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Footprints
The poet's strong social commitment is revealed in these reflective works
- GenresPoetry
58 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
77 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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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
July 29, 2021
Moving from Mohammed Dib to Denise Levertov, I continue to search for the definition of poetry. Is it all a shameless attempt to make up lost ground on my reading challenge? Perhaps not all, but there is something to that idea. I seem to always be striving to collect something. What am I collecting in trying to understand poetry? What am I really collecting by hitting 2021's reading goals? Who am I going to brag to? I do not have answers to the last two questions and ulterior motives that I may have do not discredit my earnest desire to understand poetry. Levertov has a few poems here that are helping me to define what exactly poetry is.
In, "Only Connect", she writes:
'Horoscopes,' he says, 'would make
perfect poems if I could get into them.
Everything relates to all.
I understand what Aspenberg is saying here because I feel the same way about poetry. If only I could get into them I might understand their deeper meaning.
I remember purchasing Mohammed Dib's L.A. Trip. It's not a normal sized book and stood out in the dollar bin at the local shop. I picked it up and was fascinated by the duel language aspect - even if I never learn a word of French, I can say with totally honesty, "yes, I have read a book in French". Who would I say this to? Who could stomach this brag. My poor wife is long-suffering in her patience with my pretentiousness. Levertov's book is short; the book is unremarkable in appearance. I do not remember purchasing it. There is nothing on the back of jacket that would naturally draw me to it. I am not particularly interested in "anti-war motifs", "emphatically political" poetry or "Relearning the alphabet". I am not sure how I came into possession of this book. Maybe it belonged to my long-suffering wife in her life before me. Who knows. I am glad to have read it and there are a few poems in this collection that I wish to commit to this review for later reflection.
"Intrusion" was the first poem that stood out to me. In it she references cutting off her hands and plucking out her eyes, obvious religious imagery and notes that her new eyes and new hands still suffer from the old maladies. Her new hands receive requests from some object that her old hands desired. Her new eyes receive a request from something her old eyes cried over to be pitied. I thought the imagery here was insightful.
From, "By Rail through the Earthly Paradise, Perhaps Bedfordshire" a single line jumped out at me. "No thirst for righteousness dries my throat". As I have no recollection of how I came into possession of this book and until after finishing it had no knowledge of who Denise Levertov was I had to cheat a little and search her out on Wikipedia. This collection of poetry comes from her writing in the late sixties and early seventies. I think I noticed one poem that was from the fifties, but the majority seem to be from the aforementioned epoch. According to her rather lengthy Wikipedia page, something that surprised me, she came to be a Christian in 1984 and a Roman Catholic in 1989. Even before finding out this fact, the line I had underlined because of its power painted her as someone who was constantly seeking. The thirst for righteousness certainly dries my throat; the thirst for understanding has left me parched. What is the alternative though? To drink the kool-aid of blissful ignorance? I have tried both and don't particularly enjoy either.
In, "Sun, Moon, and Stones" she responds to a line from Nikos Kazantzakis - finally a reference point for me that I have at least some partial familiarity with. While I am not a Kazantzakis expert, I at least know the name. This poem was one of my favorites of the collection because one of the stanzas stood out to me the most in the entire book:
"And we were born to that sole end:
to thirst and grow
to shudder
to dream in lingering dew, lingering warmth
to stumble searching."
Levertov plays a lot with where the words are on the page. Typewriters and poetry exist differently than computers and poetry do. That much I am sure of. So too, the writers from before the era of typewriters and computers have a different relationship with their works. But the indentions of the final four lines of the stanza I have highlighted (which I can't seem to emulate on this review) had little effect on me. It was their meaning, especially the notion that our chief end is to stumble searching that struck me. To search is our end and it is ok to stumble through it. That is a pretty hopeful statement.
"The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why" is dated from March 8, 1970. Its message however is much more contemporary than the date. In this poem Levertov challenges a congregation for remembering and honoring the Kent State shooting victims while not remembering and honoring the black students shot in Orangeburg. I was not even a thought in my parents' minds when the Kent State shooting occurred and yet I can see the woman with arms raised and a look of horror asking, "why" over the face-down lifeless body of one of the victims without looking up the image. I can sing along to "Ohio" by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young in my head - maybe not word perfect, but enough to have it stuck in my head as I type this. I had to Google the Orangeburg massacre, even though I drove through Orangeburg, SC just a few days ago on our return trip from Myrtle Beach. There is substance to the complaints about what history is taught in our schools.
She cuts to the bone as I come to grips with my lack of knowledge of what ought to be pretty standard pieces of history.
"Yes, it is well that we remember
all of these, but let us be sure
we know it is hypocrisy
to think of them unless
we make our actions their memorial".
