Showing posts with label Denise Levertov. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Denise Levertov. Show all posts

Monday, September 7, 2015

Denise Levertov / Love Poem


LOVE POEM

by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY

What you give me is


the extraordinary sun
splashing its light
                             into astonished trees.
 

A branch
of berries, swaying

under the feet of a bird.

I know
other joys-they taste
bitter, distilled as they are
from roots, yet I thirst for them.

But you-
you give me

the flash of golden daylight
in the body's
midnight,
warmth of the fall noonday
between the sheets in the dark.





Monday, July 6, 2015

Denise Levertov / The Third Dimesion

Illustration by Fernando Vicente

The Third Dimesion
by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY

Who’d believe me if I said, ‘They took and

split me open from
scalp to crotch, and

still I’m alive, and
walk around pleased with

the sun and all
the world’s bounty.’ Honesty

isn’t so simple:
a simple honesty is

nothing but a lie.
Don’t the trees

hide the wind between
their leaves and

speak in whispers?
The third dimension

hides itself.
If the roadmen

crack stones, the
stones are stones:

but love
cracked me open

and I’m
alive to

tell the tale — but not
honestly:

the words
change it. Let it be —

here in the sweet sun
— a fiction, while I

breathe and
change pace.





Thursday, July 2, 2015

Denise Levertov / Listening to Distant Guns


Listening to Distant Guns
by Denise Levertov

The roses tremble; oh the sunflower's eye Is opened wide in sad expectancy. Westward and back the circling swallows fly, The rooks' battalions dwindle near the hill. That low pulsation in the east is war: No bell now breaks the evening's silent dream. The bloodless clarity of the evening's sky Betrays no whisper of the battle-scream. 1940
Early Poems



Friday, June 26, 2015

Denise Levertov / The Rights

Photo by Flor Garduño

The Rights

by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY

I want to give you
something I’ve made

some words on a page-as if
to say ‘Here are some blue beads’

or, ‘Here’s a bright red leaf I found on
the sidewalk’ (because

to find is to choose, and choice
is made.)           But it’s difficult:

so far I’ve found
nothing but the wish to give. Or

copies of old words? Cheap
and cruel; also senseless:
                                            Take

this instead, perhaps--a half-
promise: If

I ever write a poem of a certain temper
         (willful, tender, evasive,
          sad & rakish)

I’ll give it to you.






Friday, June 19, 2015

Denise Levertov / What She Could Not Tell Him



What She Could Not Tell Him
by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY

I wanted

 to know all the bones of your spine, all

 the pores of your skin,

 tendrils of body hair.

To let

all of my skin, my hands,

ankles, shoulders, breasts,

even my shadow,

be forever imprinted

with whatever of you

is forever unknown to me.

To cradle your sleep. 




Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Denise Levertov / The Jacob's Ladder

Denise Levertov

The Jacob's Ladder
by DENISE LEVERTOV
BIOGRAPHY
The stairway is not
a thing of gleaming strands
a radiant evanescence
for angels' feet that only glance in their tread, and
need not touch the stone.
It is of stone.
A rosy stone that takes
a glowing tone of softness
only because behind it the sky is a doubtful,
a doubting night gray.
A stairway of sharp
angles, solidly built.
One sees that the angels must spring
down from one step to the next, giving a little
lift of the wings:
and a man climbing
must scrape his knees, and bring
the grip of his hands into play. The cut stone
consoles his groping feet. Wings brush past him.
The poem ascends.




Monday, May 25, 2015

Denise Levertov / The Freeing of the Dust


The Freeing of the Dust

by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY

Unwrap the dust from its mummycloths.
Let Ariel learn

a blessing for Caliban
and Caliban drink dew freom the lotus
open upon the waters.
Bitter the slow
river water: dew
shall  wet his lips with light.
Let the dust
float, the wrappings too
are dust.
              Drift upon the stir
of air, of dark
river: ashes of wat had lived,
                      or seeds
                of ancient sesame,
                     or namelessly
pure dust that is all
in all.              Bless,
weightless Spirit. Drink,
Caliban, push your tongue
heavy into the calyx.




Denise Levertov
"Poems 1972-1982"
New Directions Publishing Corporation, 2001.





Thursday, March 26, 2015

Denise Levertov / Talking to Grief



Talking to Grief



Ah, grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.

I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.

You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog. 





Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Denise Levertov / Libation

La luz del paraíso
Photo by Triunfo Arciniegas
LIBATION

Raising our glasses, smilingly
we wish one another not luck
but happiness. After half a lifetime
with and without luck,
we know we need more than luck.
It makes no difference that we're drinking
tomato juice, not wine or whiskey -
we know what we mean,
and the red juice of those virtuous
vegetable-fruits is something we both enjoy.
I remember your wonder, as at a miracle,
finding them growing on sturdy vines
in my old aunt and uncle's sun-room
ripe to pluck at the breakfast-table!
We were twenty-three, and unappeasably hungry...

We agree on tomatoes, then-and happiness?
yes, that too: we mean growth, branching,
leafing, yielding blossoms and fruit and the sharp odor
                                                                                                      of dreams.
We mean knowing someone as deeply,
no, deeper, than we’ve known each other,
we mean being known. We are wishing each other
the luck not to need luck. I mill
some pepper into my juice, though,
and salt in the ancient gesture; and what would be wrong
with tipping out half a glass
for the gods?
                                                    We smile.
After these months of pain we begin
to admit our new lives have begun.



“The Freeing of the Dust”
New Directions Publishing, 1975.


Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Denise Levertov / The Good Dream

Honeymoon
Photo by Triunfo Arciniegas
The Good Dream

by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY




Rejoicing

because we had met again
we rolled laughing
over and over upon the big bed.

The joy was
not in a narrow sense
erotic--not
narrow in any sense.
It was

that all impediments,
every barrier, of history,
of learn'd anxiety,
wrong place and wrong time,

had gone down,
vanished.
It was the joy

of two rivers
meeting in depths of the sea.

1970



Monday, March 23, 2015

Denise Levertov / The needless



THE NEEDLES
by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY



He told me about
a poem he was writing.
For me.
He told me it asked,
'When I mean only to brush her gently
with soft feathers,

do the feathers
turn into needles?'
His telling me

was a cloud of
soft feathers, I closed
my eyes and sank in it.

Many weeks
I waited. At last,
'Did you, were you able

to finish that poem
you told me about,
once?'

'No', he said
looking away.
Needles paused

for an instant on my skin
before they drew blood.

"Poems 1968-1972"
New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1987



Sunday, March 22, 2015

Denise Levertov / Adam's Complaint


Adam's Complaint
By Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY


Some people,

no matter what you give them,

still want the moon.



The bread,

the salt,

white meat and dark,

still hungry.



The marriage bed

and the cradle,

still empty arms.



You give them land,

their own earth under their feet,

still they take to the roads.



And water: dig them the deepest well,

still it’s not deep enough

to drink the moon from.