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There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.

Denise Levertov

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Denise Levertov
Age: 74 †
Born: 1923
Born: October 24
Died: 1997
Died: December 20
Poet
Translator
Writer
Ilford
London
Priscilla D Levertoff
Priscilla Denise Levertoff
Priscilla Denise Levertov
Girl
Rags
Song
Feathers
Kind
Dressed
Mind
Torn
Moon
Songs
Opal
Strange
Turbulent
Woman
Ridden

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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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At Delphi I prayed to Apollo that he maintain in me the flame of the poem and I drank of the brackish spring there.
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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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our nerve filaments twitch with its presence day and night, nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying, nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness, the deep intelligence living at peace would have.
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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
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What joy when the insouciant armadillo glances at us and doesn't quicken his trotting across the track into the palm brush. What is this joy? That no animal falters, but knows what it must do?
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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
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Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow.
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Mediocrity is perhaps due not so much to lack of imagination as to lack of faith in the imagination, lack of the capacity for this abandon.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair.
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Do you mistake me? I am speaking of living, of moving from one moment into the next, and into the one after, breathing death in the spring air.
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Images split the truth in fractions.
Denise Levertov
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blue bead on the wick, there's that in me that burns and chills, blackening my heart with its soot, I think sometimes not Apollo heard me but a different god.
Denise Levertov
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
Denise Levertov
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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
Denise Levertov
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But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.
Denise Levertov
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Love is a landscape the long mountains define but don't shut off from the unseeable distance.
Denise Levertov