Her call to action, however much it moved me, caused her audience to get up and leave. One man followed her speech, saying in his address to the audience that her words, "desecrated a holy place". I paused there and reflected on my own notions of desecration and propriety. I have never walked out on someone giving a speech in church, at least not physically. I know that I have had that same feeling as the man who claimed her speech was a desecration. After reflecting I read the final stanza and was damned by my recollection:
"And a few days later
when some more students (black) were shot
at Jackson, Mississippi,
no one desecrated the white folks' chapel,
because no memorial service was held."
"The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why" feels so relevant that if I had come across it anywhere other than in this book I would have believed it to have been written within the past few years and likely would have thought it was written in 2020. Does that make this poem timeless? My God! I hope not.
The very next poem, "Animal Rights" had the same modern feeling to it and elicited the same reaction I struggle with when listening to people talk about equity in our modern society. In it she, seemingly tongue-in-cheek, notes that we are unfair to actual pigs and wasps in how these words are applied to "Amerikan polizei and tightassed DAR's". I felt my eyes start to roll and the power of "The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why" begin to wane. Hyperbole and hypocrisy tend to undermine the message for me and I don't think I am fully to fault myself for that. When everything is presented as the most important of all the struggles ever consistently how can I take it seriously? Even with that firm belief that it is not entirely my fault, I know that I am in the wrong if I allow someone's exaggerated and angry attack on whatever seems to be the most dangerous thing to the cause célèbre to cloud my judgment. There are obvious ills in the world that need addressing. Levertov is entirely justified in calling out my hypocrisy if I remember the ills that plague us and do not live my life as a memorial for those destroyed or killed by those ills. I have a responsibility to my fellow humans as Levertov so eloquently pointed out in her poem, even if she tries to undermine her message by needlessly injecting her own hypocritical polemics right after her poignant and impassioned altar call. That is the struggle I must continue to fight - that is my search, even if I stumble.
In, "Only Connect", she writes:
'Horoscopes,' he says, 'would make
perfect poems if I could get into them.
Everything relates to all.
I understand what Aspenberg is saying here because I feel the same way about poetry. If only I could get into them I might understand their deeper meaning.
I remember purchasing Mohammed Dib's L.A. Trip. It's not a normal sized book and stood out in the dollar bin at the local shop. I picked it up and was fascinated by the duel language aspect - even if I never learn a word of French, I can say with totally honesty, "yes, I have read a book in French". Who would I say this to? Who could stomach this brag. My poor wife is long-suffering in her patience with my pretentiousness. Levertov's book is short; the book is unremarkable in appearance. I do not remember purchasing it. There is nothing on the back of jacket that would naturally draw me to it. I am not particularly interested in "anti-war motifs", "emphatically political" poetry or "Relearning the alphabet". I am not sure how I came into possession of this book. Maybe it belonged to my long-suffering wife in her life before me. Who knows. I am glad to have read it and there are a few poems in this collection that I wish to commit to this review for later reflection.
"Intrusion" was the first poem that stood out to me. In it she references cutting off her hands and plucking out her eyes, obvious religious imagery and notes that her new eyes and new hands still suffer from the old maladies. Her new hands receive requests from some object that her old hands desired. Her new eyes receive a request from something her old eyes cried over to be pitied. I thought the imagery here was insightful.
From, "By Rail through the Earthly Paradise, Perhaps Bedfordshire" a single line jumped out at me. "No thirst for righteousness dries my throat". As I have no recollection of how I came into possession of this book and until after finishing it had no knowledge of who Denise Levertov was I had to cheat a little and search her out on Wikipedia. This collection of poetry comes from her writing in the late sixties and early seventies. I think I noticed one poem that was from the fifties, but the majority seem to be from the aforementioned epoch. According to her rather lengthy Wikipedia page, something that surprised me, she came to be a Christian in 1984 and a Roman Catholic in 1989. Even before finding out this fact, the line I had underlined because of its power painted her as someone who was constantly seeking. The thirst for righteousness certainly dries my throat; the thirst for understanding has left me parched. What is the alternative though? To drink the kool-aid of blissful ignorance? I have tried both and don't particularly enjoy either.
In, "Sun, Moon, and Stones" she responds to a line from Nikos Kazantzakis - finally a reference point for me that I have at least some partial familiarity with. While I am not a Kazantzakis expert, I at least know the name. This poem was one of my favorites of the collection because one of the stanzas stood out to me the most in the entire book:
"And we were born to that sole end:
to thirst and grow
to shudder
to dream in lingering dew, lingering warmth
to stumble searching."
Levertov plays a lot with where the words are on the page. Typewriters and poetry exist differently than computers and poetry do. That much I am sure of. So too, the writers from before the era of typewriters and computers have a different relationship with their works. But the indentions of the final four lines of the stanza I have highlighted (which I can't seem to emulate on this review) had little effect on me. It was their meaning, especially the notion that our chief end is to stumble searching that struck me. To search is our end and it is ok to stumble through it. That is a pretty hopeful statement.
