Friday, June 28, 2024

The Price of Admission

It is a brittle thing, like an old twig
or a dried leaf pressed under museum glass.
The qualification for quintessence,

the seer’s gaze into the heart of heart,
is a sapling that must know the hurricane
and feel the bruise of wind gods it cannot see.

The cost of slipping through the tent flap of eternity
is first love—the one untimely ripped
that is lost to too few years round the sun.

Slings and arrows, stings to the marrow—
that is the price of admission to life
for the soul that is hiding for a time

inside fleeting flesh made from a random rib.
Such is the tilling of springtime soil
and loss in a paradise too early born.

But open the joy-stained gate
and let new rivers rage and roar.
Set free the monk and grant love to the whore.

Throw with abandon a flock of birds
into the air with orisons and holy charms,
for these troubadours stayed in the nest of yearning,

endured gravity in the time of youthful learning.
Glory circles round to find itself again
as Wordsworth discovers splendor in the grass

and takes up immortality with his pen.
This is how we step onto mandala spin
to find membership in the tribe of women and of men.

~William Hammett

Site Map

No comments:

Post a Comment