Poems Rethabile Likes

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note by Amiri Baraka | Poems Rethabile Likes Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note by Amiri Baraka Lately, I've become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus . . . Things have come to that. And now, each night I count the stars, And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave. Nobody sings anymore. And then last night, I tiptoed up To my daughter...

A Blessing by James Wright | Poems Rethabile Likes A Blessing by James Wright Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young t...

They Sit Together On The Porch by Wendell Berry | Poems Rethabile Likes They Sit Together On The Porch by Wendell Berry They sit together on the porch, the dark Almost fallen, the house behind them dark. Their supper done with, they have washed and dried The dishes—only two plates now, two glasses, Two knives, two forks, two spoons—small work for two. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak, And when they speak at last it is to say What each one knows the other knows. They have One mind between them, now, that finally For all its knowing will not exactly know Wh...

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...