"The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why" is dated from March 8, 1970. Its message however is much more contemporary than the date. In this poem Levertov challenges a congregation for remembering and honoring the Kent State shooting victims while not remembering and honoring the black students shot in Orangeburg. I was not even a thought in my parents' minds when the Kent State shooting occurred and yet I can see the woman with arms raised and a look of horror asking, "why" over the face-down lifeless body of one of the victims without looking up the image. I can sing along to "Ohio" by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young in my head - maybe not word perfect, but enough to have it stuck in my head as I type this. I had to Google the Orangeburg massacre, even though I drove through Orangeburg, SC just a few days ago on our return trip from Myrtle Beach. There is substance to the complaints about what history is taught in our schools.
She cuts to the bone as I come to grips with my lack of knowledge of what ought to be pretty standard pieces of history.
"Yes, it is well that we remember
all of these, but let us be sure
we know it is hypocrisy
to think of them unless
we make our actions their memorial".
Her call to action, however much it moved me, caused her audience to get up and leave. One man followed her speech, saying in his address to the audience that her words, "desecrated a holy place". I paused there and reflected on my own notions of desecration and propriety. I have never walked out on someone giving a speech in church, at least not physically. I know that I have had that same feeling as the man who claimed her speech was a desecration. After reflecting I read the final stanza and was damned by my recollection:
"And a few days later
when some more students (black) were shot
at Jackson, Mississippi,
no one desecrated the white folks' chapel,
because no memorial service was held."
"The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why" feels so relevant that if I had come across it anywhere other than in this book I would have believed it to have been written within the past few years and likely would have thought it was written in 2020. Does that make this poem timeless? My God! I hope not.
The very next poem, "Animal Rights" had the same modern feeling to it and elicited the same reaction I struggle with when listening to people talk about equity in our modern society. In it she, seemingly tongue-in-cheek, notes that we are unfair to actual pigs and wasps in how these words are applied to "Amerikan polizei and tightassed DAR's". I felt my eyes start to roll and the power of "The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why" begin to wane. Hyperbole and hypocrisy tend to undermine the message for me and I don't think I am fully to fault myself for that. When everything is presented as the most important of all the struggles ever consistently how can I take it seriously? Even with that firm belief that it is not entirely my fault, I know that I am in the wrong if I allow someone's exaggerated and angry attack on whatever seems to be the most dangerous thing to the cause célèbre to cloud my judgment. There are obvious ills in the world that need addressing. Levertov is entirely justified in calling out my hypocrisy if I remember the ills that plague us and do not live my life as a memorial for those destroyed or killed by those ills. I have a responsibility to my fellow humans as Levertov so eloquently pointed out in her poem, even if she tries to undermine her message by needlessly injecting her own hypocritical polemics right after her poignant and impassioned altar call. That is the struggle I must continue to fight - that is my search, even if I stumble.
June 14, 2018
"I'm not hungry,
not lonely. It seems
at times I want nothing,
no human giving and taking.
Nothing I see
fails to give pleasure,
no thirst for righteousness
dries my throat, I am silent
and happy, and troubled only
by my own happiness."
- from By Rail through the Earthly Paradise, Perhaps Bedfordshire
not lonely. It seems
at times I want nothing,
no human giving and taking.
Nothing I see
fails to give pleasure,
no thirst for righteousness
dries my throat, I am silent
and happy, and troubled only
by my own happiness."
- from By Rail through the Earthly Paradise, Perhaps Bedfordshire
January 23, 2022
'Horoscopes,' he said, 'would make
perfect poems if I could get into them.
Everything relates to all.'
- Only Connect (pg. 15-16)
This is a remarkable collection by a poet I hadn't heard of before. In fact it was Robert Creeley, another poet I'm currently reading, who led me to her. The back cover description includes this detail...
"Looking back on her years of growing involvement with the Resistance movement, Miss Levertov - the wife of Mitchell Goodman, a codefendant in the Spock trial - has traced recurrent political themes that inform her poetry."
Indeed, many of the author's poems are preoccupied with political concerns, which is not surprising given the era in which they were written and the author's involvement (as well as her husband's involvement). Among the poems that I found the most conspicuously political I would like to draw attention to The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why...
(May 8th, 1970. Goucher College, Maryland)
Like this it happened:
after the antiphonal reading from the psalms
and the dance of lamentation before the altar,
and the two poems, Life at War and What Were They Like,
I began to rap, and said:
Yes, it is well that we have gathered
in this chapel to remember
the students shot at Kent State,
but let us be sure we know
our gathering is a mockery unless
we remember also
the black students shot at Orangeburg two years ago,
and Fred Hampton murdered in his bed
by the police only months ago.
