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Mountain, mountain, mountain, marking time. Each nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering redefinition of horizon.

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
Beyond
Time
Redefinition
Marking
Wavering
Nameless
Horizon
Mountain
Wall

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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'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 like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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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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Images split the truth in fractions.
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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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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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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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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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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.
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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 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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And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair.
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An absolute patience. Trees stand up to their knees in fog. The fog slowly flows uphill. White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples. The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up not one bird. So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.
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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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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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Insofar as poetry has a social function it is to awaken sleepers by other means than shock.
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