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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.

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
Advancing
Fallen
Clouds
Sun
Watches
Watch
Pomp
Pursuing

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Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow.
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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 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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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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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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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 fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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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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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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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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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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And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair.
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At Delphi I prayed to Apollo that he maintain in me the flame of the poem and I drank of the brackish spring there.
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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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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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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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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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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Mountain, mountain, mountain, marking time. Each nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering redefinition of horizon.
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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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