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Este Grande Não-Saber
“Escritos ao longo dos derradeiros meses de vida de Denise Levertov, eles são, parece‑nos, o apurar tanto de uma visão da poesia como de muitos dos motivos trabalhados ao longo de toda uma extensa obra: a sacralidade das práticas familiares (“Momentos de alegria” ou “Orelhas de elefante”), a memória revigorante da infância (“Espíritos animais”), a vulnerável e concreta, mas também mitológica materialidade do corpo humano (a longa e prismática sequência “Pés”), a imponência da natureza (a massa volúvel de montanhas e lagos que irrompe em vários poemas, a minúcia animista de árvores e flores), o lamento ecológico (“Uma centena por dia”) e a surpreendente presciência quanto aos efeitos de fragmentação e erosão da memória ocultos sob o impulso tecnológico (“Alienação em Silicon Valley”), assim como a denúncia sem pejo de injustiças (o terceiro poema de “Pés” ou o amargo‑risível “O Paláciodo Poodle”).
Há ainda, nestes poemas, a cristalização de um olhar que, como que preparando‑se para morrer, regressa à lisura da infância, ao espanto primordial perante todas as coisas, de que o desarmante “Primeiro amor” é o epítome – o que os torna, cremos, na melhor introdução possível aos leitores de língua portuguesa dos temas e das intensidades de uma poeta maior do século XX norte‑americano.”
Do Prefácio, Andreia C. Faria e Bruno M. Silva
Há ainda, nestes poemas, a cristalização de um olhar que, como que preparando‑se para morrer, regressa à lisura da infância, ao espanto primordial perante todas as coisas, de que o desarmante “Primeiro amor” é o epítome – o que os torna, cremos, na melhor introdução possível aos leitores de língua portuguesa dos temas e das intensidades de uma poeta maior do século XX norte‑americano.”
Do Prefácio, Andreia C. Faria e Bruno M. Silva
- GenresPoetrySpirituality
131 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1977
29 people are currently reading
478 people want to read
About the author
Denise Levertov
198 books170 followersAmerican 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.
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.
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May 21, 2025
A CRYPTIC SIGN
August. The woods are silent.
No sway of treetops, no skitter of squirrels,
no startled bird. Sky fragments
in rifts of canopy,
palest silken blue.
AWARE
When I opened the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among
themselves in abundant whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up,
buttoning their jackets,
acting if they
were leaving any-
way...
My friend Allan got me started in my post-retirement penchant for modern poetry. Wonderful old Allan.
He, the Ezra Pound ponderer.
And me, the zealous T.S. Eliot eulogizer.
And you’re right - youth IS wasted on the young...
When we were freshman together at our Canadian ivy little league campus, I took him out for a dorm tour. One wild ‘n crazy bunch of guys had concocted an ice-crusher (obviously more than just an ice-breaker) which the Freshman Free World all knows as a wine-based dark tub of liquid leading you to an instant lights-out, blitzed with the entire alcoholic kitchen sink!
Wonderful, simple Allan had had few encounters with strong spirits in his life and so - because of my playful but malicious prank - I ended up staying up with him half the night till he recovered.
He was my dorm roommate in our Freshman year at the university we chose to attend. And our high school marks had been high enough to attend many of the good ones.
I had wanted to study English lit in Toronto, because Northrop Frye, Robertson Davies and Marshall McLuhan were all at that English Department. But that was the very best option, and, scholastically, I wasn’t!
I was always an unscholarly second best. But Allan was a good, popular student with great marks. I guess his family maybe couldn’t afford Toronto.
So Allan and I studied English together at the good but small-town university we came to love.
He raved about modern poetry, particularly - like I say - Ezra Pound. I later knew Pound WAS il miglior fabro, as Eliot said. And it was Allan’s emailed comments to me nearly 40 years later that told me I needed to branch out in my reading of it!
And when I discovered Levertov’s later works soon after taking his advice, I shared my bargain basement finds with him.
That was around the time of his first brush with cancer.
Denise Levertov - better known to us in our university years as an outspoken opponent of the Vietnam War, later turned her sights inward - and upward, to the Almighty, converting to Catholicism late in life.
Her late poetry was made up primarily of meditative, sharp-eyed, fiercely-cut diamonds of pure poetry.
Her early death took us all by surprise.
God bless you, Ms Levertov, and may He rest you in His Peace.
And may he give His Rest to you too, Allan, old friend...
You both gave this world so very much in your too-short lives, and always faced the truth with unequivocal bravery.
And Allan, I’m glad I was able to show you this amazing work before you left all your old friends behind.
We didn‘t talk at any length of the various later volumes of her poetry that I was able to send you before your final hospitalization - as the wintry weather set in, in 2017.
But your silent waiting for the end told me, the cold day I said goodbye, that you probably understood her and her wisdom better than I ever could.
For this, too, was Ms Levertov’s final book.
It was her own private view of an approaching Finality that she was moving towards -
In her tentative, gentle manner, in the magical turns of her verse, as if knowing already what marvellously unequivocal answers it would give her -
The comforting but grownup answers that inform the internal verbal fibre of all her late poetry!
So her miraculous way with a perfected poetic language convicts us, that we may return to our kinder, gentler selves.
