Denise Levertov

244px|thumb|right|I am tired of "the fine art of unhappiness." thumb|right|To leave the open fields and enter the forest, that was the rite. Denise Levertov (24 October 1923 – 20 December 1997) was a British-American poet. Quotes I long for poems of an inner harmony in utter contrast to the chaos in which they exist. Insofar as poetry has a social function it is to awaken sleepers by other means than shock. Statement on poetics in The New American Poetry (1960) edited by Donald Allen To leave the open fields and enter the forest,that was the rite. Knowing there was mystery, they could go. Go back now! And he receded among the multitude of forms, the twists and shadows they saw now, listening to the hum of the world's wood. "The Novices" (1960) I’ve always hated artificial flowers unless they were just flagrantly and beautifully, sort of brassily, artificial. But the good imitations, the ones that you think are real until you get up to them, and then there’s that awful dead plastic, are really vile. And the reason why I think they’re so vile is because so much of the beauty of a flower is in its very perishableness. One doesn’t want it to last forever, and accumulate dust. The Craft of Poetry, edited by William Packard (1974); Quoted in Murphy, Edward F. Webster's Treasury of Relevant Quotations , Greenwich House, New York, 1983 (pg. 290). Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow. Mass for the Day of St. Thomas Didymus (1981); Online excerpt Acknowledgement, and celebration, of mystery probably constitutes the most consistent theme of my poetry from its very beginnings. Because it is a matter of which I am conscious, it is possible, however imprecisely, to call it an intellectual position; but it is one which emphasizes the incapacity of reason alone (much though I delight in elegant logic) to comprehend experience, and considers Imagination the chief of human faculties. It must therefore be by the exercise of that faculty that one moves toward faith, and possibly by its failure that one rejects it as delusion. Poems present their testimony as circumstantial evidences, not as closing argument. Where Wallace Stevens says, "God and the imagination are one," I would say that the imagination, which synergizes intellect, emotion and instinct, is the perceptive organ through which it is possible, though not inevitable, to experience God. A Poets View (1984) With Eyes at the Back of Our Heads (1960) I like to findwhat's not foundat once, but lieswithin something of another nature,in repose, distinct. Pleasures I like the juicy stem of grass that growswithin the coarser leaf folded round,and the butteryellow glowin the narrow flute from which the morning-gloryopens blue and cool on a hot morning. Pleasures O Taste and See : New Poems (1964) thumb|right|The world is not with us enough. O taste and see. The world is not with us enough. O taste and see. This a response to William Wordsworth's famous statement: "The world is too much with us late and soon." The Secret thumb|right|Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry. I who don't know the secret wrote the line. Full text online Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.I who don't know the secret wrote the line. I love them for finding what I can't find,and for loving me for the line I wrote, and for forgetting it so that a thousand times, till death finds them, they may discover it again, in other lines in other happenings. And for wanting to know it, forassuming there is such a secret, yes, for that most of all. A Tree Telling of Orpheus (1968) thumb|right|As he sang it was no longer sounds only that made the music: he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened... thumb|right|He told of journeys, of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark, of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day deeper than roots ... thumb|right|Fire he sang, that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.... thumb|right|In the forest they too had heard, and were pulling their roots in pain out of a thousand years' layers of dead leaves... thumb|right|We have stood here since, in our new life.We have waited. thumb|right|Perhaps he will not return. But what we have lived omes back to us. We see more. We feel, as our rings increase,something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthest leaf-tipsfurther. thumb|The wind, the birds, do not sound poorer but clearer,recalling our agony, and the way we danced. I was the first to see him, for I grew                    out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest. He was a man, it seemed. . . Then as he sang it was no longer sounds only that made the music: he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language                    came into my roots                                out of the earth,                    into my bark                                out of the air, into the pores of my greenest shoots            gently as dew and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning. He told of journeys,                     of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,                     of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day deeper than roots ... He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,                     and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemed my thick bark would split like a sapling's that                                                             grew too fast in the spring when a late frost wounds it.                                              Fire he sang, that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames. New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.                     As though his lyre (now I knew its name)                     were both frost and fire, its chords flamed up to the crown of me.                     I was seed again.                                         I was fern in the swamp.                                                                         I was coal. And I        in terror                        but not in doubt of                                                            what I must do in anguish, in haste,                        wrenched from the earth root after root, the soil heaving and cracking, the moss tearing asunder — and behind me the others: my brothers forgotten since dawn. In the forest they too had heard, and were pulling their roots in pain out of a thousand years' layers of dead leaves,                rolling the rocks away,                                            breaking themselves                                                                out of                                                                        their depths.                                                     The music reached us. Clumsily,            stumbling over our own roots,                                                        rustling our leaves                                                                            in answer, we moved, we followed. By dawn he was gone.                                We have stood here since, in our new life.                        We have waited.                                                    