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Beespittle, droppings, hairs of beefur: all become honey. Virulent micro-organisms cannot survive in honey.

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
Hair
Droppings
Cannot
Virulent
Become
Hairs
Micro
Dropping
Organisms
Honey
Survive

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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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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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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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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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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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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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Images split the truth in fractions.
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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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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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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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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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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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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 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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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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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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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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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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