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Poets on Poetry
The Bread of Time: Toward an Autobiography
The Bread of Time is an amalgam of celebration and quest. In this memoir, Philip Levine celebrates the poets who were his teachers--particularly John Berryman and Yvor Winters, writers whose lives and work, he believes, have been misunderstood and misinterpreted. In the process of writing this account of his childhood and young manhood in Detroit and of his middle and later years in California and Spain, Levine came to realize that he was also engaged in a quest, striving to discover "how I am." The resulting work provides a double-edged revelation of the way writers grow. Witty and elegantly rendered in a prose that is as characteristically Levine's as his verse, this is superb--and essential--reading for anyone interested in contemporary poetry and poets.
Philip Levine has received many awards for his books of poems, most recently the National Book Award for What Work Is in 1991 and the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry for The Simple Truth in 1995. Levine recently retired from the University of California, Fresno.
Philip Levine has received many awards for his books of poems, most recently the National Book Award for What Work Is in 1991 and the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry for The Simple Truth in 1995. Levine recently retired from the University of California, Fresno.
294 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
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About the author
Philip Levine
138 books154 followersPhilip Levine (b. January 10, 1928, Detroit, Michigan. d. February 14, 2015, Fresno, California) was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American poet best known for his poems about working-class Detroit.
He taught for over thirty years at the English Department of California State University, Fresno and held teaching positions at other universities as well. He is appointed to serve as the Poet Laureate of the United States for 2011–2012.
Philip Levine grew up in industrial Detroit, the second of three sons and the first of identical twins of Jewish immigrant parents. His father, Harry Levine owned a used auto parts business, his mother Esther Priscol (Prisckulnick) Levine was a bookseller. When Levine was five years old, his father died. Growing up, he faced the anti-Semitism embodied by the pro-Hitler radio priest Father Coughlin.
Levine started to work in car manufacturing plants at the age of 14. He graduated from Detroit Central High School in 1946 and went to college at Wayne University (now Wayne State University) in Detroit, where he began to write poetry, encouraged by his mother, to whom he later dedicated the book of poems The Mercy. Levine got his A.B. in 1950 and went to work for Chevrolet and Cadillac in what he calls "stupid jobs". He married his first wife Patty Kanterman in 1951. The marriage lasted until 1953. In 1953 he went to the University of Iowa without registering, studying among others with poets Robert Lowell and John Berryman, the latter of which Levine called his "one great mentor". In 1954 he graduated with a mail-order masters degree with a thesis on John Keats' "Ode to Indolence", and married actress Frances J. Artley. He returned to the University of Iowa teaching technical writing, completing his Master of Fine Arts degree in 1957. The same year, he was awarded the Jones Fellowship in Poetry at Stanford University. In 1958 he joined the English Department at California State University in Fresno, where he taught until his retirement in 1992. He has also taught at many other universities, among them New York University as Distinguished Writer-in-Residence, at Columbia, Princeton, Brown, Tufts, and the University of California at Berkeley.
He taught for over thirty years at the English Department of California State University, Fresno and held teaching positions at other universities as well. He is appointed to serve as the Poet Laureate of the United States for 2011–2012.
Philip Levine grew up in industrial Detroit, the second of three sons and the first of identical twins of Jewish immigrant parents. His father, Harry Levine owned a used auto parts business, his mother Esther Priscol (Prisckulnick) Levine was a bookseller. When Levine was five years old, his father died. Growing up, he faced the anti-Semitism embodied by the pro-Hitler radio priest Father Coughlin.
Levine started to work in car manufacturing plants at the age of 14. He graduated from Detroit Central High School in 1946 and went to college at Wayne University (now Wayne State University) in Detroit, where he began to write poetry, encouraged by his mother, to whom he later dedicated the book of poems The Mercy. Levine got his A.B. in 1950 and went to work for Chevrolet and Cadillac in what he calls "stupid jobs". He married his first wife Patty Kanterman in 1951. The marriage lasted until 1953. In 1953 he went to the University of Iowa without registering, studying among others with poets Robert Lowell and John Berryman, the latter of which Levine called his "one great mentor". In 1954 he graduated with a mail-order masters degree with a thesis on John Keats' "Ode to Indolence", and married actress Frances J. Artley. He returned to the University of Iowa teaching technical writing, completing his Master of Fine Arts degree in 1957. The same year, he was awarded the Jones Fellowship in Poetry at Stanford University. In 1958 he joined the English Department at California State University in Fresno, where he taught until his retirement in 1992. He has also taught at many other universities, among them New York University as Distinguished Writer-in-Residence, at Columbia, Princeton, Brown, Tufts, and the University of California at Berkeley.
