Quote

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.

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
Avenues
Police
Silence
Fills
Overrules
Way
Buddha
Oncoming
Life
Temples
Overtakes
Vietnam
Roar
Tragic
Alleys
Vast
Blocks
Block

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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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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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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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Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it.
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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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The threat of world's end is the old threat.
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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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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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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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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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Both art and faith are dependent on imagination both are ventures into the unknown.
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Images split the truth in fractions.
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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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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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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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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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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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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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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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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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