August. The woods are silent.
No sway of treetops, no skitter of squirrels,
no startled bird. Sky fragments
in rifts of canopy,
palest silken blue.
AWARE
When I opened the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among
themselves in abundant whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up,
buttoning their jackets,
acting if they
were leaving any-
way...
My friend Allan got me started in my post-retirement penchant for modern poetry. Wonderful old Allan.
He, the Ezra Pound ponderer.
And me, the zealous T.S. Eliot eulogizer.
And you’re right - youth IS wasted on the young...
When we were freshman together at our Canadian ivy little league campus, I took him out for a dorm tour. One wild ‘n crazy bunch of guys had concocted an ice-crusher (obviously more than just an ice-breaker) which the Freshman Free World all knows as a wine-based dark tub of liquid leading you to an instant lights-out, blitzed with the entire alcoholic kitchen sink!
Wonderful, simple Allan had had few encounters with strong spirits in his life and so - because of my playful but malicious prank - I ended up staying up with him half the night till he recovered.
He was my dorm roommate in our Freshman year at the university we chose to attend. And our high school marks had been high enough to attend many of the good ones.
I had wanted to study English lit in Toronto, because Northrop Frye, Robertson Davies and Marshall McLuhan were all at that English Department. But that was the very best option, and, scholastically, I wasn’t!
I was always an unscholarly second best. But Allan was a good, popular student with great marks. I guess his family maybe couldn’t afford Toronto.
So Allan and I studied English together at the good but small-town university we came to love.
He raved about modern poetry, particularly - like I say - Ezra Pound. I later knew Pound WAS il miglior fabro, as Eliot said. And it was Allan’s emailed comments to me nearly 40 years later that told me I needed to branch out in my reading of it!
And when I discovered Levertov’s later works soon after taking his advice, I shared my bargain basement finds with him.
That was around the time of his first brush with cancer.
Denise Levertov - better known to us in our university years as an outspoken opponent of the Vietnam War, later turned her sights inward - and upward, to the Almighty, converting to Catholicism late in life.
Her late poetry was made up primarily of meditative, sharp-eyed, fiercely-cut diamonds of pure poetry.
Her early death took us all by surprise.
God bless you, Ms Levertov, and may He rest you in His Peace.
And may he give His Rest to you too, Allan, old friend...
You both gave this world so very much in your too-short lives, and always faced the truth with unequivocal bravery.
And Allan, I’m glad I was able to show you this amazing work before you left all your old friends behind.
We didn‘t talk at any length of the various later volumes of her poetry that I was able to send you before your final hospitalization - as the wintry weather set in, in 2017.
But your silent waiting for the end told me, the cold day I said goodbye, that you probably understood her and her wisdom better than I ever could.
For this, too, was Ms Levertov’s final book.
It was her own private view of an approaching Finality that she was moving towards -
In her tentative, gentle manner, in the magical turns of her verse, as if knowing already what marvellously unequivocal answers it would give her -
The comforting but grownup answers that inform the internal verbal fibre of all her late poetry!
So her miraculous way with a perfected poetic language convicts us, that we may return to our kinder, gentler selves.
December 23, 2025
(...)
É o paraíso, e o paraíso
é uma espécie de poema; tem
as características de um poema:
inspiração; começando pelo que é dado;
harmonias inesperadas; revelações.
(...)
Na poesia de Denise Levertov senti a frescura da floresta e admirei a grandiosidade das montanhas...
Que paciência tem a paisagem, como um velho cavalo,
de cabeça baixa no campo que é seu.
Dias cor de cinza,
ar e leve chuva agarram-se, unem-se, planando até que enfim,
lânguida, a chuva renuncia ao abraço, consente
em cair. (...)
...enterneci-me com o seu lado humano...
(...)
E acabamos as nossas vidas por vezes
com nodosos e torcidos objectos
em que se inscrevem
completas histórias – guerras, desenraizamento,
e sofrimentos
longos, com ou sem paciência,
camada além de camada,
sucessões de luz e sombra, extensões.
Mas sem memória
do que eram os nossos pés
antes de os pormos a trabalhar.
...e encontrei beleza e conforto em certas imagens e ideias.
(...)
(Entretanto
o sol de Abril, ainda frio,
floriu as pequenas margaridas,
tantas e humildes que se fazem espezinhar –
e que importa? Há em cada flor
a forma de uma gargalha.)
(...)
Ler poemas cheios de clarividência e enlevo sobre o céu, a lua, as flores, as árvores e clareiras mágicas foi uma sensação de transporte muito bem-vinda numa altura em que anseio desesperadamente por paisagens a perder de vista. Denise Levertov está de corpo e alma na sua contemplação da natureza, na atenção ao pormenor mundano ou campestre, e puxou-me para o seu lado em várias ocasiões.
CIENTE
Ao abrir a porta
dei com as folhas de videira
falando entre si em abundantes
murmúrios.
A minha presença fez
silenciar seu verde sopro,
envergonhadas, tal como
os humanos se levantam, abotoando o casaco,
agindo como quem está de saída, como se
a conversa tivesse acabado
mesmo antes de chegares.
