Sarnen
Under the harvest sun the heart
ripens on its wall,
under the heat of noon the mind
like a leaf is cool.
The angelus and the goatbell
sway across the grass;
butterflies in blue mid-air
touch and spin apart.
Any attempted dream must fall
to ruin in this light, must pass
before the mocking glance
of idle animals.
There is no need to escape
from the motionless mountain
there is no need to escape
when here the indifferent lake
accepts a nervous image,
demands no affirmation
of innocence or faith.
Switzerland, 1946
A Dream of Cornwall
Footprint of fury quiet, now, on the salt sand
hills couched like hares in the blue grass of the air
water lifting its glass . . .
1946
Kresch's Studio
Easels: a high & bare room:
some with charcoal, one with a brush,
some with loud pens in the silence,
at work. The woman
in taut repose, intent:
under violent light that pulls
the weight of the breasts to answer the long
shadow of thighs,
confronts angles with receding
planes, makes play with elements.
That they work, that she will not move too soon,
opposes (as Bartok's plucked strings oppose)
the grinding, grinding, grinding of lives,
pounding constant traffic.
On paper, on canvas, stroke, stroke: a counterpoint:
an energy opposing
the squandered energy.
New York, early '50's
Tomatlan (Variations)
. . .
iii
The green palmettos of the
blue jungle
shake their
green breasts, their stiff
green hair –
the wind, the sea wind is come
and touches them
lightly, and strokes them, and
screws them, until they
are blue flames,
green smoke, and
screws them again.
iv
At the touch
of the sea wind
the palms
shake their green breasts, their
rustling fingers –
flames of desire and pleasure. . . .
Denise Levertov |
Wow, really surprising and interesting blog.
ReplyDeleteYou can visit my also and follow/subscribe if you want :)
http://bianchii.blogspot.com
Have a nice day :)
tx
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