He does not return. It is said he made his earth-journey, and lost what he sought.                            It is said they felled him and cut up his limbs for firewood.                                                            And it is said his head still sang and was swept out to sea singing. Perhaps he will not return.                                            But what we have livedcomes back to us.                        We see more.                                                We feel, as our rings increase,something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthest                                                                                                    leaf-tipsfurther. The wind, the birds,                                                 do not sound poorer but clearer,recalling our agony, and the way we danced. Footprints (1972) There is a fence around the garden but the gate stands open. "Bill" The Freeing of the Dust (1975) Conversation in Moscow thumb|right|One must imagine, One must deeply imagine that great Attention To me it seems perhaps Kropotkin understood half of what we need to know, and Lenin perhaps knew half, and true revolution … true revolution must put these two halves together? To serve the people, one must write for the ideal reader. Only for the ideal reader. And who or what is that ideal reader? God. One must imagine, One must deeply imagine that great Attention Only so, In lonely dialog, can one reach the people. I am not joking. I'm speaking of spirit. Not dogma but spirit. The Way. The poet never must lose despair. all of us know he means we mustn't, any of us, lose touch with the source, pretend it's not there, cover over the mineshaft of passion Freedom Leaps of nerve, heart — cries of communion: if there is bliss, it has been already and will be; out- reaching, utterly. Blind to itself, flooded with otherness. The Freeing of the Dust thumb|right|Let Ariel learn a blessing for Caliban and Caliban drink dew from the lotus open upon the waters. Let Ariel learn a blessing for Caliban and Caliban drink dew from the lotus open upon the waters. pure dust that is all in all.    Bless, weightless Spirit. Drink Caliban, push your tongue heavy into the calyx. The Wealth of the Destitute I am tired of 'the fine art of unhappiness'. Oblique Prayers (1984) thumb|right|Alone and free to resume the ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads of what he had still to do, not till then did he recognize this was no dream. Delivered out of raw continual pain,smell of darkness, groans of those othersto whom he was chained — unchained, and ledpast the sleepers,door after door silently opening — out! St. Peter and the Angel And not till he saw the angel had left him, alone and free to resume the ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads of what he had still to do, not till then did he recognize this was no dream. St. Peter and the Angel He himself must be the key, now, to the next door, the next terrors of freedom and joy. St. Peter and the Angel A Door in the Hive (1989) Flickering Mind Lord, not you, it is I who am absent. Not for one second will my self hold still, but wanders anywhere, everywhere it can turn. Not you, it is I am absent. You are the stream, the fish, the light, the pulsing shadow. You the unchanging presence, in whom all moves and changes. How can I focus my flickering, perceive at the fountain's heart the sapphire I know is there? Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell thumb|Down through the tomb's inward archHe has shouldered out into Limboto gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber... Down through the tomb's inward archHe has shouldered out into Limboto gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber... thumb|If mortal sight could bear to perceive it, it would be seen His mortal flesh was lit from within, now, and aching for home.             Didmas, neighbor in death, Golgotha dust still streaked on the dried sweat of his body no one had washed and anointed, is here, for sequence is not known in Limbo; the promise, given from cross to cross at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn. All these He will swiftly leadto the Paradise road: they are safe.That done, there must take place that struggleno human presumes to picture:living, dying, descending to rescue the justfrom shadow, were lesser travailsthan this: to breakthrough earth and stone of the faithless worldback to the cold sepulcher, tearstainedstifling shroud; to break from themback into breath and heartbeat, and walkthe world again, closed into days and weeks again, wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit streaming through every cell of flesh so that if mortal sight could bear to perceive it, it would be seen His mortal flesh was lit from within, now, and aching for home. He must return, first, in Divine patience, and know hunger again, and give to humble friends the joy of giving Him food — fish and a honeycomb. Sands of the Well (1994) Rain-diamonds, this winter morning, embellish the tangle of unpruned pear-tree twigs; each solitaire, placed, it appearrs, with considered judgement, bears the light beneath the rifted clouds — the indivisible shared out in endless abundance. Bearing the Light from interviews/conversations collected in Conversations with Denise Levertov book edited by Jewel Spears Brooker (1998) the real plague...the Nestle's executives and Nixons of the world; if you're looking for evil, that's where to look. (1983) Poetry is and should be part of resistance movements, including the anti-nuclear movement. (1984) I still hope for change, and believe work and prayer can produce results. I have a button that says Picket and Pray. There's still a chance to turn things around. Glasnost and Perestroika are what we need in the USA, just as much as in the Soviet Union-especially Perestroika! (1988) Quotes about Denise Levertov Levertov was the first poet I ever saw read, and that was actually over twenty years ago. She was very important to me. Partly as a model, as a woman up there reading, partly because she knows how to end the poem more effectively than anybody I know. Paula Gunn Allen Interview in Survival This Way: Interviews with American Indian Poets by Joseph Bruchac (1987) Over many years (I am almost 72) so many poets have touched my imagination and opened paths for me—it hardly makes sense to list them. I have always read a great deal of poetry. Some poets—like Robert Lowell, Denise Levertov, Randall Jarrell, Jean Valentine, Audre Lorde, Hayden Carruth, Jane Cooper, June Jordan, Joy Harjo, Clayton Eshelman—have been my friends, we’ve been comrades in exchanging work and encouraging each other Adrienne Rich, Interview (2001) External links Academy of American Poets: Levertov Modern American Poetry: Levertov Denise Levertov: The American Poet from Britain Women of the Beat Biography for Denise Levertov Bridgewater College: Denise Levertov The Secret Category:Poets from England Category:20th-century poets from the United States Category:Catholics from England Category:Catholics from the United States Category:1923 births Category:1997 deaths Category:People from London Category:20th-century British poets Category:Women authors from England Category:Women authors from the United States Category:Immigrants to the United States