Agradou-me
apesar disso, vislumbrar
os seus gestos
obscuros. Gostei do som
de tão reservadas vozes. Da próxima vez
andarei como o cauteloso sol, abrindo
a porta por fracções, pondo-me à escuta
em paz.
É o paraíso, e o paraíso
é uma espécie de poema; tem
as características de um poema:
inspiração; começando pelo que é dado;
harmonias inesperadas; revelações.
(...)
Na poesia de Denise Levertov senti a frescura da floresta e admirei a grandiosidade das montanhas...
Que paciência tem a paisagem, como um velho cavalo,
de cabeça baixa no campo que é seu.
Dias cor de cinza,
ar e leve chuva agarram-se, unem-se, planando até que enfim,
lânguida, a chuva renuncia ao abraço, consente
em cair. (...)
...enterneci-me com o seu lado humano...
(...)
E acabamos as nossas vidas por vezes
com nodosos e torcidos objectos
em que se inscrevem
completas histórias – guerras, desenraizamento,
e sofrimentos
longos, com ou sem paciência,
camada além de camada,
sucessões de luz e sombra, extensões.
Mas sem memória
do que eram os nossos pés
antes de os pormos a trabalhar.
...e encontrei beleza e conforto em certas imagens e ideias.
(...)
(Entretanto
o sol de Abril, ainda frio,
floriu as pequenas margaridas,
tantas e humildes que se fazem espezinhar –
e que importa? Há em cada flor
a forma de uma gargalha.)
(...)
Ler poemas cheios de clarividência e enlevo sobre o céu, a lua, as flores, as árvores e clareiras mágicas foi uma sensação de transporte muito bem-vinda numa altura em que anseio desesperadamente por paisagens a perder de vista. Denise Levertov está de corpo e alma na sua contemplação da natureza, na atenção ao pormenor mundano ou campestre, e puxou-me para o seu lado em várias ocasiões.
CIENTE
Ao abrir a porta
dei com as folhas de videira
falando entre si em abundantes
murmúrios.
A minha presença fez
silenciar seu verde sopro,
envergonhadas, tal como
os humanos se levantam, abotoando o casaco,
agindo como quem está de saída, como se
a conversa tivesse acabado
mesmo antes de chegares.
Agradou-me
apesar disso, vislumbrar
os seus gestos
obscuros. Gostei do som
de tão reservadas vozes. Da próxima vez
andarei como o cauteloso sol, abrindo
a porta por fracções, pondo-me à escuta
em paz.
October 4, 2017
Memory demands so much,
it wants every fiber
told and retold.
It gives and gives
but for a price, making you
risk drudgery, lapse
into document, treacheries
of glaring noon and a slow march.
Leaf never before
seen or envisioned, flying spider
of rose-red autumn, playing
a lone current of undecided wind,
lift me with you, take me
off this ground of memory that clings
to my feet like thick clay,
exacting gratitude for gifts and gifts.
Take me flying before
you vanish, leaf, before
I have time to remember you,
intent instead on being
in the midst of that flight,
of those unforeseeable words.
it wants every fiber
told and retold.
It gives and gives
but for a price, making you
risk drudgery, lapse
into document, treacheries
of glaring noon and a slow march.
Leaf never before
seen or envisioned, flying spider
of rose-red autumn, playing
a lone current of undecided wind,
lift me with you, take me
off this ground of memory that clings
to my feet like thick clay,
exacting gratitude for gifts and gifts.
Take me flying before
you vanish, leaf, before
I have time to remember you,
intent instead on being
in the midst of that flight,
of those unforeseeable words.
August 24, 2012
I could read this book a thousand times. Beautiful.
It looked at me, I looked
back, delight
filled me as if
I, not the flower,
were a flower and were brimful of rain.
And there was endlessness.
Perhaps through a lifetime what I've desired
has always been to return
to that endless giving and receiving, the wholeness
of that attention,
that one-in-a-lifetime
secret communion.
Denise Levertov, from "First Love"
It looked at me, I looked
back, delight
filled me as if
I, not the flower,
were a flower and were brimful of rain.
And there was endlessness.
Perhaps through a lifetime what I've desired
has always been to return
to that endless giving and receiving, the wholeness
of that attention,
that one-in-a-lifetime
secret communion.
Denise Levertov, from "First Love"
September 26, 2021
"The mountain's daily speech is silence.
Profound as the Great Silence
between the last Office and the first.
Uninterrupted as the silence God maintains
throughout the layered centuries.
All the mountain's moods,
frank or evasive,
its whiteness, its blueness,
are shown to sight alone.
Yet it is known
that fire seethes in its depths
and will surely rise one day, breaking open
the mute imperturbable summit. Will the roar of eruption be
the mountain's own repressed voice,
or that of the fire? Does the mountain
harbor a demon distinct from itself?"
