Реферат: Denise Levertov Online Poems Essay Research Paper

Denise Levertov: Online Poems Essay, Research Paper

Talking to Grief

Ah, Grief, I should not treat you

like a homeless dog

who comes to the back door

for a crust, for a meatless bone.

I should trust you.

I should coax you

into the house and give you

your own corner,

a worn mat to lie on,

your own water dish.

You think I don’t know you’ve been living

under my porch.

You long for your real place to be readied

before winter comes. You need

your name,

your collar and tag. You need

the right to warn off intruders,

to consider

my house your own

and me your person

and yourself

my own dog.



September 1961

This is the year the old ones,

the old great ones

leave us alone on the road.

The road leads to the sea.

We have the words in our pockets,

obscure directions. The old ones

have taken away the light of their presence,

we see it moving away over a hill

off to one side.

They are not dying,

they are withdrawn

into a painful privacy

learning to live without words.

E. P. «It looks like dying»–Williams: «I can’t

describe to you what has been

happening to me»–

H. D. «unable to speak.»

The darkness

twists itself in the wind, the stars

are small, the horizon

ringed with confused urban light-haze.

They have told us

the road leads to the sea,

and given

the language into our hands.

We hear

our footsteps each time a truck

has dazzled past us and gone

leaving us new silence.

One can’t reach

the sea on this endless

road to the sea unless

one turns aside at the end, it seems,


the owl that silently glides above it

aslant, back and forth,

and away into deep woods.

But for us the road

unfurls itself, we count the

words in our pockets, we wonder

how it will be without them, we don’t

stop walking, we know

there is far to go, sometimes

we think the night wind carries

a smell of the sea…



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


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.



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