Poems Rethabile Likes

The Encounter by Louise Glück | Poems Rethabile Likes The Encounter by Louise Glück You came to the side of the bed and sat staring at me. Then you kissed me—I felt hot wax on my forehead. I wanted it to leave a mark: that's how I knew I loved you. Because I wanted to be burned, stamped, to have something in the end— I drew the gown over my head; a red flush covered my face and shoulders. It will run its course, the course of fire, setting a cold coin on the forehead, between the eyes. You lay beside me; your hand moved over my face as though you had felt it also— you must ...

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls by E. E. Cummings | Poems Rethabile Likes the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls by E. E. Cummings are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds (also, with the church’s protestant blessings daughters, unscented shapeless spirited) they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead, are invariably interested in so many things— at the present writing one still finds delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles? perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D …the Cambridge ladies do not care, above Cambridge if sometimes in its box...

Horns by Kwame Dawes | Poems Rethabile Likes Horns by Kwame Dawes I hear them in the morning, the horns, the long, deep groan of ships at dawn, the sound of something leaving, something gone. And then the taxis, the quick hot blast of impatience at a corner, a crosswalk, a signal just turned green, a pedestrian slow. The horns of our hunger, the horns of the market, the brass of negotiation, the small furious beep of a moped weaving. At noon, the big rigs, the log trucks blowing for curves, the warning, the prayer of the mountain road, the echo off the gorge. Some horns are ceremonial: the high, thin cry of a bride leaving, the bleat of a carnival float, the call to worship—the wooden horn. And in the evening, the freight train horn...

Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney | Poems Rethabile Likes Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked unt...

A Virginal by Ezra Pound | Poems Rethabile Likes A Virginal by Ezra Pound No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately. I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness, For my surrounding air hath a new lightness; Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly And left me cloaked as with a gauze of aether; As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness. Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her. No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour, Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers. Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches, As winter...

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron | Poems Rethabile Likes She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So s...

Why Poetry Can Be Hard for Most People by Dorothea Lasky | Poems Rethabile Likes Why Poetry Can Be Hard for Most People by Dorothea Lasky Because speaking to the dead is not something you want to do When you have other things to do in your day Like take out the trash or use the vacuum In the edge between the stove and cupboard Because the rat is everywhere Crawling around Or more so walking And it doesn’t even notice you It has its own intentions And is searching for that perfect bag of potato chips like you once were Because life is no more important than eating Or fucking Or talking someone into fucking ...