New Poetry, November 2006
Crows
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.
Intimations
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
Copyright © 2006 by Ursula K. Le Guin
|
