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Best Famous Denise Levertov Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Denise Levertov poems. This is a select list of the best famous Denise Levertov poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Denise Levertov poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Denise Levertov poems.

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by Denise Levertov | |

The Breathing

 An absolute
patience.
Trees stand up to their knees in fog.
The fog slowly flows uphill.
White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples.
The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up not one bird.
So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.


by Denise Levertov | |

Stepping Westward

 What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening.
If her part is to be true, a north star, good, I hold steady in the black sky and vanish by day, yet burn there in blue or above quilts of cloud.
There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am, a shadow that grows longer as the sun moves, drawn out on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens they begin to be remembered as gifts, goods, a basket of bread that hurts my shoulders but closes me in fragrance.
I can eat as I go.


by Denise Levertov | |

Intrusion

 After I had cut off my hands
and grown new ones

something my former hands had longed for
came and asked to be rocked.
After my plucked out eyes had withered, and new ones grown something my former eyes had wept for came asking to be pitied.


by Denise Levertov | |

The Thread

 Something is very gently, 
invisibly, silently, 
pulling at me-a thread 
or net of threads 
finer than cobweb and as 
elastic.
I haven't tried the strength of it.
No barbed hook pierced and tore me.
Was it not long ago this thread began to draw me? Or way back? Was I born with its knot about my neck, a bridle? Not fear but a stirring of wonder makes me catch my breath when I feel the tug of it when I thought it had loosened itself and gone.


by Denise Levertov | |

Hymn To Eros

 O Eros, silently smiling one, hear me.
Let the shadow of thy wings brush me.
Let thy presence enfold me, as if darkness were swandown.
Let me see that darkness lamp in hand, this country become the other country sacred to desire.
Drowsy god, slow the wheels of my thought so that I listen only to the snowfall hush of thy circling.
Close my beloved with me in the smoke ring of thy power, that we way be, each to the other, figures of flame, figures of smoke, figures of flesh newly seen in the dusk.


by Denise Levertov | |

In Mind

 There's in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadorned but

fair-featured and smelling of
apples or grass.
She wears a utopian smock or shift, her hair is light brown and smooth, and she is kind and very clean without ostentation- but she has no imagination And there's a turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.


by Denise Levertov | |

Losing Track

 Long after you have swung back
away from me
I think you are still with me:

you come in close to the shore
on the tide
and nudge me awake the way

a boat adrift nudges the pier:
am I a pier
half-in half-out of the water?

and in the pleasure of that communion
I lose track,
the moon I watch goes down, the

tide swings you away before
I know I'm
alone again long since,

mud sucking at gray and black
timbers of me,
a light growth of green dreams drying.


by Denise Levertov | |

Celebration

 Brilliant, this day – a young virtuoso of a day.
Morning shadow cut by sharpest scissors, deft hands.
And every prodigy of green – whether it's ferns or lichens or needles or impatient points of buds on spindly bushes – greener than ever before.
And the way the conifers hold new cones to the light for the blessing, a festive right, and sing the oceanic chant the wind transcribes for them! A day that shines in the cold like a first-prize brass band swinging along the street of a coal-dusty village, wholly at odds with the claims of reasonable gloom.


by Denise Levertov | |

The Ache Of Marriage

 The ache of marriage:

thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth

We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each

It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it

two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.


by Denise Levertov | |

Wedding-Ring

 My wedding-ring lies in a basket 
as if at the bottom of a well.
Nothing will come to fish it back up and onto my finger again.
It lies among keys to abandoned houses, nails waiting to be needed and hammered into some wall, telephone numbers with no names attached, idle paperclips.
It can't be given away for fear of bringing ill-luck.
It can't be sold for the marriage was good in its own time, though that time is gone.
Could some artificer beat into it bright stones, transform it into a dazzling circlet no one could take for solemn betrothal or to make promises living will not let them keep? Change it into a simple gift I could give in friendship?