Quote

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.

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
Heart
Beads
Think
Apollo
Thinking
Burns
Chill
Blue
Bead
Heard
Wick
Sometimes
Soot
Different
Chills

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Mountain, mountain, mountain, marking time. Each nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering redefinition of horizon.
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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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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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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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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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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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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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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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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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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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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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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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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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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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Images split the truth in fractions.
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Both art and faith are dependent on imagination both are ventures into the unknown.
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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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