Poems Rethabile Likes

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls by E. E. Cummings the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls 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 of sky lavender and cornerless, the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy Poet: E. E. Cummings Source: @Poets.org Books: @AbeBooks

The Sisters of Sexual Treasure by Sharon Olds The Sisters of Sexual Treasure As soon as my sister and I got out of our mother's house, all we wanted to do was fuck, obliterate her tiny sparrow body and narrow grasshopper legs. The men's bodies were like our father's body! The massive hocks, flanks, thighs, elegant knees, long tapered calves– we could have him there, the steep forbidden buttocks, backs of the knees, the cock in our mouth, ah the cock in our mouth.    Like explorers who discover a lost city, we went nuts with joy, undressed the men slowly and carefully, as if uncovering buried artifacts that proved our theory of the lost culture: that if Mother said it wasn't there, it was there. Poet: Sharon Olds Source: @RonNowPoetry Books: @AbeBooks

Ars Poetica by Blaga Dimitrova Ars Poetica Write each of your poems as if it were your last. In this century, saturated with strontium, charged with terrorism, flying with supersonic speed, death comes with terrifying suddenness. Send each of your words like a last letter before execution, a call carved on a prison wall. You have no right to lie, no right to play pretty little games. You simply don’t have the time to correct your mistakes. Write each of your poems, tersely, mercilessly, with blood — as if it were your last. ——— (Translated from the Bulgarian by Ludmilla G. Popava-Wightman) Poet: Blaga Dimitrova Source: @TrueAllusion Books: @AbeBooks