Poems Rethabile Likes

"When We Are Weak," a poem by R. S. Thomas When we are weak, we are strong. When our eyes close on the world, then somewhere within us the bush burns. When we are poor and aware of the inadequacy of our table, it is to that uninvited the guest comes. R. S. Thomas When we are weak, we are strong Questions? Please take a moment to read the guidelines first. Use the form to sign up (home page, menu icon, top rig...

"Wild Geese," a poem by Mary Oliver You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild gee...

"The Gap in the Gedge," a poem by R.S. Thomas That man, Prytherch, with the torn cap, I saw him often, framed in the gap Between two hazels with his sharp eyes, Bright as thorns, watching the sunrise Filling the valley with its pale yellow Light, where the sheep and the lambs went haloed With grey mist lifting from the dew. Or was it a likeness that the twigs drew With bold pencilling upon that bare Piece of sky? For he’s still there At early morning, when the light is right And I look up suddenly at a bird’s flight. R. S. Thomas At early morning, when the light is right ...

"SOUND OF THE AXE," a poem by Denise Levertov Once a woman went into the woods. The birds were silent. Why? she said. Thunder, they told her, thunder is coming. She walked on, and the trees were dark and rustled their leaves. Why? she said. The great storm, they told her, the great storm is coming. She came to the river, it rushed by without reply, she crossed the bridge, she began to climb up to the ridge where grey rocks bleached themselves, waiting for crack of doom, and the hermit had his hut, the wise man who had lived since time began. When she came to the hut there was no one. But she heard his axe. She heard the listening forest. She dare...

"DARK AUGUST," a poem by Derek Walcott So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky of this black August. My sister, the sun, broods in her yellow room and won't come out. Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume like a kettle, rivers overrun; still, she will not rise and turn off the rain. She is in her room, fondling old things, my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls like a crash of plates from the sky, she does not come out. Don't you know I love you but am hopeless at fixing the rain? But I am learning slowly to love the dark days, the steaming hills, the air with gossiping mosquitoes, and to sip the medicine of b...

"Why We Oppose Pockets for Women," a poem by Alice Duer Miller Because pockets are not a natural right. Because the great majority of women do not want pockets. If they did they would have them. Because whenever women have had pockets they have not used them. Because women are required to carry enough things as it is, without the additional burden of pockets. Because it would make dissension between husband and wife as to whose pockets were to be filled. Because it would destroy man’s chivalry toward woman, if he did not have to carry all her things in his pockets. Because men are men, and women are women. We must not fly in ...

"The Alchemist," a poem by Louise Bogan I burned my life, that I might find A passion wholly of the mind, Thought divorced from eye and bone, Ecstasy come to breath alone. I broke my life, to seek relief From the flawed light of love and grief. With mounting beat the utter fire Charred existence and desire. It died low, ceased its sudden thresh. I found unmysterious flesh— Not the mind’s avid substance—still Passionate beyond the will. Louise Bogan It died low, ceased its sudden thresh ...

"Let No Harm" by Mervyn Taylor —for Barack Obama I pray no harm comes to this man walking along a lonely stretch of road that the bandits with ideas of robbing him retreat upon seeing his face, and hearing him calculate the size of the world. He has traveled long on the way to the market, the junction where the barterers come with mules and millet, the harvest of their labor. They have heard he has enough resources to redeem the debts of sufferers, That into his clothes are sewn pockets that hold the weight of coins minted in the currency of every country. He has been coming for years, redoubling through villages where curtains part to fling y...

"AN OLD WOMAN'S PAINTING" by Lynn Emanuel Scrape the sun from the wall of the sky. Cast the great nets of autumn over the houses. Even the throat of the lily is a dangerous inlet. Let the world stand wearily on the stoop of the jail of the world and the light of the mind, that small lamp, pearl of shine, let the night come to it, as iron filings to a magnet, mother. Lynn Emanuel ...as iron filings to a magnet Qu...

"Home Burial" by Robert Frost He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: ‘What is it you see From up there always—for I want to know.’ She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: ‘What is it you see,’ Mounting until she cowered under him. ‘I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.’ She, in her place, refused him any help With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, ...