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Levertov - The life around us: selected poems on nature

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Levertov The life around us: selected poems on nature
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The life around us: selected poems on nature: summary, description and annotation

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For Instance -- The Willows of Massachusetts -- The Cat as Cat -- Revivals -- April in Ohio -- Ceremonies -- Those Who Want Out -- The Stricken Children -- Tragic Error -- Engraved -- Sound of the Axe -- The Vron Woods (North Wales) -- Web -- The Braiding -- At One -- Urgent Whisper -- Protesting at the Nuclear Site -- What It Could Be -- Is Should Be Visible -- Chant: Sunset, Somerville, Late Fall 75 -- Heights, Depths, Silence, Unceasing Sound of the Surf -- From the Train, Eastward -- The Cabbage Field -- Concurrence -- Brother Ivy -- Praise of a Palmtree -- Come into Animal Presence -- The Life of Others -- The Life Around Us -- Silient Spring -- In California: Morning, Evening, Late January -- Flying High -- Mappemonde -- The Reminder -- In the Woods -- Indian Summer -- Creature to Creature -- A Reward -- The Almost-Island -- What One Recieves from Living Close to a Lake.;As Denise Levertov comments in her brief foreword to The Life Around Us, she has shared with most poets in every time and place an ardent love of what my eyes and other senses revealed to me in the world we call nature. Yet in this selection of sixty-two poems chosen by the author celebration and fear of loss are necessarily conjoined. The Life Around Us shows us both the eternal renewal of the natural world and its imperilment.;Salvation -- Living -- Settling -- Elusive -- Morning Mist -- Effacement -- Presence -- The 6:30 Bus, Late May -- Midsummer Eve -- The Mountain Assailed -- Pentimento -- Mirage -- Looking Through -- Whisper -- Open Secret -- Witness -- Against Intrusion -- Forest Altar, September -- A South Wind -- Sojourns in the Parallel World.

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The Life
Around Us
Foreword As I have quite frequently found myself obliged to skip back and - photo 1
Foreword
As I have quite frequently found myself obliged to skip back and forth from book to book when reading to audiences composed of people whose work and vocation was in ecology, conservation, and restoration, it was suggested that I put together a selection of thematically relevant poems, which would be useful not only to the many earth-science people who, I have found, do love poetry, but also to the general public. In compiling this volume Ive drawn mainly on my more recent books, but have included also a number of older poems, written when, like the rest of us, I was less conscious of all that threatens the earth, but nevertheless shared with most poets in every time and place an ardent love of what my eyes and other senses revealed to me in the world we call nature. In these last few decades of the twentieth century it has become ever clearer to all thinking people that although we humans are a part of nature ourselves, we have become, in multifarious ways, an increasingly destructive element within it, shaking and breaking the great web perhaps irremediably. So a poet, although often impelled, as always, to write poems of pure celebration, is driven inevitably to lament, to anger, and to the expression of dread. And in arranging the poems Ive chosen here. I decided not to group them separatelypraise-poems in one clump, laments and fears in anotherbut to follow (though not always in chronological order) the natural undulations and alternations I experienced in writing now in one vein, now in another, whether in separate poems or in those in which celebration and the fear of loss are necessarily conjoined.

I believe this flux and reflux echo what readers also feel in their response to the green world. Denise Levertov

For Instance
Often, its nowhere special: maybe a train rattling not fast or slow from Melbourne to Sydney, and the lights fading, weve passed that wide river remembered from a tale about boyhood and fatal love, written in vodka prose, clear and burning the lights fading and then beside the tracks this particular straggle of eucalypts, an inconsequential bit of a wood, a coppice, looks your way, not at you, through you, through the train, over itgazes with branches and rags of bark to something beyond your passing. Its not, this shred of seeing, more beautiful than a million others, less so than many; you have no past here, no memories, and youll never set foot among these shadowy tentative presences. Perhaps when youve left this continent youll never return; but it stays with you: years later, whenever its blurry image flicks on in your head, it wrenches from you the old cry: O Earth, belovd Earth! like many another faint constellation of landscape does, or fragment of lichened stone, or some old shed where you took refuge once from pelting rain in Essex, leaning on wheel or shafts of a dusty cart, and came out when you heard a blackbird return to song though the rain was not quite over; and, as you thought thered be, there was, in the dark quarter where frowning clouds were still clustered, a hesitant trace of rainbow; and across from that the expected gleam of East Anglian afternoon light, and leaves dripping and shining. Puddles, and the roadside weeds washed of their dust. Earth, that inward cry again Erde, du liebe
The Willows of Massachusetts
Animal willows of November in pelt of gold enduring when all else has let go all ornament and stands naked in the cold.

