Sunday, 18 January 2015

Fire, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

Quiet is the fire of design,
whose heart burns slowly,
and makes with its fingers
short work of the struggles
of men; quiet a flame of time
that knows no end, but turns
thorn to tinder, when night
arrives, and you descend
the stairs all anther-legged,
corolla-dressed, foot before
other foot, as a panther
walks down a staircase
on its paws: quiet the world
it moves in. Night waits for
what was born a confidence
which the vow of man among
dead and battered faiths
on the battlefield shall meet,
as at the base of your stairs
we look up, lissom-necked,
for a means to have this life
inserted into today, but also
into another night again.
My lion head which is heavy
with remorse walks down
away into its zone of death.

The Onslaught Press


Michelle Elvy said...

I really like the quiet simmering opening of this dark poem. Your words and rhythms flow so beautifully. And they haunt me often long after I've read them. Looking forward to 2015 and more of your fine words!

Rethabile said...

Thank you Michelle. I look forward to this fresh year, too. Wishing you a happy 2015!