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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
Time
Redefinition
Marking
Wavering
Nameless
Horizon
Mountain
Wall
Beyond

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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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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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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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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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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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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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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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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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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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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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But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.
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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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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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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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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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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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Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it.
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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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