August 7, 2014Arms
Angels do not exist.
Bombs exist.
At someone’s say-so,
they fall from the clouds,
they carry you off,
you, who to them
weigh nothing.
from #42 - Winter 2013
from #42 - Winter 2013
Mike White
“I love to write short poems. Poems occupy space, of course, and a short poem asks for so little. Yet, at the same time, it knowingly draws attention to itself thanks to its conspicuously meager presence on the page. So, there’s humility involved, sure, but audacity as well. It’s a wonderful paradox, a wonderful tension. One of my favorite poets is Issa, and this poem of his gets me up in the morning: ‘In spring rain,/ how they carry on,/ uneaten ducks.’”