Denise Levertov
Web
Intricate and untraceable Weaving and interweaving, Dark strand with light: Designed, beyond All spiderly contrivance, To link, not to entrap: Elation, grief, joy, contrition, entwined; Shaking, changing, Forever Forming, Transforming: All praise, All praise
To the Snake
Green Snake, when I hung you round my neck And stroked your cold, pulsing throat As you hissed to me, glinting Arrowy gold scales, and I felt The weight of you on my shoulders,
The Great Black Heron
Since I stroll in the woods more often Than on this frequented path, it’s usually Trees I observe; but among fellow humans What I like best is to see an old woman Fishing alone
An Embroidery
Rose Red’s hair is brown as fur And shines in firelight as she prepares Supper of honey and apples, curds and whey, For the bear, and leaves it ready On the hearth-stone. Rose White’s
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.
Looking, Walking, Being
“The World is not something to Look at, it is something to be in.” Mark Rudman I look and look. Looking’s a way of being: one becomes, Sometimes, a pair of eyes walking. Walking
Triple Feature
Innocent decision: to enjoy. And the pathos Of hopefulness, of his solicitude: he in mended serape, She having plaited carefully Magenta ribbons into her hair, The baby a round half-hidden shape Slung in her
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
What Were They Like?
Did the people of Viet Nam Use lanterns of stone? Did they hold ceremonies To reverence the opening of buds? Were they inclined to quiet laughter? Did they use bone and ivory, Jade and
St. Peter and the Angel
Delivered out of raw continual pain, Smell of darkness, groans of those others To whom he was chained Unchained, and led Past the sleepers, Door after door silently opening Out! And along a long
The Métier of Blossoming
Fully occupied with growing that’s The amaryllis. Growing especially At night: it would take Only a bit more patience than I’ve got To sit keeping watch with it till daylight; The naked eye could
The Garden Wall
Bricks of the wall, So much older than the house – Taken I think from a farm pulled down When the street was built – Narrow bricks of another century. Modestly, though laid with
Living
The fire in leaf and grass So green it seems Each summer the last summer. The wind blowing, the leaves Shivering in the sun, Each day the last day. A red salamander So cold
The Dog of Art
That dog with daisies for eyes Who flashes forth Flame of his very self at every bark Is the Dog of Art. Worked in wool, his blind eyes Look inward to caverns and jewels
Settling
I was welcomed here-clear gold Of late summer, of opening autumn, The dawn eagle sunning himself on the highest tree, The mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow Tinted apricot as she looked west, Tolerant,