Poem of the Week, by Ursula K. Le Guin

Click here for details on my one-day spring workshops, including The Intuitive Leap on April 7 and Freedom of Form on April 8.

The animal world I can understand: kill or be killed, kill or watch your children be killed. But so many of the things humans kill about are invisible and imaginary, like the boundaries between nations, like nations themselves, like the invisible systems of capitalism and other systems we all live and struggle within. That’s harder for me to wrap my head around.

The Next War, by Ursula K. Le Guin

It will take place,
it will take time
it will take life,
and waste them.

Click here for more information about Ursula K. Le Guin.‚Äč


Words by Winter: my podcast

Poem of the Week, by Ursula K. Le Guin

My new poems podcast, Words by Wintercan be found here.

When we were little we weren’t supposed to swim for an hour after we ate, because if we did, cramps will seize you and you’ll sink to the bottom and drown. Or something like that. And when we got drunk or high we were killing off brain cells that would never be replaced, because you were born with all the brain cells you’ll ever have. Or something like that.

Both false, along with a lot of other things. Sometimes I wonder about the things I believed, and maybe still do, like the idea of a soul that’s unchanging and the essence of who we are.

But what if there is no soul? What if the person you are in the moment is just that, the person you are in the moment, not who came before and who will come after? What if everything you forgot isn’t buried inside you somewhere, it’s just. . . gone? These were the questions floating through my mind on a thousand-mile drive last month. The little girl I used to be rose up in my mind, her serious eyes and wondering heart, calling to me from long ago and faraway.

Leaves, by Ursula K. Le Guin

Years do odd things to identity.
What does it mean to say
I am that child in the photograph
at Kishamish in 1935?
Might as well say I am the shadow
of a leaf of the acacia tree
felled seventy years ago
moving on the page the child reads.
Might as well say I am the words she read
or the words I wrote in other years,
flicker of shade and sunlight
as the wind moves through the leaves. 

For more information on Ursula K. Le Guin, click here.

Words by Winter: my new podcast