Monday, February 17, 2025

Bodhisattva

I am the gentleman in the black tuxedo,
on his arm the model with alabaster skin.
I am the Rock of Gibraltar risen from the sea
to escort the twisting form of femininity.
I am the woman in the white evening gown
wearing diamonds enough to rival midnight stars.
I am the matrix of Eve and carnal desire.
I am the Logos, the Second Coming,
and if you tell me that I am mad,
off the rails or something worse,
I will say, “Why didn’t you notice earlier?”
The stable at Bethlehem is just down the street
from my house and from yours.
We are all shapeshifting swiveling hips,
the man with the handsome chiseled jaw,
all preachers from Galilee, apprentices
holding a hammer, a plane, and a saw.
We are all incarnations of the divine.
You may not have remembered until now,
but you once sat under the bodhi tree,
once you awakened from a dream.
There was a time when you rose to the occasion
and turned water into wine.

~William Hammett


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Tuesday, February 11, 2025

Not Very Long Ago

I don’t know who God is,
but you will do, my dearest,
for when our breath was joined
in a kiss long or short,
there was spirit, the knowing
beyond all knowing,
the fire that illuminates desire,
the stream that cools the lips,
the bird speaking in tongues
while perched on the evening wire.
Your short dark hair was soft,
as was your voice, your life,
your gentle way of holding me
with your bedroom eyes.
A cloud sailed over my head
not very long ago
when the day was almost lost,
but I remembered you,
not for the first time,
and the moment was saved.

~William Hammett


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Tuesday, February 4, 2025

The Blessing of Pablo Neruda

For the sake of argument,
let us agree that the chance encounter
was at a quaint café on a narrow street
where I sipped coffee and you drank wine.

Despite this side-by-side jitterbug and waltz,

we decided that Proust was entirely too heavy

to carry around in a rucksack or the brain.

 

For the sake of argument, we strolled the park

with a bottle of wine and a baguette,

staring at the lake and catching imaginary fish,

though you pulled in a black rubber boot,

claiming that you must paint it in your loft.

Found art is the best, you said.

 

There, with the blessing of Neruda,

I admired your free-flowing fountain,

the landscape of your valleys and mountains,

your flat stomach and rolling breasts,

the slope of your thighs and shoulders.

 

But let us dismiss this rhetorical argument,

for I see a story in your eyes.

Let us begin with chapter one, page one,

a story so long that it will be carried for decades

without burden or the lost time of Swann.

 

You are my found art, a prose poem

that ends with our sleeping in each other’s arms,

our hair gray, our dreams of coffee

and wine and baguettes in the park.

Now to begin: Once upon a time.


~William Hammett



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