Cold shine of sun on swamp water, cold caress of slant beam on bough, gray light on brown bark. Willowslast to relinquish a leaf, curious, patient, lion-headed, tense with energy, watching the serene cold through a curtain of tarnished strands.

The Cat as Cat
The cat on my bosom sleeping and purring fur-petalled chrysanthemum, squirrel-killer is a metaphor only if I force him to be one, looking too long in his pale, fond, dilating, contracting eyes that reject, mirrors, refuse to observe what bides stockstill. Likewise flex and reflex of claws gently pricking through sweater to skin gently sustain their own tune, not mine. I-Thou, cat, I-Thou. A passion so intenseIt driveth sorrow hence
April in Ohio
Each day the cardinals call and call in the rain, each cadence scarlet among leafless buckeye, and passionately the redbuds, that cant wait like other blossoms, to flower from fingertip twigs, break forth as Eve from Adams cage of ribs, straight from amazed treetrunks. A passion so intenseIt driveth sorrow hence
April in Ohio
Each day the cardinals call and call in the rain, each cadence scarlet among leafless buckeye, and passionately the redbuds, that cant wait like other blossoms, to flower from fingertip twigs, break forth as Eve from Adams cage of ribs, straight from amazed treetrunks.

Lumps ol snow are melting in tulip-cups.

Ceremonies
The ash tree drops the few dry leaves it bore in May, stands naked by mid-July. When each days evil news drains into the next, a monotonous overflow, has a trees dying lost the right to be mourned? Nolifes indivisible. And this tree, rooted beyond my fence, has been, branch and curved twig, in leaf or bare, the net that held the sky in my window. Trunk in deep shade, its lofting crown offers to each long days pale glow after the sun is almost down, an answering gold the last light held and caressed.
Those Who Want Out
In their homes, much glass and steel.

Their cars are fastwalkings (or children, except in rooms. When they take longer trips, they think with contempt of the jets archaic slowness. Monastic in dedication to work, they apply honed skills, impatient of less than perfection. They sleep by day when the bustle of lives might disturb their research, and labor beneath fluorescent light in controlled environments fitting their needs, as the dialects in which they converse, with each other or with the machines (which are not called machines) are controlled and fitting. The air they breathe is conditioned. Coffee and coke keep them alert.

But no one can say they dont dream, that they have no vision. Their vision consumes them, they think all the time of the city in space, they long for the permanent colony, not just a lab up there, the whole works, malls, racquet courts, hot tubs, state-of-the-art ski machines, entertainment Imagine it, they think, way out there, outside of nature, unhampered, a place contrived by man, supreme triumph of reason. They know it will happen. They do not love the earth.

The Stricken Children
The Wishing Well was a spring bubbling clear and soundless into a shallow pool less than three feet across, a hood of rocks protecting it, smallest of grottoes, from falling leaves, the pebbles of past wishes peacefully underwater, old desires forgotten or fulfilled. No one threw money in, one had to search for the right small stone.

This was the place from which year after year in childhood I demanded my departure, my journeying forth into the world of magical cities, mountains, otherness the place which gave what I asked, and more; to which still wandering, I returned this year, as if to gaze once more at the face of an ancient grandmother. And I found the well filled to the shallow brim with debris of a cultures sickness with bottles, tins, paper, plastic the soiled bandages of its aching unconsciousness. Does the clogged spring still moisten the underlayer of waste? Was it children threw in the rubbish? Children who dont dream, or dismiss their own desires and toss them down, discarded packaging? I move away, walking fast, the impetus of so many journeys pushes me on, but where are the stricken children of this time, this place, to travel to, in Time if not in Place, the grandmother wellspring choked, and themselves not aware of all they are doing-without?

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