***
Os poemas da Denise Levertov contidos numa antologia de poesia beat recentemente editada ("Easy to Love", SrTeste) não me tinham interessado por aí além, motivo pelo qual olhei para este livro com alguma desconfiança: mas, felizmente, durante a feira do livro decidi folheá-lo e achei que merecia o benefício da dúvida. Já não me recordo exactamente o que li, mas terá sido alguma referência à natureza que me fez comprar o livro... e ainda bem que o fiz, nele encontrei poemas que têm o dom de me sugar toda a atenção: quando os tenho diante de mim sinto que o meu foco de atenção são eles e apenas eles, como se a realidade física e palpável desaparecesse por instantes e nada mais importasse para além daquele instante. Aglutinador, sim, é isso, uma espécie de campânula invisível que se cria e que me fecha em torno do poema - é uma experiência intensa e que não se fica pelas primeiras leituras... o poema que seleccionei tem esse efeito em mim, sempre que o leio sou transportada para paisagens mentais que me separam de todo e qualquer estímulo que me seja exterior.
Os poemas no original são belíssimos: as rememorações (adoro o "That Day"), a experiência emocional e estética que emerge do contacto com a natureza, o tom de despedida e de... reconciliação (luto contra a palavra, pergunto-me se estará certa. Aceitação? Resignação?), tudo isso confere aquele equilíbrio difícil de criar- e de manter - entre leveza e densidade (e gosto disso, sou previsível nos meus gostos, mas admito: gosto disso). Falo nos poemas em inglês, mas há traduções/versões da Andreia C. Faria e do Bruno M. Silva que acho especialmente belas: destaco os poemas "A Partir de Baixo", "Celebração", "Além do Campo" e "Nesse Dia".
Profound as the Great Silence
between the last Office and the first.
Uninterrupted as the silence God maintains
throughout the layered centuries.
All the mountain's moods,
frank or evasive,
its whiteness, its blueness,
are shown to sight alone.
Yet it is known
that fire seethes in its depths
and will surely rise one day, breaking open
the mute imperturbable summit. Will the roar of eruption be
the mountain's own repressed voice,
or that of the fire? Does the mountain
harbor a demon distinct from itself?"
***
Os poemas da Denise Levertov contidos numa antologia de poesia beat recentemente editada ("Easy to Love", SrTeste) não me tinham interessado por aí além, motivo pelo qual olhei para este livro com alguma desconfiança: mas, felizmente, durante a feira do livro decidi folheá-lo e achei que merecia o benefício da dúvida. Já não me recordo exactamente o que li, mas terá sido alguma referência à natureza que me fez comprar o livro... e ainda bem que o fiz, nele encontrei poemas que têm o dom de me sugar toda a atenção: quando os tenho diante de mim sinto que o meu foco de atenção são eles e apenas eles, como se a realidade física e palpável desaparecesse por instantes e nada mais importasse para além daquele instante. Aglutinador, sim, é isso, uma espécie de campânula invisível que se cria e que me fecha em torno do poema - é uma experiência intensa e que não se fica pelas primeiras leituras... o poema que seleccionei tem esse efeito em mim, sempre que o leio sou transportada para paisagens mentais que me separam de todo e qualquer estímulo que me seja exterior.
Os poemas no original são belíssimos: as rememorações (adoro o "That Day"), a experiência emocional e estética que emerge do contacto com a natureza, o tom de despedida e de... reconciliação (luto contra a palavra, pergunto-me se estará certa. Aceitação? Resignação?), tudo isso confere aquele equilíbrio difícil de criar- e de manter - entre leveza e densidade (e gosto disso, sou previsível nos meus gostos, mas admito: gosto disso). Falo nos poemas em inglês, mas há traduções/versões da Andreia C. Faria e do Bruno M. Silva que acho especialmente belas: destaco os poemas "A Partir de Baixo", "Celebração", "Além do Campo" e "Nesse Dia".
November 15, 2017
PATIENCE
What patience a landscape has, like an old horse,
head down in its field.
Grey days,
air and fine rain cling, become one, hovering till at last,
languidly, rain relinquishes that embrace, consents
to fall. What patience a hill, a plain,
a band of woodland holding still, have, and the slow falling
of grey rain… Is it blind faith? Is it
merely a way to deeply rest? Is the horse
only resigned, or has it
some desireable knowledge, an enclosed meadow
quite other than its sodden field,
which patience is the key to? Has it already,
within itself, entered that sunwarmed shelter?
THE POODLE PALACE
I never pass the Poodle Palace
with its barber pole in the shape
of a striped beribboned bone and the sign:
Specializing in Large and Matted Dogs,
without remembering the bitter wonder
of the taxi-driver from somewhere in India
who asked me,
‘What is that, Poodle Palace?
What does it mean?’-and when I told him,
laughed, and for blocks,
laughed intermittently, a laughter
dry as fissured earth,
angry and sharp as the ineradicable
knowledge of chronic famine,
of human lives given to destitution
from birth to death. A laugh
in which the stench of ordure
simmered, round which a fog of flies
hovered, a laugh laughed to himself,
whether in despair or hatred, and not
as a form of address: he was indifferent
to whether I heard it or not.
SWIFT MONTH
The spirit of each day passes, head down
under the wind, arms folded.
Ambiguous brothers of those envisioned
‘daughters of Time,’ proffering neither
gifts nor scorn, their hands
grip elbows, hidden in wide sleeves
of shadow-colored caftans. Day after day
and none lagging, the pace of their stride
not hurried, yet swift, too swift.
