Poems Rethabile Likes

The Unchosen by Judson Jerome | Poems Rethabile Likes The Unchosen by Judson Jerome I guess I have a deficiency. God never said boo to me when as a boy I stood straining in church with muscular endeavor for the sweet squirt of salvation. I never could see why He spoke to this or that old lady, sending her, hallelujah, down the aisle. Was I alone in the congregation vile? Or was their claim of spirit something shady? And now when I read poets who simply Know, drinking their imagery from God's own cup, whose poems "just come," and then, like Topsy, grow, whereas I always have to make them up, ...

What I Believe by Michael Blumenthal | Poems Rethabile Likes What I Believe by Michael Blumenthal I believe there is no justice, but that cottongrass and bunchberry grow on the mountain. I believe that a scorpion's sting will kill a man, but that his wife will remarry. I believe that, the older we get, the weaker the body, but the stronger the soul. I believe that if you roll over at night in an empty bed, the air consoles you. I believe that no one is spared the darkness, and no one gets all of it. I believe we all drown eventually ...

Canto Two [excerpt] by John Shade (from Pale Fire) | Poems Rethabile Likes Canto Two [excerpt] by John Shade (A poet in Vladimir Nabokov's novel "Pale Fire") There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me. There was the day when I began to doubt Man's sanity: How could he live without Knowing for sure what dawn, what death, what doom Awaited consciousness beyond the tomb? And finally there was the sleepless night ...

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden | Poems Rethabile Likes Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house. Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know ...