Denise Levertov
American poet Denise Levertov was born in Ilford, Essex, England. Her mother, Beatrice Spooner-Jones Levertoff, was Welsh. Her father, Paul Levertoff, from Germany migrated to England as a Russian Hassidic Jew, who, after converting to Christianity, became an Anglican parson. At the age of 12, she sent some of her poems to T. S. Eliot, who replied with a two-page letter of encouragement. In 1940, when she was 17, Levertov published her first poem.
During the Blitz, Levertov served in London as a civilian nurse. Her first book, The Double Image, was published six years later. In 1947 she married American writer Mitchell Goodman and moved with him to the United States in the following year. Although Levertov and Goodman would eventually divorce, they had a son, Nickolai, and lived mainly in New York City, summering in Maine. In 1955, she became a naturalized American citizen.
During the 1960s and 70s, Levertov became much more politically active in her life and work. As poetry editor for The Nation, she was able to support and publish the work of feminist and other leftist activist poets. The Vietnam War was an especially important focus of her poetry, which often tried to weave together the personal and political, as in her poem "The Sorrow Dance," which speaks of her sister's death. Also in response to the Vietnam War, Levertov joined the War Resister’s League.
Much of the latter part of Levertov’s life was spent in education. After moving to Massachusetts, Levertov taught at Brandeis University, MIT and Tufts University. On the West Coast, she had a part-time teaching stint at the University of Washington and for 11 years (1982-1993) held a full professorship at Stanford University. In 1984 she received a Litt. D. from Bates College. After retiring from teaching, she traveled for a year doing poetry readings in the U.S. and England.
In 1997, Denise Levertov died at the age of 74 from complications due to lymphoma. She was buried at Lake View Cemetery in Seattle, Washington.
Levertov wrote and published 20 books of poetry, criticism, translations. She also edited several anthologies. Among her many awards and honors, she received the Shelley Memorial Award, the Robert Frost Medal, the Lenore Marshall Prize, the Lannan Award, a grant from the National Institute of Arts and Letters, and a Guggenheim Fellowship.
“The AvowalAs swimmers dareto lie face to the skyand water bears them,as hawks rest upon airand air sustains them;so would I learn to attain freefall, and floatinto Creator Spirit's deep embrace,knowing no effort earnsthat all-surrounding grace.”
“Rain-diamonds, this winter morning, embellish the tangle of unpruned pear-tree twigs; each solitaire, placed, it appears, with considered judgement, bears the light beneath the rifted clouds - the invisible shared out in endless abundance.”
“The yellow moon dreamilytipping buttons of lightdown among the leaves. Marimba,marimba - from beyond theblack street.Somebody dancing,somebodygetting the helloutta here. Shadows of catsweave round the treetrunks,the exposed knotty roots.("Scenes from the Life of the Peppertrees")”
“Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemonsoff the tree! I don't wantto forget who I am, what has burned in me,and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -”
“Turn from that road's beguiling ease; returnto your hunger's turret. Enter, climb the stairchill with disuse, where the croaking toad of timeregards from shimmering eyes your slow ascentand the drip, drip, of darkness glimmers on the stoneto show you how your longing waits alone.What alchemy shines from under that shut door,spinning out gold from the hollow of the heart?("The Sea's Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart")”
“I am, a shadowthat grows longer as the sunmoves, drawn outon a thread of wonder.If I bear burdensthey begin to be rememberedas gifts, goods, a basketof bread that hurtsmy shoulders but closes mein fragrance. I caneat as I go. ("Stepping Westward")”
“I thought I was growing wings—it was a cocoon.I thought, now is the time to stepinto the fire—it was deep water.Eschatology is a word I learnedas a child: the study of Last Things;facing my mirror—no longer young,the news—always of death,the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoringand howling, howling....("Seeing For a Moment")”
“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 flamedup to the crown of me. I was seed again. I was fern in the swamp. I was coal. ("A Tree Telling of Orpheus")”
“لقد اختار حياةً مُلقاةً عند شفير…هو يعلم أنّه لو استطاع الرؤيةفلن يكونَ أكثر حكمة.عالياً فوق جُرْف تعصفُ فيه الريحيتنفّسُوجهاً لوجه مع الرغبة.”
“There's in my mind a...turbulent moon-ridden girlor old woman, or both,dressed in opals and rags, feathersand torn taffeta,who knows strange songsbut she is not kind.”
“There comes a time when only anger is love.”
“The poem has a social effect of some kind whether or not the poet wills it to have. It has a kenetic force, it sets in motion...elements in the reader that would otherwise remain stagnant.”
“Yes, he is here in thisopen field, in sunlight, amongthe few young trees set outto modify the bare facts--he's here, but onlybecause we are here.When we go, he goes with usto be your hands that neverdo violence, your eyesthat wonder, your livesthat daily praise lifeby living it, by laughter.He is never alone here,never cold in the field of graves.”
“In the dark I rest,unready for the light which dawnsday after day,eager to be shared.Black silk, shelter me.I needmore of the night before I openeyes and heartto illumination. I must stillgrow in the dark like a rootnot ready, not ready at all.”
“It's when we face for a moment the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know the taint in our own selves, that awe cracks the mind's shell and enters the heart.”
“But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go. ”
“You have come to the shore. There are no instructions.”
“Days pass when I forget the mystery.Problems insoluble and problems offeringtheir own ignored solutionsjostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamberalong with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearingtheir colored clothes; caps and bells. And thenonce more the quiet mysteryis present to me, the throng's clamorrecedes: the mysterythat there is anything, anything at all,let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,rather than void: and that, 0 Lord,Creator, Hallowed one, You still,hour by hour sustain it.”
“Two girls discover the secret of lifein a sudden line of poetry.”
“1) Did the people of Viet Namuse lanterns of stone?2) Did they hold ceremoniesto reverence the opening of buds?3) Were they inclined to quiet laughter?4) Did they use bone and ivory,jade and silver, for ornament?5) Had they an epic poem?6) Did they distinguish between speech and singing?1) Sir, their light hearts turned to stone.It is not remembered whether in gardensstone lanterns illumined pleasant ways.2) Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom,but after the children were killedthere were no more buds.3) Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.4) A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy.All the bones were charred.5) It is not remembered. Remember,most were peasants; their lifewas in rice and bamboo.When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddiesand the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces,maybe fathers told their sons old tales.When bombs smashed those mirrorsthere was time only to scream.6) There is an echo yetof their speech which was like a song.It was reported their singing resembledthe flight of moths in moonlight.Who can say? It is silent now.”
“A voice from the dark called out,"The poets must give usimagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiarimagination of disaster. Peace, not onlythe absence of war." But peace, like a poem,is not there ahead of itself,can't be imagined before it is made,can't be known exceptin the words of its making,grammar of justice,syntax of mutual aid. A feeling towards it,dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we haveuntil we begin to utter its metaphors,learning them as we speak. A line of peace might appearif we restructured the sentence our lives are making,revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,questioned our needs, allowedlong pauses. . . . A cadence of peace might balance its weighton that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,an energy field more intense than war,might pulse then,stanza by stanza into the world,each act of livingone of its words, each worda vibration of light--facetsof the forming crystal.”