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Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow.

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
Light
Invisible
Giving
Sky
Praise
Shadow
Sun
Beyond
Chimney
Cold
Chimneys
White
Burning

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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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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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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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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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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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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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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemons off the tree! I don't want to forget who I am, what has burned in me, and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -
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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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Images split the truth in fractions.
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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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Peace as a positive condition of society, not merely as an interim between wars, is something so unknown that it casts no images on the mind's screen.
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In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
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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 threat of world's end is the old threat.
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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 believe every space and comma is a living part of the poem and has its function, just as every muscle and pore of the body has its function. And the way the lines are broken is a functioning part essential to the life of the poem.
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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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Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into 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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