Poems Rethabile Likes

Adolescence-II by Rita Dove | Poems Rethabile Likes Adolescence-II by Rita Dove Although it is night, I sit in the bathroom, waiting. Sweat prickles behind my knees, the baby-breasts are alert. Venetian blinds slice up the moon; the tiles quiver in pale strips. Then they come, the three seal men with eyes as round As dinner plates and eyelashes like sharpened tines. They bring the scent of licorice. One sits in the wash bowl, One on the bathtub edge; one leans against the door. "Can you feel it yet?" they whisper. I don't know what to say, again. They chuckle, Patting their sleek bodies with their hands. ...

A Small Needful Fact by Ross Gay | Poems Rethabile Likes A Small Needful Fact by Ross Gay Is that Eric Garner worked for some time for the Parks and Rec. Horticultural Department, which means, perhaps, that with his very large hands, perhaps, in all likelihood, he put gently into the earth some plants which, most likely, some of them, in all likelihood, continue to grow, continue to do what such plants do, like house and feed small and necessary creatures, like being pleasant to touch and smell, like converting sunlight into food, like making it easier for us to breathe. ...

A History of Mourning by Robert Bly | Poems Rethabile Likes A History of Mourning by Robert Bly It's odd that evening is so speckled with grief. Birds start singing when the branch reddens. But we write our poems when the sun goes down. Our ancestors knew how to cry at death; but they Had enough to do finding big stones to cover The dead, and begetting new souls to replace them. We slept on the limestone plains, and woke Night after night, tracing the route the dead take Through holes in limestone and on into the stars. Some hands outlined with blown powder On the walls of the cave have missing fingers. ...

Orphean Lost by Carl Rakosi | Poems Rethabile Likes Orphean Lost by Carl Rakosi The oakboughs of the cottagers descend, my lover, with the bestial evening. The shadows of their swelled trunks crush with frugal herb. The heights lag and perish in a blue vacuum. And I, my lover, skirt the cottages, the eternal hearths and gloom, to animate the ideal with internal passion. Poet: @CarlRakosi Online: @PoetryFoundation Book(s): @AbeBooks ...

A Cradle Song by William Butler Yeats | Poems Rethabile Likes A Cradle Song by William Butler Yeats The Danann children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold: I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast, And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me. Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea; Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West; Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost; O heart the wind...