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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.

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
Dry
Touching
Stunted
Fields
Wand
Paper
Wands
Walk
Stems
Walks
Butterflies
Stem
Butterfly

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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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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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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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Let the space under the first storey be dark, let the water lap the stone posts, and vivid green slime glimmer upon them let a boat be kept there.
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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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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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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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Beespittle, droppings, hairs of beefur: all become honey. Virulent micro-organisms cannot survive in honey.
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You can live for years next door to a big pine tree, honored to have so venerable a neighbor, even when it sheds needles all over your flowers or wakes you, dropping big cones onto your deck at still of night.
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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 AvowalAs swimmers dareto lie face to the skyand water bears them,as hawks rest upon airand air sustains themso would I learn to attain freefall, and floatinto Creator Spirit's deep embrace,knowing no effort earnsthat all-surrounding grace.
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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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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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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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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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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Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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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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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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