Sunday, March 15, 2015

Denise Levertov / Poem

by Denise Levertov
Some are too much at home in the role of wanderer, watcher, listener: who, by lamplit doors that open only to another’s knock, commune with shadows and are happier with ghosts than living guests in a warm house. They drift about the darkening city squares, coats blown in evening winds and fingers feeling familiar holes in pockets, thinking: Life has always been a counterfeit, a dream where dreaming figures danced behind the glass. Yet as they work, or absently stand at a window letting a tap run and the plates lie wet, while the bright rain softly shines upon slates, they feel the whole of life is theirs, the music, "colour, and warmth, and light"; hands held safe in the hands of love; and trees beside them dark and gentle, growing as they grow, a part of the world with fire and house and child. The undertone of all their solitude is the unceasing question, "Who am I? A shadow’s image on the rainy pavement, walking in wonder past the vivid windows, a half-contented guest among my ghosts? Or one who, imagining light, air, sun, can now take root in life, inherit love?"

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