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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.

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
Leaves
Heavy
Growing
Listless
Call
Studded
Didn
June
Wherever
Bush

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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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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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Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it.
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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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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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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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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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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 watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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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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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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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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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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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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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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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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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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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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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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