaves we have shed in the months of our offering. To each other and ourselves. I was a hawthorn and you were a willow. One or two of our beasts will float forever upon their thrones like downy pebbles; we let them have their stay, in the end we give them such defeat. We only know these gifts. Beethoven would have been proud. Of course we were living together, and all in love. All summer I enjoyed listening to the clacking of your leaves and I have fought against each day from that perspective. I was a downy serviceberry and you were a sumac. In autumn, why do we always fall for ourselves? There is something entirely justified and hopeless about our situation. Love would have been proud. Living like cradles poking into the sky, always giving up gently at the last possible second. I was a hickory and you were an evergreen. We have all been offered such riches. But that is what I love about you. So much like myself. So hopeless, full of curiosity about this language we stick into each other as we die of love and hope. Living in the fallout of winter. I was a magnolia and you were a slippery elm. Sometimes there could be miles and miles of us, all holding hands, pierced through the many hearts of the rain. Holding each creature inside us like this soft wood pulp. Satie would have been proud. All of us alone together and unnoticed. Our own path is no less than where we let ourselves fall. Often it is how we wonder why we do this. I was a white cedar and you were a dogwood. No reason, no worry, listen to the last songbirds of summer sing our way.

 

LeafSong

Because the two sides of our love, invisible, opaque

we will always love We will never We love you… O

what love

We always love. Use us accordingly O seasonal beasts, for

we shall be our ghosts until we return filled with green.

We remember with winter space we never leave.

Make love to air and fall away what we are

Small beings in love with you

O ground, love you and shall wait for you

always over here, on our side, alive living with you O air,

we are will be the wind one more time waiting in the wind

in the wind the birth of the wind… many shapes of wind and home.

Through the burning hot days of summer which is the fruit of our lust.

Waiting where we are we are for what we come with us

where we know we are. Here we are wet, here we are green

awaiting your solid kisses O ground, slide through us

as we melt into All summer long in the air,

the hot wind our shape flows through us with motion our soft

limitations. Lead grace to the slow orgasm of the tree

when we turn to the light birds ourselves.

What advice might we give We become

our red shapes

for such to kiss, kiss our yellow shapes, kiss our brown gold shapes.

As we become ghosts never disappear. We long to with you,

O ground, for you fall through us. For we know who

we will always be here in love with you O air,

even in the lust our absence,

When we make love to ground. O ground,

all summer long, we are in love with you,

waiting for return.

 

4 Leaves (4 pages)

when the wind is all around so

stoned i couldn't possibly move, (
BUT I DO
)

What intellect could be out here in the open

bug-eyed, sapped out of my mind.

might as well be on a bicycle, turn over and

over myself, move along without trying,

out here the ups and downs are accompanied

by hills that meet the dark edges of the air

where we will slice at what creates hanging

on, and i bite my nails to rid them of a dance

they will always choose, the ritual of their time.

I have also thought it must be easy to ride without hands.

Ah! everything tends to become directional with time, and drawn

off the deep end.       (settle down and be where).

i know it really has nothing to do with me, but

with a small thing of myself that i live.

what could i be without you? i'm pretty worn out

of sight against the wind and amongst our many shapes,

as they come into being and not at all yet drifting on

the slope of darkness you should call night.

which of course, as anyone with

half a heart will tell you,

will only go down from here on

in through slippery shadows of air.

it's all folk music

of the                air,

or something similar,

a quiet imitation,

a quiet right through the trees

of the trees

beating the thickness

of wood, something

that goes on

a bright heavy

summer, a gun full

of heat that rolls

the wind, so slow,

going nowhere into the night.

i find it so, i don't know,

perfect, this balance

between heaven and sky.

the unceremonial heaven of leaves,

being down, pulls thusly, thusly

and is soft, near the roots,

i imagine the few of us, caught

pressed flowers, holding on branches,

we are so full of sorrow and beauty

that much could be regret.

we are filled with the cold

air of two lovers

and Glory.

birds dart from second to second

and we flutter, wait for what moment

(breathe)

what thoughts have we, what lives

yes, we have thought
fuck you

in forest ways, and creatures

drunk on their own ways, go on

and hide with us, gather us up, as we

grow old and vision fades until we are blind

until we are those creatures

as we turn with the earth, and how

(breath)

with wind and rain and sun and birds

each a piece of weather, what thoughts

our lives

it's fine to fall, fine to drift as thought

it were memory you feed upon (wits)

dumb radical cool breeze (behavior)

falls through what if the greengrey air were black

that is the city, where we wake, and

storing up for winter, nuts, (undertow) bolts,

sounds of busses and of cars, all the drift as though

and the movement beyond, light birds (dead soldiers

come to life) presumably the small ones, periodically

outside, light panic rules air going on leave

then one long string of (notes)

are anyone who

falls against their own breath