"I have to wonder why poets are always expected to write exactly what they wrote the last time they wrote a poem. So I wrote the poems a little differently this time. That's okay too."- MillAr, interview published in The Danforth ReviewJay MillAr's poetry resists classification. This book, being a collection of Other Poems, is an assemblage of seemingly disparate materials"I have to wonder why poets are always expected to write exactly what they wrote the last time they wrote a poem. So I wrote the poems a little differently this time. That's okay too."- MillAr, interview published in The Danforth ReviewJay MillAr's poetry resists classification. This book, being a collection of Other Poems, is an assemblage of seemingly disparate materials--the poems are of various lengths, subjects and origins and were composed over the past ten years of this prolific author's life. Reading this book is likened to finding a box of photographs in a thrift store; here lies a miscellany of meaning that offers an intimate view of MillAr's "direct manner of spoken mind."...
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Other Poems Reviews
LyricThe dumb skyisn't even bluetoday - thosefaded sad cloudsin the distanceabove the housesbleed white: milkspills upon thegreen of the hill.Don't worry, wearen't dead yet.We can atleast spill sensesome wind flatterthe trees. Lyinghere on the grasslaid out betweenthe blades likeclover or a weedI'm here tobe lazy andquiet and sobeautifully useless aslong as I can.*:ODD, for SC & JHthe insect's cocoonan act of translationwithout ending the known discoursethings only imagine their own massstill kicking feeble mind from withinwill pushes in most against peripheries* * *what you construct for yourselfwe considered the ships as toolsunable to understand the limits ofmirrors' flat consciousnessthen you look awaya dementia of falsehood* * *traditions as misinterpretationsin the tense of presencehollow grammatic whisper parcels& they rise from under the bellylife divided as easily as a dreamlanded of awkward selectors* * *the influence of motionuntil all that remains is a notiongravity what remains the dominant forcethe only requirement is to remain standcomparatively similar eventsthe body a motion a vessel of emotion* * *the hot patch your feminine sideplay for keeps kept secretfantastic they're realas an ugly questionfodder for the egoa response could bounce off a skull* * *she keeps changing positionsactively perusing a state thecalls her own hypnosisdying to hear such theorieson the laminate floor wheredeception achieves silence* * *please read the following carefullyin other words you're dead if you arriveat the margin of the lakemouth drying to formulate wordeach syllable he lexical dancecoded in vents to remain translated* * *the call of speciesit took trillions of years to produce astrong enough broadcast amammal is only one of many tothe lines of their own requirementsis it what keeps them guess work* * *out on the lawnbetween the blades of grassgrowth is a most telling swellI must remain in a state of equal Libriumchance it has to achieveonly 15 to 35 centimetres in length* * *to challenge death humanskeep it interesting they experiencemonkeys trading objects or ideasthe result ultimate of evolution& win $1,000,000praise the last one left alive* * *my gift to you is aneye wonder who would put that in writingsettling in to corners or in to cracksthe only rule is the one you rememberbesides the emblem is asan intrusion is to pierce the skin* * *she keeps giving birth tothe joke goes something likethey clip grudges against the scalpthe events will repeat unprecedented& i will release the enclosed& read it quietly forever inside the sky*Downsized, (w/ Stuart Ross)The sun enters the room like a blade of music.An earwig crawls up the walls: a sudden aneurysm.Whoever invented this chair must perform miracles -Levitation may transpire in any cave. It's easy to forgetA quietly brainwashing trigger-finger stuckIn the wall-hole that holds the lost smile.See how things look from down here? This motionShakes spiders from the ceiling, where they'veBeen reminding the other insectsOf tenious obligations. But in the dark pantryThe organic environmental babies countTheir bundles of cash; their endless one twoThree fours keep time fro the day's meaning.Some things are almost too big for the sumOf their parts to comprehend.