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Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews
April 24, 2008
Levine’s The Bread of Time is amazing for its inside look at Robert Lowell and John Berryman, Detroit industrial working class jobs, Levine’s first steps into poetry, his coming of age as a poet, synthesizing these and additional experiences, as well as finding Lorca’s voice in Poet in New York resonating in him so authentically, that Levine found his own voice as a result.
The most powerful sections of Levine’s memoirs for me were his discussions of what I term poetic source and his discussions of poetic influence—a validation of both the way I came to poke at “the burning coal,” to steal a phrase from Gerald Stern, and find a poet with whom I share significant experiences in life and a certain tone or temperament in writing. I loved hearing about thirteen-year old Philip’s evening ventures into his neighboring deeply-wooded undeveloped blocks, his climbing into the low branches of an elm or copper beech tree, leaning back and speaking to the stars, hearing the magnificence of language for the first time from his solo voice before the audience of the universe. I had a similar experience as a child; my father moved my mother and I to northern New Mexico, where he had purchased a house in a brand new subdivision, built at the edge of a small oil-boom town, nestled among the high plateaus overlooking the San Juan Valley. Our house was on the last street of the subdivision, and I could walk through our neighbor’s back yard, up a hill, and be in John Wayne’s world, with all of the cactus, sage brush, mountain cedar, dry arroyo beds, canyons, boulders, and cliffs that a nine-year old boy could desire. Being an only child, I roamed those hills, climbed those cliffs, sat on ledges, listening to the voices of sirocco, rattlesnake, coyote, and the great voice of silence that inhabited the sand, holding the warmth of each day into each cool night that I lay under the stars and voiced prayers that one day would become sermons, that later would become lines written on a page for a poetry class at New Mexico State University.
I also was thrilled to read about Levine’s experiences in Berryman’s class, which provoked thought about Levis in Levine’s class, and think about all poets who have studied under other poets—how poetry is this seamless work of art, this one poem, as Malena Morling put it in a recent lecture at New England College. I too, was challenged by Berryman, as Levine told about his teacher raising the bar for his class of great poets and poets-to-be, and stressing that the only way they could improve was to attempt writing something beyond their ability, something they didn’t yet know how to write. I also enjoyed hearing about Berryman’s comments on other poets, particularly about Whitman, when Berryman read the ultimate lines to “Leaves of Grass” and then asked his audience if they knew what that proved: “It proves,” he said “that most people can’t write poetry.” Well, Berryman certainly could and Levine certainly can, and to get a first-hand glimpse of Berryman’s teaching and Levine’s formative years was a treat.
The second aspect I liked so much about The Bread of Time was Levine’s search, unfulfilled for so long, for a poet who would show him the way into voicing his truth about the abuses of the Detroit blue-collar industrial complex. He identified with the hardships of Keats, but his poetry was not couched in the terms that he was looking for. Upon first discovering Diego Rivera’s frescoes, Levine thought that he might have found the model for the poetry he hoped to write. But, as he looked at his art, based upon the Ford plant at River Rouge, he realized that there was a beauty, an optimism and a tone in them that did not ring true with his experiences at Chevrolet Gear and Axle. Then, Levine stumbled upon these lines by Lorca:
I denounce everyone
who ignores the other half,
the half that can’t be redeemed,
who lift their mountains of cement
where the hearts beat
inside forgotten little animals
and where all of us will fall
in the last feast of pneumatic drills.
I spit in all your faces.
Levine credits Lorca’s Poet in New York for his being able to write “They Feed They Lion,” and more importantly, to believe that he could write his truth about his experiences in his unique voice—something to which I aspire, and for which I am seeking help from poets in my world.