And while I spoke the people
- girls, older women, a few men –
began to rise and turn
their backs to the altar and leave.
And I went on and said,
Yes, it is well that we remember
all of these, but let us be sure
we know it is hypocrisy
to think of them unless
we make our actions their memorial,
actions of militant resistance.
By then the pews were almost empty
and I returned to my seat and a man stood up
in the back of the quiet chapel
(near the wide-open doors through which
the green of May showed, and the long shadows
of late afternoon)
and said my words
desecrated a holy place.
And a few days later
when some more students (black) were shot
at Jackson, Mississippi,
no one desecrated the white folk’s chapel,
because no memorial service was held.
(pg. 26-27)
Otherwise, my favourite poem in the collection came from a sequence of poems dedicated to the author's students (A New Year's Garland for My Student/MIT: 1969-70). Each poem in the sequence is named (presumably) after one of the author's students; each feels intensely personal, capturing a quality of the student and/or the author's connection to the student; each is earnest, endearing, and heartfelt. My favourite is the tenth poem in this sequence, Richard...
The old poet, white-bearded
showing an antique motorcycle
to the children of the revolution
The old poet overhearing
lovers telling one another poems
and the poems are his.
His laugh rings out in sudden joy
as it did when he was twenty-one.
I hunger for a world
you can
live in forever.
(pg. 23)
perfect poems if I could get into them.
Everything relates to all.'
- Only Connect (pg. 15-16)
This is a remarkable collection by a poet I hadn't heard of before. In fact it was Robert Creeley, another poet I'm currently reading, who led me to her. The back cover description includes this detail...
"Looking back on her years of growing involvement with the Resistance movement, Miss Levertov - the wife of Mitchell Goodman, a codefendant in the Spock trial - has traced recurrent political themes that inform her poetry."
Indeed, many of the author's poems are preoccupied with political concerns, which is not surprising given the era in which they were written and the author's involvement (as well as her husband's involvement). Among the poems that I found the most conspicuously political I would like to draw attention to The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me, and Why...
(May 8th, 1970. Goucher College, Maryland)
Like this it happened:
after the antiphonal reading from the psalms
and the dance of lamentation before the altar,
and the two poems, Life at War and What Were They Like,
I began to rap, and said:
Yes, it is well that we have gathered
in this chapel to remember
the students shot at Kent State,
but let us be sure we know
our gathering is a mockery unless
we remember also
the black students shot at Orangeburg two years ago,
and Fred Hampton murdered in his bed
by the police only months ago.
And while I spoke the people
- girls, older women, a few men –
began to rise and turn
their backs to the altar and leave.
And I went on and said,
Yes, it is well that we remember
all of these, but let us be sure
we know it is hypocrisy
to think of them unless
we make our actions their memorial,
actions of militant resistance.
By then the pews were almost empty
and I returned to my seat and a man stood up
in the back of the quiet chapel
(near the wide-open doors through which
the green of May showed, and the long shadows
of late afternoon)
and said my words
desecrated a holy place.
And a few days later
when some more students (black) were shot
at Jackson, Mississippi,
no one desecrated the white folk’s chapel,
because no memorial service was held.
(pg. 26-27)
Otherwise, my favourite poem in the collection came from a sequence of poems dedicated to the author's students (A New Year's Garland for My Student/MIT: 1969-70). Each poem in the sequence is named (presumably) after one of the author's students; each feels intensely personal, capturing a quality of the student and/or the author's connection to the student; each is earnest, endearing, and heartfelt. My favourite is the tenth poem in this sequence, Richard...
The old poet, white-bearded
showing an antique motorcycle
to the children of the revolution
The old poet overhearing
lovers telling one another poems
and the poems are his.
His laugh rings out in sudden joy
as it did when he was twenty-one.
I hunger for a world
you can
live in forever.
(pg. 23)
October 10, 2018
I really liked this collection of poetry, which features Levertov talking politically about the Vietnam War and racial issues in the country at the time. "The Day the Audience Walked Out On Me" was definitely a favorite.
December 16, 2023
“…songs
Of their lives wandering
Out into oceans.”
Of their lives wandering
Out into oceans.”
December 2, 2016
I picked up this slim volume of poetry without any preconceived ideas. Many of the poems were written for specific people or at least with them in mind. What I appreciate most was her ability to create images from metaphors. "Scenario" depicts war as a one-eyed, one breasted Bride. She writes of wayward character of Eros - the passion of sexual desire - "Not free to love where their liking chooses, lacking desire for what love proposes." Or a poem entitled "The Day the Audience Walked Out on me and Why" in which she describes the challenges of speaking truths people are not prepared to her. In "Small Satori" she describes a young and thoughtful man as one who "looks off into inner distance." Like any good poet, Levertov invites us to look beyond what we see and hear to what lies between, beyond and underneath
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews