Philip Hammial

(1937 - / Detroit, Michigan / United States)

Philip Hammial Poems

1. TRAPS 7/16/2018
2. ME, MYSELF, NO OTHER 7/16/2018
3. THE JUNTA 7/16/2018
4. BYTES 7/16/2018
5. BICYCLE 7/16/2018
6. THE AUTHORITIES 7/16/2018
7. FACE 7/16/2018
8. FETCH 7/16/2018
9. DOG CARTS 7/16/2018
10. MERCHANDISE 7/16/2018
11. FEAR 7/16/2018
12. PREY 7/16/2018
13. SIMILITUDE 7/16/2018
14. A DELIVERY VAN 7/16/2018
15. TONY'S MUSEUM 7/16/2018
16. TUNNELS 7/16/2018
17. TRANSPLANT 7/16/2018
18. HONEYMOON, DAY TWO 7/16/2018
19. BROTHERS 7/16/2018
20. A Delivery Van 5/8/2012
21. The Junta 5/8/2012
22. Transplant 5/8/2012
23. Bicycle 5/8/2012
24. Traps 5/8/2012
25. Fear 5/8/2012
26. Merchandise 5/8/2012
27. Bytes 5/8/2012
28. Face 5/8/2012
29. Tunnels 5/8/2012
30. The Authorities 5/8/2012
31. Tony's Museum 5/8/2012
32. Prey 5/8/2012
33. Fetch 5/8/2012
34. Honeymoon, Day Two 5/8/2012
35. Similitude 5/8/2012
36. Dog Carts 5/8/2012
37. Brothers 5/8/2012

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Best Poem of Philip Hammial

Brothers

Home alone, late at night, doing what I always do. I’m rowing. Sitting on my kitchen chair, chained to an oar, I’m one of a hundred slaves making sure that the galley keeps moving forward through a sea that is sometimes calm, sometimes raging. Forward, to that distant port where, so rumour has it, we’ll be set free, at long last, after all these years. The others, my brothers in chains, sitting in chairs in their own kitchens in this huge sprawl of public housing, rowing ceaselessly, with a strength they didn’t know they possessed.



How much further? How many more days? It can’t ...

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Bytes

As you would suspect the plow
of infidelity if the ox
had a human face so you would
the dead if they rehearsed their marriages
with wooden spoons (& we won’t
insult your intelligence with an explanation
as to why). Suffice it to say
that at this point the metaphor
is already so mannered that its collapse

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