What patience a landscape has, like an old horse,
head down in its field.
Grey days,
air and fine rain cling, become one, hovering till at last,
languidly, rain relinquishes that embrace, consents
to fall. What patience a hill, a plain,
a band of woodland holding still, have, and the slow falling
of grey rain… Is it blind faith? Is it
merely a way to deeply rest? Is the horse
only resigned, or has it
some desireable knowledge, an enclosed meadow
quite other than its sodden field,
which patience is the key to? Has it already,
within itself, entered that sunwarmed shelter?
THE POODLE PALACE
I never pass the Poodle Palace
with its barber pole in the shape
of a striped beribboned bone and the sign:
Specializing in Large and Matted Dogs,
without remembering the bitter wonder
of the taxi-driver from somewhere in India
who asked me,
‘What is that, Poodle Palace?
What does it mean?’-and when I told him,
laughed, and for blocks,
laughed intermittently, a laughter
dry as fissured earth,
angry and sharp as the ineradicable
knowledge of chronic famine,
of human lives given to destitution
from birth to death. A laugh
in which the stench of ordure
simmered, round which a fog of flies
hovered, a laugh laughed to himself,
whether in despair or hatred, and not
as a form of address: he was indifferent
to whether I heard it or not.
SWIFT MONTH
The spirit of each day passes, head down
under the wind, arms folded.
Ambiguous brothers of those envisioned
‘daughters of Time,’ proffering neither
gifts nor scorn, their hands
grip elbows, hidden in wide sleeves
of shadow-colored caftans. Day after day
and none lagging, the pace of their stride
not hurried, yet swift, too swift.
April 10, 2019
I find my first encounter with Denise Levertov somehow ordinary. As elusive as some of the poems are, chronologically arranged, some does not stir enough of anything to leave a mark. Though this also reflects deeply on a number of virtues and the sublimity of nature, its mysticism is not as personally transcendent as let's say Mary Oliver's whose works bower places for me despite my non-belief.
** "What patience a landscape has, like an old horse,
head down in its field.
Grey days,
air and fine rain cling, become one, hovering till at last,
languidly, rain relinquishes that embrace, consents
to fall. What patience a hill, a plain,
a band of woodland holding still, have, and the slow falling
of grey rain...Is it blind faith? Is it
merely a way to deeply rest? Is the horse
only resigned, or has it
some desireable knowledge, an enclosed meadow
quite other than its sodden field,
which patience is the key to? Has it already,
within itself, entered the sunwarmed shelter?"
— PATIENCE
(I very much loved Patience, Visitation Overflow, and Memory demands so much.)
As a collection I also struggle to associate it with anything which is one of my criteria in placing a poetry collection in high regard, some has softly torn a part of my soul: Szymborska's Here reminds me of the fragility of existence, O'Hara's Lunch Poems makes me fall in love with the city life again amidst the weight and demand, Neruda's The Captain's Verses (or any poetry collection of his) caresses me with sensuality and adoration whilst both Plath's Ariel: The Restored Edition (not the one rearranged by the notorious Ted Hughes!) and Bukowski's You Get So Alone At Times It Just Makes Sense let me taste the familiar grit, rawness, and dirt of living (and personal demons) every time. Nonetheless, when Levertov's poem is lucid and vivid it is a moment in itself. This does not shy me away with Levertov's works at all but rather determines me to find a collection of hers which will wholeheartedly speak to me.
Other noteworthy lines:
** "Perhaps through a lifetime what I've desired
has always been to return
to that endless giving and receiving, the wholeness
of that attention,
that once-in-a-lifetime
secret communion."
— from FIRST LOVE
** "Westering sun a mist of gold
between solemnities of crowded vertical
poplar twigs. The mountain's
wester slow is touched
weightlessly with what will be, soon,
the afterglow."
— MID-DECEMBER
** " [...] Nostalgia
comes if it must, but is not for borrowing.
I see, I know, the desecration, I taste
the degrading sickly bile of that knowledge —
but I did not witness flower or fruit,
a specific locus, an ancestral ground.
What I hold are the links the mind
forges between a vanished field of imagined trees
and their peers remembered, the shine
of stolen cherries, far off
in time and in place; and also by now perhaps
vanished, that field built over."
— from ALIENATION IN SILICON VALLEY
** "What patience a landscape has, like an old horse,
head down in its field.
Grey days,
air and fine rain cling, become one, hovering till at last,
languidly, rain relinquishes that embrace, consents
to fall. What patience a hill, a plain,
a band of woodland holding still, have, and the slow falling
of grey rain...Is it blind faith? Is it
merely a way to deeply rest? Is the horse
only resigned, or has it
some desireable knowledge, an enclosed meadow
quite other than its sodden field,
which patience is the key to? Has it already,
within itself, entered the sunwarmed shelter?"
— PATIENCE
(I very much loved Patience, Visitation Overflow, and Memory demands so much.)