*PoemThe sun is out. TheCanopy has broken, at lastTo shake the city - thatGreen against the sky remindsMe of why we areHere. My children play, their noiseQuietude against all the newsCarried about inside the headsOf those who happen to see it, vagueRepresentational glint in the smallUnbound non-sequitur joy of release -If everyone hates 'America' whydoes it continue to exist? *Entropic: A Narrative1They were taking off the alfalfaTowards a variety of new technologies - agricultureIs so completely boring, nothing but snow.All of us eagerly awaited something,Wanting a miracle, bu instead were stunned.There was certainly no reason to be ashamed ofWhat was ultimately used as an excuse for news:I had all the books set upAnd saw nothing but an endless sea.What could desire to record this occasionOf a thinning crown? We know the guards biteThreatening close to the blackboard.In the midst of all that historyVacantlyIs lodged unmentionably.Someone had it fixed to their head, butIn other cultures it is known by sightWhich is why you are opening so wide to all the world.*it takes a lot of time to be a genius, you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing.- Gertrude Stein9:23 amacross the rooma cat foldsup 3 feet intothe aira perfectcircle8:17 amwaking dreamrevisingthe worldyour breathhot in myeyes10:23 amthe radioplaysan open windowclosesthe sun10:23 pm'the factI never had asister'11:28 amdead wormon the walkquestionmark8:19 pma buscurlesaround theCN Toweras thesunsets1:04 pmsun beamsthrough theemptywindowin themirrorcombingmy hair7:21 pmsmell the mushroomscookingand a callfrom mybrother4:37 pmlean blueglass on thegreen grasshide dirt2:10 pma bug holds air12:53 amI getnervousjust thinkabout it8:52 amfeel likea blueshirtputtingred sockson today4:12 pma minuteis a longtime tothinkabout it4:17 pmvacuumespionagethe carpethas nonamefor it2:22 pmhorribly pinkcherryfakefavourit rains11:46 pm'I paintedeach redbrick inmy head'9:58 pma popcornkernel restson my footbesidewonderinghow itgot there7:49 amshaveddeadskinoff my noseit startsto rain9:17 amflip throughthis bookshadowsin the litterbox twoblocks oflines4:16 pmpunksreflectin clearglasswindowkissing3:19 amfor everfreshtakes a spillon therefrigerator11:08 amfreaks linedup onYonge Streetdo tricksfor eatingpigeons7:33 pm'I'll readuntil"Fall"and thenfallasleep'11:44 pmwhen Nickysaid 'JimDeahl'I almostlaughedmy assoff9:17 pmtwo fighterson apiece ofpaper6:07 pmthisjustin7:11 amtwo grey cats outsidethe windowthere's noone to talkwith9:47 pmlyingwith spreadlegs readingfeminism7:12 pmassociatedfreezers1:41 pm'just tune inall this week'1:42 pmjust in tuneall this week9:20 pm3000 wordsin a glass jarcoloured coordinate12:42 pma tablecoveredwith envelopedbeneath thepair ofscissors7:02 amcatlookings2:32 pmbungle eightgrounders6:14 pmsingle buttashtray2:13 ama crosson thedoor coversthe moon11:04 pmit's justthat he hasbent hishead andsmilingto himself10:22 pmthinking ofrunning awayright here6:11 pmon the stepsof admissionsand awardstwo pigeonsget it on10:19 pma broken chairrests higherthan thefloor iswide8:00 pmin the laundromattwo bagsred whiteand bluetest patternsin a whitecart4:49 pmbird flyoveragainsttraffic11:24 am'sightseeing sir?''not today'5:41 pmI canmove myeyes9:34 ambulletproofcaviar4:28 pmbeside theIndy 500stock carparked silentlyin a silverchair ahunchedwoman sleeps8:17 pmgrowing old -every secondcan't dealwith it10:07 pmone-leggedpigeonswallowshardwatching touristswalk9:52 ammy face reflected ina bathroomgets carriesaway12:00 amsilence hates menow*Wood PagesIHow to desire that crackle trees halfempty of leaves crackle? A mind thatwill run their minimalist instinctsthrough an environment only tobuild nests in the whole of the sky. Soghostly I recall some talk abouttheir presence, like names for mammals,truncated communication thatlistens carefully to the dispersed.To listen to the wind is to seea love, the feeling of settling love.IIAutumn: some landscape the edges of the skies pulledtoward the earth for leaves to kick up the wind.Can you sense the moment leaves halt for a fleetingdistraction of silence? Walking