New Poetry, November 2006


Crows are the color of anarchy

and close up they’re a little scary.

An eye as bright as anything.

Having a pet crow would be

like having Voltaire on a string.


Learning the Name

for Bette

The wood thrush, it is! Now I know

who sings that clear arpeggio,

three far notes weaving

into the evening

among leaves

and shadow;

or at dawn in the woods, I've heard

the sweet ascending triple word

echoing over

the silent river —

but never

seen the bird.



Why is it I want to cry?

Crow, crow, tell me.

There is a shadow passing by.

The willows call me.

Why would an old woman weep?

Willow, tell me, willow.

Crows went flying through my sleep.

I cry and follow.


Every Land
(From a saying of Black Elk)

Watch where the branches of the willows bend

See where the waters of the rivers tend

Graves in the rock, cradles in the sand

Every land is the holy land

Here was the battle to the bitter end

Here's where the enemy killed the friend

Blood on the rock, tears on the sand

Every land is the holy land

Willow by the water bending in the wind

Bent till it's broken and it will not stand

Listen to the word the messengers send

Life like the broken rock, death like the sand

Every land is the holy land

— Ursula K. Le Guin
November 2006


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