As a collection I also struggle to associate it with anything which is one of my criteria in placing a poetry collection in high regard, some has softly torn a part of my soul: Szymborska's Here reminds me of the fragility of existence, O'Hara's Lunch Poems makes me fall in love with the city life again amidst the weight and demand, Neruda's The Captain's Verses (or any poetry collection of his) caresses me with sensuality and adoration whilst both Plath's Ariel: The Restored Edition (not the one rearranged by the notorious Ted Hughes!) and Bukowski's You Get So Alone At Times It Just Makes Sense let me taste the familiar grit, rawness, and dirt of living (and personal demons) every time. Nonetheless, when Levertov's poem is lucid and vivid it is a moment in itself. This does not shy me away with Levertov's works at all but rather determines me to find a collection of hers which will wholeheartedly speak to me.
Other noteworthy lines:
** "Perhaps through a lifetime what I've desired
has always been to return
to that endless giving and receiving, the wholeness
of that attention,
that once-in-a-lifetime
secret communion."
— from FIRST LOVE
** "Westering sun a mist of gold
between solemnities of crowded vertical
poplar twigs. The mountain's
wester slow is touched
weightlessly with what will be, soon,
the afterglow."
— MID-DECEMBER
** " [...] Nostalgia
comes if it must, but is not for borrowing.
I see, I know, the desecration, I taste
the degrading sickly bile of that knowledge —
but I did not witness flower or fruit,
a specific locus, an ancestral ground.
What I hold are the links the mind
forges between a vanished field of imagined trees
and their peers remembered, the shine
of stolen cherries, far off
in time and in place; and also by now perhaps
vanished, that field built over."
— from ALIENATION IN SILICON VALLEY
April 2, 2018
Denise Levertov (1923-1997) was one of the finest American poets of the 20th Century.
June 9, 2025
«Fue el modo
en que emergían poco a poco
pero a toda prisa
al subir los escalones-
la copa de sus sombreros
Iuego sus rostros
espiando mientras llegaban
al último escalón junto a la puerta, luego
al abrir yo la puerta de golpe
sus entrañables presencias corporales,
primero él, luego ella. Fue
la rápida y gradual aparición
simultánea
de esa misericordia tras
haber sido herida.
Fue la pequeña malla
familiar sujeta a su sombrero
fue especialmente
la gruesa y suave tela de su negro
abrigo clerical,
y sus bajas estaturas
y su total abrazo
reconfortante,
los muertos de hace mucho
asomándose al tiempo desde la eternidad».
en que emergían poco a poco
pero a toda prisa
al subir los escalones-
la copa de sus sombreros
Iuego sus rostros
espiando mientras llegaban
al último escalón junto a la puerta, luego
al abrir yo la puerta de golpe
sus entrañables presencias corporales,
primero él, luego ella. Fue
la rápida y gradual aparición
simultánea
de esa misericordia tras
haber sido herida.
Fue la pequeña malla
familiar sujeta a su sombrero
fue especialmente
la gruesa y suave tela de su negro
abrigo clerical,
y sus bajas estaturas
y su total abrazo
reconfortante,
los muertos de hace mucho
asomándose al tiempo desde la eternidad».
January 5, 2021
When Denise Levertov passed away, she had forty poems completed that had not been published. This collection gathers those poems in order by their completed date rather than thematically. Levertov exerted an enormous influence over many contemporary poets, and this strong collection serves to remind the reader why. She continued to explore new insights as she also finds more to say about her favorite theme, the beauty and spiritual solace of nature.
October 5, 2017
Pockets of exquisiteness, like “Ancient Stairway.”
Ancient stairway
Footsteps like water hollow
the broad curves of stone
ascending, descending
century by century.
Who can say if the last
to climb these stairs
will be journeying
downward or upward?
Ancient stairway
Footsteps like water hollow
the broad curves of stone
ascending, descending
century by century.
Who can say if the last
to climb these stairs
will be journeying
downward or upward?
July 15, 2022
I love her writing. I discovered her in a different anthology. These are the poems from this collection I loved:
From Below
Celebration
Patience
The Metier of Blossoming
That Day
Noblesse Oblige
Masquerade
Aware
From Below
Celebration
Patience
The Metier of Blossoming
That Day
Noblesse Oblige
Masquerade
Aware
December 18, 2020
Deep, quiet, thoughtful meditations. I love the series of poems called "Feet," beginning with Neruda, closing with Maundy Thursday, peopled with Muriel Rukeyser and "The Mermaid." Such humble objects, "in which are inscribed / whole histories--wars, and uprootings, / and long / patient or impatient sufferings, / layer beyond layer, / successions of light and shadow, whole ranges."
"A Hundred a Day" begins with an epigram about the rate of plant extinction, to which Levertov laments, "Dear 19th century! Give me refuge / in your unconscious sanctuary for a while..." because, "any debate concerned / the origin and subsequent behaviour of species, / not their demise."
Hard not to love this collection and treasure the little book they are published in. I have access to them in Levertov's monumental "Collected Poems," but I prefer reading them this way, packaged together, her last poems told from this planet.
"A Hundred a Day" begins with an epigram about the rate of plant extinction, to which Levertov laments, "Dear 19th century! Give me refuge / in your unconscious sanctuary for a while..." because, "any debate concerned / the origin and subsequent behaviour of species, / not their demise."
Hard not to love this collection and treasure the little book they are published in. I have access to them in Levertov's monumental "Collected Poems," but I prefer reading them this way, packaged together, her last poems told from this planet.
