A poem

Nov. 2nd, 2004 12:10 am
rymenhild: Manuscript page from British Library MS Harley 913 (Default)
Because I find myself without words, I'll borrow someone else's.

Desolate Light

We turn to history looking
for vicious certainties through which
voices edged into song,

engorged fringes of anemone swaying
dreamily through deluge,

gray Lazarus bearing
the exquisite itch and ache of blood returning.

Reason has brought us
more dread than ignorance did.
Into the open
well of centuries

we gaze, and see gleaming,
deep in the black broth at the bottom,
chains of hope by which our forebears
hoisted themselves
hand over hand towards light.

But we
stand at the edge looking back in and knowing
too much to reasonably hope. Their desired light
burns us.

O dread,
drought that dries
the ground of joy till it cracks and
caves in,

O dread,
wind that sweeps up the offal of lies,
sweep my knowledge, too, into oblivion,

drop me back in the well.


No avail.

~Denise Levertov

Poem

Oct. 15th, 2004 12:53 pm
rymenhild: Manuscript page from British Library MS Harley 913 (Default)
I must copy the poetry meme from [livejournal.com profile] irisbleu and [livejournal.com profile] musesfool (simple rules: when you see someone else post a poem, post one too), because I really want to see what poems my friendslist comes up with.

The Vron Woods (North Wales)

In the night's dream of day
the woods were fragrant.
Carapaced, slender, vertical,
red in the slant
fragmented light, uprose
Scotch firs,
boughs a vague smoke of
green.
Underfoot
the slipping
of tawny needles.

I was wholly there,
aware of each step
in the hum of quietness,
each breath.
Sunlight
a net
of discs and lozenges, holding
odor of rosin.

These were the Vron Woods,
felled
seven years before I was born,

levelled,
to feed a war.

~Denise Levertov

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rymenhild: Manuscript page from British Library MS Harley 913 (Default)
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