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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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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
Road
Walking
Stop

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Beespittle, droppings, hairs of beefur: all become honey. Virulent micro-organisms cannot survive in honey.
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my pleasure was in the strength of my back, in my noble shoulders, the cool smooth flesh cylinders of my arms.
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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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The vast silence of Buddha overtakes and overrules the oncoming roar of tragic life that fills alleys and avenues it blocks the way of pedicabs, police, convoys.
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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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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.
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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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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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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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In June the bush we call alder was heavy, listless, its leaves studded with galls, growing wherever we didn't want it.
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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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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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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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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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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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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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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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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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