The most powerful sections of Levine’s memoirs for me were his discussions of what I term poetic source and his discussions of poetic influence—a validation of both the way I came to poke at “the burning coal,” to steal a phrase from Gerald Stern, and find a poet with whom I share significant experiences in life and a certain tone or temperament in writing. I loved hearing about thirteen-year old Philip’s evening ventures into his neighboring deeply-wooded undeveloped blocks, his climbing into the low branches of an elm or copper beech tree, leaning back and speaking to the stars, hearing the magnificence of language for the first time from his solo voice before the audience of the universe. I had a similar experience as a child; my father moved my mother and I to northern New Mexico, where he had purchased a house in a brand new subdivision, built at the edge of a small oil-boom town, nestled among the high plateaus overlooking the San Juan Valley. Our house was on the last street of the subdivision, and I could walk through our neighbor’s back yard, up a hill, and be in John Wayne’s world, with all of the cactus, sage brush, mountain cedar, dry arroyo beds, canyons, boulders, and cliffs that a nine-year old boy could desire. Being an only child, I roamed those hills, climbed those cliffs, sat on ledges, listening to the voices of sirocco, rattlesnake, coyote, and the great voice of silence that inhabited the sand, holding the warmth of each day into each cool night that I lay under the stars and voiced prayers that one day would become sermons, that later would become lines written on a page for a poetry class at New Mexico State University.
I also was thrilled to read about Levine’s experiences in Berryman’s class, which provoked thought about Levis in Levine’s class, and think about all poets who have studied under other poets—how poetry is this seamless work of art, this one poem, as Malena Morling put it in a recent lecture at New England College. I too, was challenged by Berryman, as Levine told about his teacher raising the bar for his class of great poets and poets-to-be, and stressing that the only way they could improve was to attempt writing something beyond their ability, something they didn’t yet know how to write. I also enjoyed hearing about Berryman’s comments on other poets, particularly about Whitman, when Berryman read the ultimate lines to “Leaves of Grass” and then asked his audience if they knew what that proved: “It proves,” he said “that most people can’t write poetry.” Well, Berryman certainly could and Levine certainly can, and to get a first-hand glimpse of Berryman’s teaching and Levine’s formative years was a treat.
The second aspect I liked so much about The Bread of Time was Levine’s search, unfulfilled for so long, for a poet who would show him the way into voicing his truth about the abuses of the Detroit blue-collar industrial complex. He identified with the hardships of Keats, but his poetry was not couched in the terms that he was looking for. Upon first discovering Diego Rivera’s frescoes, Levine thought that he might have found the model for the poetry he hoped to write. But, as he looked at his art, based upon the Ford plant at River Rouge, he realized that there was a beauty, an optimism and a tone in them that did not ring true with his experiences at Chevrolet Gear and Axle. Then, Levine stumbled upon these lines by Lorca:
I denounce everyone
who ignores the other half,
the half that can’t be redeemed,
who lift their mountains of cement
where the hearts beat
inside forgotten little animals
and where all of us will fall
in the last feast of pneumatic drills.
I spit in all your faces.
Levine credits Lorca’s Poet in New York for his being able to write “They Feed They Lion,” and more importantly, to believe that he could write his truth about his experiences in his unique voice—something to which I aspire, and for which I am seeking help from poets in my world.
February 21, 2016
Possibly the best writer's autobiography I have read - insightful, instructive, modest, sincere, awestruck. It is one I will read again.
December 27, 2022
I’m a big fan of prose written by poets. And I love to read a poet’s autobiography. Neruda’s is excellent. And Zapruder’s Why Poetry has a bit of autobiography to it although his upcoming book due this spring is a full fledged memoir. Should be a good one. Anyway, Philip Levine. I’ve been a fan since college, CC class of ‘01. Reading this was a joy. Levine always writes wonderfully about other people and does so here too. I especially enjoyed the part set in my hometown of Los Altos ca. What stands out most is Levine’s love and loyalty towards poetry and his admiration for the geniuses. He portrays himself as making up for lack of talent through hard work. Well, if that’s the case… I better get back to work because i’ve always highly regarded Philip Levine’s poems.
April 24, 2020
I love poetry and read a lot of it, and I have to admit I don't always understand all of Levine's poems, though "Salami" is one of my favorite poems ever. Like it, this memoir is tasty, vivid, humorous, poignant, sad, and full of history. I don't know if people who don't like poetry would like this book, but I imagine they would, as it's half about poetry, half about history (including the rise and fall of socialism in the US, Spain, and elsewhere), and half about being a son and a father. Written with wit and color, in a curious mix of conversational and yet academically passing style.
October 21, 2017
Two of the chapters were especially moving to me.
