Poems Rethabile Likes

Rain Light by W.S. Merwin | Poems Rethabile Likes Rain Light by W.S. Merwin All day the stars watch from long ago my mother said I am going now when you are alone you will be all right whether or not you know you will know look at the old house in the dawn rain all the flowers are forms of water the sun reminds them through a white cloud touches the patchwork spread on the hill the washed colors of the afterlife that lived there long before you were born see how they wake without a question even though the whole world is burning Poet: @WSMerwin Online: @WordsForThe...

Butter by Finuala Dowling | Poems Rethabile Likes Butter by Finuala Dowling You know how it is sometimes with butter? How after a free fallow period, you long for it, how it lies shaded in its pale, soft firmness, how it calls to you quietly from its cool clay dish until at last you give in, you make toast: you don't even want the toast — burnt crumbs mean nothing to you — but you but you but you want the butter. Well, that's how it was with you. I'm saying this in as plain a sliced way as I can — there may after all be children present: you were any old slice of toast. I can't be more explicit ...

Untitled by César Vallejo | Poems Rethabile Likes "Untitled" by César Vallejo Poet César Vallejo — read by Claudia Rankine . Find Vallejo's books 📖 Read along Untitled For several days, I have felt an exuberant, political need to love, to kiss affection on its two cheeks, and I have felt from afar a demonstrative desire, another desire to love, willingly or by force, whoever hates me, whoever rips up his paper, a little boy, the woman who cries for the man who was crying, the king of wine, the slave of water, whoever hid in his wrath, whoever sweats, whoever passes, whoever shakes his person in my soul. And I want, therefore, to adjust the braid of whoever talks to me; the hair of the soldier; the light of the great one; the greatness of the little one. I want to iron directly a ...

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, ...