Abraham’s Soul

And though others look elsewhere for promise—to a sort of heaven in the stars—
I shall be gone from here with no answers
to leave my children, except perhaps
the taste in the mouth she has kissed, gold thighs
that have been given to me. In a month,
crickets will be back here to sing and mate in summer's
heat. One summer, her old man got his head blown off.
The minute I went through his journals every moment
knew of her, as I compared his calculation to what
is so true about a breast, and saw her by far
some sun with earths around it. We put him to rest
in a donga with hay for a pillow, and no answers
lay there, either, nothing new for an aggrieved world,
no linking of hands across America. Except the times
such love hankers after Abraham’s soul, forgetting
how generous, and forgiving, is the solitary leaf.

Song & Dance by Basotho men

The dance is called mohobelo, it's a men's dance. This type of song is a lengae. In the background there's usually (like here) a praise poet (mothothokisi) rapping. In the foreground is the sephokoli or song leader. Then the "choir", backing it all up with bass. I particularly like the way this sephokoli is leading it all.

The Wood's Edge

After walking across the forest
at a time of waking, we swung back
to head home like two turned away

by despair in truth. And chose again
the forest, grieving each hour that died

to a church bell, Autumn in leaves
coming to the bottom soon. A hawk
like a kite in mid-air, there, then here,

watched us with disinterested eyes.
I was walking beside you that morning,

breathing in the promise of air. A turn
to the woods and we were in the forest
again, things preceding us: this dark deer

and her fawn ticking off from our midst
into an unintended path, snapping twigs
down a lane. We lacked many things,

fear, natural love, so went along behind
their frightened hooves to the other side.

"Photograph from September 11" by Wisława Szymborska

They jumped from the burning floors--
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.

There's enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.

They're still within the air's reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them-
describe this flight
and not add a last line.

They jumped from the burning floors--
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.

There's enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.

They're still within the air's reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them--
describe this flight
and not add a last line.
-_-_-_-_-

Source: http://huffingtonpost.com/2011/09/09/911-poetry_n_954492.html