Want to read
October 3, 2023811.54 Lev
August 6, 2013
a sort of coming-of-age, creative non-fiction exersize, that should be of interest to anyone with a love of poerty. as levine and friends say in an early essay; this is serious business. but not without great enjoyment and what i enjoyed the most was the absolute love of poetry that shone through levine's solid and seamless prose. he takes us to the waning years of franco's spain where he meets a fellow lover of poetry who was raised in different experiences with different canonical (and spanish) poets. we find ourselves transported to post ww2 detroit and the manual labor that built americas economy while destroying millions of personal aspirations. we sit through two master classes of poetry taught by two titans of 20th centery poetry: john berryman and yvor winters. and into these fantastic sets, levine peppers his essays with wondrous poetry from antonio machado to elizabeth daryush (whose syllabic verse poem he quotes is sublime), he also shows how these poems shape the poet - and more importantly - the man he has become.
the last essay is about precocity and the role it plays in poetry. something i'm sure we have all experienced; no matter how much you read, or how perspecacious you feel, there is always someone smarter, younger, and more well-read. in his case it is a young woman whom he knew decades ago, whom is a sorta wallace stevens reincarnate (with a gorgeous poem of hers that he quotes, and from which the title is taken). i don't know if this person is real, or rather an amalgam of different younger poets whose precocity levine did not share (one of the trickier aspect of creative nf), but i left the essay, desiring to know the fate of this woman. but beside a few biographical details, the reader - along with levine - is left in the dark about what became of such young poetical wizardry. and this all reminded me of something my high school english teacher told me (you know this one, the one that shows you the phenomenal and life changing nature of literature, whom you never forget, and who in larger ways than she knows, shaped the person you became): she told me that the smartest literature student she ever had, worked at a grocery store 5 years after high school and was lonely and unhappy. she told me i didn't want to be like that person and that precocity comes with a price, and that worst of all, the most precocious people rarely become the best writers, because things always come to easy for them, and they never learn discipline and hard work. and levine's essay brilliantly and entertainingly conatins this lesson, fulfilling the ultimate goal of creative non-fiction. bravo!
the last essay is about precocity and the role it plays in poetry. something i'm sure we have all experienced; no matter how much you read, or how perspecacious you feel, there is always someone smarter, younger, and more well-read. in his case it is a young woman whom he knew decades ago, whom is a sorta wallace stevens reincarnate (with a gorgeous poem of hers that he quotes, and from which the title is taken). i don't know if this person is real, or rather an amalgam of different younger poets whose precocity levine did not share (one of the trickier aspect of creative nf), but i left the essay, desiring to know the fate of this woman. but beside a few biographical details, the reader - along with levine - is left in the dark about what became of such young poetical wizardry. and this all reminded me of something my high school english teacher told me (you know this one, the one that shows you the phenomenal and life changing nature of literature, whom you never forget, and who in larger ways than she knows, shaped the person you became): she told me that the smartest literature student she ever had, worked at a grocery store 5 years after high school and was lonely and unhappy. she told me i didn't want to be like that person and that precocity comes with a price, and that worst of all, the most precocious people rarely become the best writers, because things always come to easy for them, and they never learn discipline and hard work. and levine's essay brilliantly and entertainingly conatins this lesson, fulfilling the ultimate goal of creative non-fiction. bravo!
September 10, 2008
A wonderful set of essays by a wonderful poet. Great insight into the intellectual rigor and discipline required to write poetry and the process of finding a poetic voice. Will send you immediately to the man's poetry, especially "What Work Is" and "The Simple Truth" (National Book Award and Pulitzer prize, respectively). By turns angry, funny, and profound.
April 26, 2012
Reading Levine's nonfiction is like being with an old friend. That's a terrible cliche, but it's how I feel. I particularly needed, although I hadn't known it, to read his revelation about what work is, that is the work of poetry. Levine is one of a kind; this was a terrific sharing of his poetic life, the parts that matter to him.
January 2, 2013
A nice, episodic memoir of Levine's life in poetry. The chapter on Levine's experiences with Yvor Winters and the accompanying poem are a great example of what it looks like to see prose translated into poetry.
April 10, 2014
p. 30-- "No poet worth his salt is going to be handsome; if he or she is beautiful there's no need to create the beautiful. Beautiful people are special; they don't experience life like the rest of us."
July 4, 2015
One of my favorite pieces of non-fiction. The poet Levine writes beautiful essays -- about writing, other poets, Spain, etc. Mesmerizing, straightforward, thought-provoking.
August 14, 2011
I will re-read this from time to time, especially Levine's description of John Berryman's loving dedication to his students of life, truth and writing.
September 16, 2011
The essays on Yvor Winters and John Berryman have a lot to say about the role of mentors in poetic life.
July 21, 2013
Beautifully written, great stuff on John Berryman
Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews