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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
Mind
Torn
Moon
Songs
Opal
Strange
Turbulent
Woman
Ridden
Girl
Rags
Song
Feathers
Kind
Dressed

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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
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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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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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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.
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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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Images split the truth in fractions.
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I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.
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Both art and faith are dependent on imagination both are ventures into the unknown.
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Love is a landscape the long mountains define but don't shut off from the unseeable distance.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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Teachers at all levels encourage the idea that you have to talk about things in order to understand them, because they wouldn't have jobs, otherwise. But it's phony, you know.
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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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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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An absolute patience. Trees stand up to their knees in fog. The fog slowly flows uphill. White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples. The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up not one bird. So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.
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A poet articulating the dreads and horrors of our time is necessary in order to make readers understand what is happening, really understand it, not just know about it but feel it: and should be accompanied by a willingness on the part of those who write it to take additional action towards stopping the great miseries which they record.
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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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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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