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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
Watch
Pomp
Pursuing
Advancing
Fallen
Clouds
Sun
Watches

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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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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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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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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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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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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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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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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.
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Images split the truth in fractions.
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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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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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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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In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
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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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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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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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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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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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