I think the short poems have an art all of their own.
Robert Bly has a wonderful anthology,
a little anthology of short poems called,
The Sea And The Honeycomb.
And is a delightful book.
I don't know if he has Issa in it or not.
But I know Issa was one of his great loves.
Issa, a Japanese poet.
One of the tenderest men that ever lived.
And his soul shines forth in almost everything
he ever wrote.
And he rarely wrote poems longer than three lines.
Like, for you flees too, the night must be long.
It must be lonely.
Or, don't kill that fly.
Look at him there, wringing his hands, wringing his feet.
Look at cricket and rolling over.
Here's a little poem by D.H. Lawrence,
called The White Horse.
This is in Bly's book, I know.
The youth walks up to the white horse to put its halter on.
And the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent.
They are in another world.
I'm sure most of you know this little poem by William Carlos
Williams.
William was an amazing man.
Had a long life, he delivered thousands and thousands
of babies, and thousands and thousands of poems.
And even ran off to New York once in a while,
with his female patients.
But all during this time, he maintained a beautiful love
affair with his wife Flossie.
And this is to her.
A little poem called, This Is Just To Say.
Note, this is just to say, I have eaten the plums
which were in the icebox.
And which you were probably saving for breakfast.
Forgive me, they were delicious.
So sweet and so cold.