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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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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
Enough
Every
Wondering
Years
Nights
Fill
Hear
Wonder
Year
Night

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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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In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I open eyes and heart to illumination. I must still grow in the dark like a root not ready, not ready at all.
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But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.
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One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language.
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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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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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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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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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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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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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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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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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There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.
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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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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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The threat of world's end is the old threat.
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In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
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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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Images split the truth in fractions.
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