Poems Rethabile Likes

Not Getting Closer by Jack Gilbert | Poems Rethabile Likes Not Getting Closer by Jack Gilbert Walking in the dark streets of Seoul under the almost full moon. Lost for the last two hours. Finishing a loaf of bread and worried about the curfew. I have not spoken for three days and I am thinking, "Why not just settle for love? Why not just settle for love instead?" Poet: @JackGilbert Online: @LiveJournal Book(s): @ThriftBooks ...

Today by Billy Collins | Poems Rethabile Likes Today by Billy Collins If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb, a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table, releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is...

Mortal Limit by Robert Penn Warren | Poems Rethabile Likes Mortal Limit by Robert Penn Warren I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming. It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags. There—west—were the Tetons. Snow-peaks would soon be In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height Hangs now the black speck? Beyond what range will gold eyes see New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light? Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it Hang motionless in dying vision before It knows it will accept the mortal limit, And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore The breath of earth? Of...

My Father by Yehuda Amichai | Poems Rethabile Likes My Father by Yehuda Amichai The memory of my father is wrapped up in white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work. Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits out of his hat, he drew love from his small body, and the rivers of his hands overflowed with good deeds. Poet: @YehudaAmichai Online: @PoemELF Book(s): @ThriftBooks Guidelines ☼ Archive ☼ Random Poem ☼ Privacy Subscribe ☼ Suggest A Poem ☼ ☕ Buy Me Coffee

Morning Song by Sylvia Plath | Poems Rethabile Likes Morning Song by Sylvia Plath Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows i...

Judas and the Sanhedrin by Rethabile Masilo | Poems Rethabile Likes Judas and the Sanhedrin by Rethabile Masilo Did Judas kiss Jesus as they say just to betray him? The Pharisees and Romans knew not who Jesus was, so when evening approached and they were sick and tired of that bloke who drew multitudes to himself, and unto whom the people of Galilee were attracted, they sent a message to Judas and promised him cash if he could point out the son of man to them. Thirty gleaming shekels; and they asked their messenger to be sure to dangle the bag and jangle the coins before his eyes. Judas was fucked, for he liked money, and although when alone away from the troupe he would sometimes visit the local amusement scene, he had a good heart. The guy found him drinking at a bar, and subsequently le...

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 hor...