Read here and now by Denise Levertov Online

Title : here and now
Author :
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ISBN : 7847037
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 32 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

here and now Reviews

  • Matthew
    2019-03-26 05:50

    Reading Here and Now, one is reminded why T. S. Eliot encouraged Denise Levertov to pursue poetry. Although she was only 12 years old when she sent her early poems to Eliot, he recognize her potential and responded accordingly. In Here and Now, one can't help but recognize the same potential that Eliot recognized in Levertov's early poems. Eliot however, didn't have the same benefit of hindsight, and couldn't have known the greatness Levertov would achieve. Indeed, she is included among the best American poets of the second half of the Twentieth Century. This is not to sound reductive of the poems in Here and Now. They are great by their own measure, not by proxy to the poet's later work. They are elevated by Levertov's unique vision of poetry. In Here and Now this vision is articulated in reference to poetry itself: poetry that "gives passion to the roses" (The Gypsy's Window, pg. 5); poetry that "leaps from shattered windows" (Something to Wear, pg. 13); poetry that is temperamental...[...] IfI ever writea poem of a certain temper (wilful, tender, evasive, sad & rakish)I'll give it to you. - The Rights (pg. 9)They are elevated by Levertov's evocation of great poets such as Rainer Maria Rilke and William Blake...A night that cuts between you and youand you and you and youand me : jostles us apart, a man elbowingthrough a crowd. We won't look at each other, either -wander off, each alone, not lookingin the slow crowd. Among sideshows under movie signs, pictures made of a million lights, giants that move and again move again, above a cloud of thick smells, franks, roasted nutmeats -Or going up to some apartment, yours or yours, findingsomeone sitting in the dark:who is it, really? So you switch thelight on to see: you know the name butwho is it? But you won't see.The fluorescent light flickers sullenly, apause. But you command. It grabseach face and holds it upby the hair for you, mask after mask. You and you and you and I repeat gestures that make do when speechhas failed and talk and talk, laughing, saying 'I', and 'I',meaning 'Anybody'. No one. - People At Night, Derived from Rilke (pg. 10-11) 'The will is given us that we may know thatdelights of surrender.' Blake withtense mouth, couched small (great forehead,somber eye) amid a crowd's tallness in a narrow room. The same nighta bird caught in my room, batteredfrom wall to wall, missing the window over & over (till it gave up andhuddled half-dead on a shelf, and I put up the sash against the cold)and waking at dawn I againpushed the window violently down, open and the bird gathered itself and flew straight out quick and calm (over the radiant chimneys - - The Flight (pg. 11)Regarding the poem about William Blake, Levertov has written an interesting anecdote that I wish to share..."There is a certain kind of dream in which it is not the visual and its associations which are paramount in impact and significance, but rather an actual verbal message, though a visual context and the identity of the speaker may be important factors. The first dream I can recall having written into a poem ('The Flight') was dreamed in London in 1945 but not composed until several years later, probably in New York. The encounter with William Blake - who was sitting on the floor, his back against a wall and his knees drawn up, and whose prominent, unmistakable eyes gazed up at me as he spoke - was so memorable that the lapse of time has scarcely blurred it. And it coincided with the 'real life' fact of a bird's getting caught in my room that night and at dawn, when I was pushing down the top half of the sash window, shooting unhesitatingly out, calmed by the sleep into which it had sunk when I turned out the lights. But it was the extraordinary Bleakean words, 'The will is given us that we may know the delights of surrender,' that made the dream an artistic whole which seemed to ask only for transcription. Yet if I'd tried to write the poem at the time of dreaming I would not have had the craftsmanship to accomplish it, and it would have been lost to me, because once crystallized in an inadequate form it would almost inevitably have become inaccessible to another attempt." (Light Up the Cave, pg. 38)I'm not partial to love poems (I'm neither partial nor opposed, but I would sooner say "I'm not partial..."). That said, Levertov's "Love Poem" may be one of my favourite poems of its kind...Maybe I'm a 'sick part of a sick thing' maybe something has caught up with mecertainly there is amist between us I can barelysee you but your handsare two animals that push themist aside and touch me. - Love Poem (pg. 12)