Poems Rethabile Likes

'My Mother Says She Sees Him' by Rethabile Masilo She said… I see him outside in that area beyond the house. It must have been the yellow in her eyes. She has had time since he left to scrub them into clear marbles, and allow saltwater to rinse them, but the yellow has stayed, like rust on an abandoned freshwater pipe. When we were young, she would see into our childish dreams with them, in the unforgiving dark. He stands there bent at the waist, refusing to crack or to break, and she describes his teeth, clenched like a beast holds in its jaws a wriggling body by the thew, in the dim light beside the door. ...

'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 soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind...

'Commandments' by Rethabile Masilo –for my brother, Khotsofalang Memory lifts its veil, everybody calls you, but no appearance. Once again, I recall walking nights with you, touching walls toward a light of home’s distance lit for those still outside, till that night became another day. I remember ten childhood commandments, how absent loves must be watered and fed with half the force of touch and light and tongue, and half with a winter of wild surmise. Today still the quiet night brings images of walking toward that hill of home, using darkness as a guide there. Then one morning you were gone—one day t...

'Ozymandias' by Niyi Osundare I met a traveler from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunk less legs of stone Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level...

'Not my Business' by Niyi Osundare They picked Akanni up one morning Beat him soft like clay And stuffed him down the belly Of a waiting jeep. What business of mine is it So long they don’t take the yam From my savouring mouth? They came one night Booted the whole house awake And dragged Danladi out, Then off to a lengthy absence. What business of mine is it So long they don’t take the yam From my savouring mouth? Chinwe went to work one day Only to find her job was gone: No query, no warning, no probe— Just one neat sack for a stainless record. What business of mine is it So long they don’t take the yam From my savouring ...

'Mother to Son' by Langston Hughes Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. Langston Hughes Life for me ain't been no cry...

'[Buffalo Bill 's]' by e. e. cummings Buffalo Bill ’s defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blue-eyed boy Mister Death e. e. cummings He was a handsome man ...

'A fine beast' by Rethabile Masilo When face-to-face we met in the backyard where mother used to work, washing your panties, I placed my left hand on your waist, the right one on your breast, felt you fighting not to say from the bottom of your throat as we kissed, Ek is lief vir jou, kaffir! The zebra is a fine beast. And this is not for nor against the moon which is really a stone of significance to no one. I was talking about the folly that governs hearts of men. And this is not about sex. God knows I've desired you for more than tits, more than the way you just lose it in broad daylight when I touch them,...

'The New Religion' by Chris Abani The body is a nation I have never known. The pure joy of air: the moment between leaping from a cliff into the wall of blue below. Like that. Or to feel the rub of tired lungs against skin‐ covered bone, like a hand against the rough of bark. Like that. "The body is a savage," I said. For years I said that: the body is a savage. As if this safety of the mind were virtue not cowardice. For years I have snubbed the dark rub of it, said, "I am better, Lord, I am better," but sometimes, in an unguarded moment of sun, I remember the cowdung‐scent of my ch...

'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it's queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there's some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. ...

'the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls,' by e. e. cummings 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 rattl...