April 12, 2015
Perhaps 3½ stars. I really liked a few poems in this posthumous collection and didn't dislike any of them. However, most of the poems didn't make any strong emotional connection with me. I'm curious now to see how some of her earlier work strikes me.
October 25, 2007
The most essential book of poetry I own.
December 29, 2013
Read it. "A Clearing" on p. 54 captures the spirit of where I live. "Once Only" on p. 46 is a hard lesson for me about the 'once only' things in our lives.
August 24, 2021
Travestied by Disney, the Mermaid’s real story
has gone underground for now, as books do
if they’re abused. As Andersen told it, the tale
was not for young children, not even called
‘The Little’- just, ‘The Mermaid.’ It’s about love and grief,
a myth of longing and sacrifice, far closer, say,
to Goethe’s Parable than to any jovial folktale,
much less to today’s manufactured juvenile distractions.
The Mer-folk live for three hundred years, then dissolve
in foam of the wave, and forever vanish
into non-being; humans, the mermaid learns, rarely live
for even one hundred years, often far fewer, but they possess
immortal souls, and rise to continue living
in starlit regions merfolk can never see.
In her resolve to love and be loved
by the human prince she had rescued once
from storm and shipwreck, and gain for herself
such a soul, the mermaid goes to the terrible
ocean witch, and obtains a potion to turn her golden-scaled
fish-tail into legs and feetand
gives up her voice in payment. She does this
knowing each gliding, graceful step she will take
will bring her the pain of walking on knives.
She does this for love, and the dream
of human joys and a deathless soul.
There’s more,
much more to the story-even a kind of
happy ending, after the final sacrifice, a concession
Andersen made to his time and place. But what endures
along with the evocation of undersea gardens,
of moonlight, of icebergs and coral, and of that same yearning
we find in the Silkie tales and in The Forsaken Merman,
are the knifeblades under her feet, unguessed-at
by any who see her glide and dance; and the torment
of having no tongue to speak her love, to speak
her longing to earn a soul.
Something in this
made my mother shed tears when she read it aloud,
her voice for a moment baffled—
and this when her closet was still full of elegant shoes
with the pointed toes of fashion. Did she foresee (and forget
till the next reading) the misery
old age and poor circulation and years of those narrow shoes
would bring her? Certainly she had no doubt
of her own soul; no, what hurt her
was the mermaid’s feet. Her agony without complaint,
her great love, courage, unfathomed sorrow,
would not have equally moved my mother
without that focussed sense of each step the mermaid took
being unbearable, yet borne, the firm support
we count on torn away, invisibly shredded.
has gone underground for now, as books do
if they’re abused. As Andersen told it, the tale
was not for young children, not even called
‘The Little’- just, ‘The Mermaid.’ It’s about love and grief,
a myth of longing and sacrifice, far closer, say,
to Goethe’s Parable than to any jovial folktale,
much less to today’s manufactured juvenile distractions.
The Mer-folk live for three hundred years, then dissolve
in foam of the wave, and forever vanish
into non-being; humans, the mermaid learns, rarely live
for even one hundred years, often far fewer, but they possess
immortal souls, and rise to continue living
in starlit regions merfolk can never see.
In her resolve to love and be loved
by the human prince she had rescued once
from storm and shipwreck, and gain for herself
such a soul, the mermaid goes to the terrible
ocean witch, and obtains a potion to turn her golden-scaled
fish-tail into legs and feetand
gives up her voice in payment. She does this
knowing each gliding, graceful step she will take
will bring her the pain of walking on knives.
She does this for love, and the dream
of human joys and a deathless soul.
There’s more,
much more to the story-even a kind of
happy ending, after the final sacrifice, a concession
Andersen made to his time and place. But what endures
along with the evocation of undersea gardens,
of moonlight, of icebergs and coral, and of that same yearning
we find in the Silkie tales and in The Forsaken Merman,
are the knifeblades under her feet, unguessed-at
by any who see her glide and dance; and the torment
of having no tongue to speak her love, to speak
her longing to earn a soul.
Something in this
made my mother shed tears when she read it aloud,
her voice for a moment baffled—
and this when her closet was still full of elegant shoes
with the pointed toes of fashion. Did she foresee (and forget
till the next reading) the misery
old age and poor circulation and years of those narrow shoes
would bring her? Certainly she had no doubt
of her own soul; no, what hurt her
was the mermaid’s feet. Her agony without complaint,
her great love, courage, unfathomed sorrow,
would not have equally moved my mother
without that focussed sense of each step the mermaid took
being unbearable, yet borne, the firm support
we count on torn away, invisibly shredded.
January 31, 2023
Denise Levertov is always a joy, but "This Great Unknowing" has a poignancy to its beauty because it is the collection of her last completed poems. Life is vibrant, lovely, and unexpected as it always is in her poems, but her sense of her own approaching death is evident throughout, particularly in the last dozen or so. "Translucency" left me sitting with its echoes for a good hour.
This book is a good reminder that "memento mori" is far from a morbid concept; it is the practice of keeping the inevitability of one's death in mind so that one remains properly thankful and awestruck by God's goodness that surrounds us in all ways, in all things.
