Poems Rethabile Likes

Herring by Glenn Shaheen Herring Somebody suggested I buy pickled Herring in wine sauce— it didn't sound Like a bad idea, all these conversations Mired in capital's sloughed-off flesh. The dirt below the snow making its Presence known by each dig of the Shovel. I should buy a new one, I Should make my presence known In the annals of commerce. Things I should buy, endless wires coiled And hopelessly tangled. What do The spirits tell us when they manifest Over our beds in deep night, rotten Visions or undigested bits of beef. Outside the vermin are so alluring, Their paws almost human as they Dig through our piles of refuse. I do not pet them though they are Not afraid and even approach me. This much I have learned— I am Familiar with hunger and curiosity Poet: @GlennShaheen Source: @SplitThi...

The Applicant by Sylvia Plath The Applicant First, are you our sort of a person? Do you wear A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch, A brace or a hook, Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch, Stitches to show something’s missing? No, no? Then How can we give you a thing? Stop crying. Open your hand. Empty? Empty. Here is a hand To fill it and willing To bring teacups and roll away headaches And do whatever you tell it. Will you marry it? It is guaranteed To thumb shut your eyes at the end And dissolve of sorrow. We make new stock from the salt. I notice you are stark naked. How about this suit— Black and stiff, but not a bad fit. Will you marry it? It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof Against fire and bombs through the roof. Believe me, they’ll bury you in it. Now your head, excuse me, is empty. I have the ticket for that. Come here...

White canes bend at two places, like fingers by Rethabile Masilo White canes bend at two places, like fingers Cities through fingertips inebriate me. Everywhere I travel lies this pavement defining the town with a kerb that may or may not curve to where I go. Patient, I like to try and see it with my cane, slightly slanted in the hand. Not a stick, a pen I use to trace my life again as I walk and tap or touch stone or brick or granite at my feet. No need to prove God or splendour. If you don’t listen well to night you may miss the bat that moves with rubber wing, and flickers round walls in a feeding frenzy. For the glory of everything belongs truly to the night, which holds day as dead retinas carry light, to watch life with previous sight. Poet: Rethabile Masilo Source: @Flash Frontier Books: @AbeBook...