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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

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
Hovers
August
Sweetness
Breathe

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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 artist must create himself or be born again.
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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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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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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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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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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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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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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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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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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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The threat of world's end is the old threat.
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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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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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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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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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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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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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