If you're not much of a "poetry person," but want a solid, Catholic, spiritual read that will challenge you in unexpected ways, you should read this book. If you ARE a poetry person, then of course you should read it. If you grumble at poems that lack identifiable meter and rhyme schemes, you might struggle with it a bit, but if you earnestly read her lyrical words, your soul will thank you.
This book is a good reminder that "memento mori" is far from a morbid concept; it is the practice of keeping the inevitability of one's death in mind so that one remains properly thankful and awestruck by God's goodness that surrounds us in all ways, in all things.
If you're not much of a "poetry person," but want a solid, Catholic, spiritual read that will challenge you in unexpected ways, you should read this book. If you ARE a poetry person, then of course you should read it. If you grumble at poems that lack identifiable meter and rhyme schemes, you might struggle with it a bit, but if you earnestly read her lyrical words, your soul will thank you.
March 29, 2020
i'd never heard of denise levertov until i came across this book of hers, whose title immediately struck a chord with me upon seeing. there were only a handful of poems, however, which stood out and were able to touch me.
to those whose "first love" was to a flower:
"It looked at me, I looked
back, delight
filled me as if
I, not the flower,
were a flower and were brimful of rain.
And there was endlessness.
Perhaps through a lifetime what I've desired
has always been to return
to that endless giving and receiving, the wholeness
of that attention,
that once-in-a-lifetime
secret communion."
to those whose "first love" was to a flower:
"It looked at me, I looked
back, delight
filled me as if
I, not the flower,
were a flower and were brimful of rain.
And there was endlessness.
Perhaps through a lifetime what I've desired
has always been to return
to that endless giving and receiving, the wholeness
of that attention,
that once-in-a-lifetime
secret communion."
April 2, 2020
Great but small collection of poems.
They move through Religious and humanitarian subjects into nature and awareness.
One of the most striking poems with the most favorite images as a poem Fugitives. It starts with a red cross worker driving a van through a river of people and moves through his point of view as he is stopped by the people he wants to help.
And maybe I shouldn’t say Religion so much as her view of God which seems at once personal and distant.
My favorite poems are:
Fugitives
The mountain’s daily speech is silence
Immersion
They move through Religious and humanitarian subjects into nature and awareness.
One of the most striking poems with the most favorite images as a poem Fugitives. It starts with a red cross worker driving a van through a river of people and moves through his point of view as he is stopped by the people he wants to help.
And maybe I shouldn’t say Religion so much as her view of God which seems at once personal and distant.
My favorite poems are:
Fugitives
The mountain’s daily speech is silence
Immersion
November 27, 2020
This is the first book I have read by Denise Levertov, which coincidentally was her last, and in fact, published after her death. I like many of the poems. Some of the imagery is just lovely. However, many of her words are Latinate, and she tells in many of her poems. After awhile, poets who have built a reputation ride on that reputation. For example, I am sure if I did not "show" in my poems that I submitted for publication, and simply used words like, "The mountain graciously continues its measured self-disclosure", then I am sure a rejection email would be in my inbox post haste.
October 2, 2023
Levertov takes us on a voyage urging readers to delve into the connections, between faith, nature and the human spirit. From the simplicity of "The Avowal" to the insights of "Beginners " Levertovs words evoke a profound sense of awe. This collection serves as evidence of her talent, for capturing the indescribable and reminding us of the beauty we encounter in lifes moments. It is a must read for those who seek comfort and inspiration within the realm of poetry.
July 7, 2020
An original and fresh volume of poetry. I liked some of the poems, and had to drag myself through a poem or two. But Denise Levertov is an amazing poet, and I really liked this volume. I will definitely check her other works as well.
Although I wish she was as creative and novel as some of the best poems in this volume. I would give this a 6.5 - 7 / 10.
Although I wish she was as creative and novel as some of the best poems in this volume. I would give this a 6.5 - 7 / 10.
April 14, 2024
This is the only Levertov I’ve read, besides two of her earlier poems, which were both excellent. This collection, don’t get me wrong, was also incredible, however, since it was published posthumously it was edited an ordered in a kind of. Haphazard? Way? If that makes any sense? But the poetry is wonderful.
Read
September 4, 2019"What I thought to be a river
turned out to be sky.
What I thought were shore, island,
rocks, river-mist,
turned out to be cloud, shadow,
shot-holes in sky's canvas.
Even the deepest shade
down near the horizon
turned out not to be earth,
the real horizon was lower still."
turned out to be sky.
What I thought were shore, island,
rocks, river-mist,
turned out to be cloud, shadow,
shot-holes in sky's canvas.
Even the deepest shade
down near the horizon
turned out not to be earth,
the real horizon was lower still."
August 19, 2020
It is not strictly accurate that say that I like the plain poems and dislike the metaphysical for there are some non-metas that do nothing for me, but the statement is close enough to true to make the point. I quite liked the observational poems early in the book.
February 5, 2020
*3.75*
complex meaningful poems
complex meaningful poems
September 30, 2022
3.5 stars.
December 6, 2022
Jesus every time I finish a Levertov book I realize I HAVE to read more Levertov
March 29, 2023
The arc of branch is not perfect.
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