listens aloudfor the sound. What all the nameless creatures name. Somerelationship between two species in which oneobtains nutrients from the bodily functionof the other. Or could you possibly hear howlong the walk to chorus-less songs the lingual ticsare as likely as any to empty into.IIIOut from underthe foliage scootsa leaf reliefanother smallseason lives, notas a voice orthe tethered soundsof the ether,but the hours amemory hangsin an autumnmorning itself.IVA memory called late Octoberslows down the days around the so-calledpoint. Regard the rotten tree-falls suchand such waits under. Ah, toe nudge. Yourgentle words fall, and will never see upagain. Cool fungi, go on: feed fromthe dead. Walk across the air to thenext wood. Perhaps these woods are tied toa book of letters invisibleto the naked enjambment of ourlives - and the trajectory mammalsinsects and birds weave into a landto give it an immediate senseof failure we learn to call decay.VIs it merely decay? Or is it just writing?Small possibilities in a sensual act, howsculptured could a grotesque change in the future be?Is a culture of failure a happy culture?Anyway, who needs more than a canopy needsto those accumulation drinks of from the sky.Leaves follow to the sound of shoots, the draft processof germination weather unseasonablyflows out of, and the despair of knowing where to go without thinking about it goes on breathing.VIA leaf. As breathcontinues whatsound could it maketo satisfythe quiet ofthe realm? If itwere another's dream of such un-manageablegermination,the voice might rollover the land.It continues.|Do you hear it?If you did couldthe land settlefor sweet breezes?If it did wouldyou be special?VIIOnly as meaningful and onlyso when the senses have been blown throughan acorn the size of a humanbrain. Silence is the only theorya seed to the ear reveals. The sounddoesn't play in a shell's ocean, butin the wind. Of pauses held againstcontours in a sky the grey mattermakes of itself. A receptacleas spectacular: a moment of self.VIIIPatient for lines, impatient language asks of treeswho has spoken lately? Who has shed their leaves inthis long tradition of the best of the worst tobecome the long arm the world casts out: great shadowsdeliberately tedious, meticulouslylimitless? I must ask who draws which attentionfrom who. Who owns the woods when the owls start to callthemselves a play on words: that first hoot a hollowthe second fills in for the third's sheer panic. Thewind dies away. Warm softness. Imagine the sound.IXCould you be lostin the midst ofsuch a view? Shallwe record whatcreeps in uponour emotions?The owl's desperateeyes continueto hunt for highsundown in theirprey's flight. Witnessthe bulkydissection ofpanic from theoccasionalrustle. At day'send such huge brownleaves take off tohunt throughout theimagined show.XLater than we thought of what it was,where dreams of the missing sun insidethe knots of earth protrudes, we looked tofortify the basic wooden land.But the verdant always supercedes -will supercede you. More than brown orgreen or grey or all the shades thereinthe wind is rewound with certainyuntil you can smell the rain. It wasan idea we had. After bluethere is nothing: no lines, no nothing.No chiselled work as though from stone orwood. This comes to mind as I emerge. XIWhat suggests the call of the woodpecker is anengraving? Listen to it hollow out the air.It calls to you. Or at least you imagine itdoes, and somehow are satisfied in becomingdrawn though the puzzle. Metaphysical in sofar as the details are maintained as such; detailsto suggest the ninth quote from the second book ofmiscellany is an arbitrary hybridconstructed by language. What is there to hold onto? I have this very fine edge of the world: sound.XIITell me the callof the crow is rooted. Tell meto build in theheliotropes'reversal ofsilence. The birdcalls lead all tooquietly, andwithout warning,to the partingof this first sound.
He points out a lot of post structural problems and plays with the problematic apathy and ambiguity that is present in writing/life. He does this while using images of domestic family and genuine tones of feeling, which is quite clever. But, maybe it is that cleverness that gets tiring. It comes off as quite smug.