When was losing track by denise levertov written

Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions, our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute, an hour even, of pure almost pure response to that insouciant life: cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing pilgrimage of water, vast stillness of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane, animal voices, mineral hum, wind conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering of fire to coal—then something tethered in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.

No one discovers just where we've been, when we're caught up again into our own sphere where we must return, indeed, to evolve our destinies —but we have changed, a little. Denise Levertov The Great Black Heron Since I stroll in the woods more often than on this frequented path, it's usually trees I observe; but among fellow humans what I like best is to see an old woman fishing alone at the end of a jetty, hours on end, plainly content.

The Russians mushroom-hunting after a rain trail after themselves a world of red sarafans, nightingales, samovars, stoves to sleep on though without doubt those are not what they can remember. Vietnamese families fishing or simply sitting as close as they can to the water, make me recall that lake in Hanoi in the amber light, our first, jet-lagged evening, peace in the war we had come to witness.

This woman engaged in her pleasure evokes an entire culture, tenacious field-flower growing itself among the rows of cotton in red-earth country, under the feet of mules and masters. I see her a barefoot child by a muddy river learning her skill with the pole. What battles has she survived, what labors? She's gathered up all the time in the world —nothing else—and waits for scanty trophies, complete in herself as a heron.

In California During the Gulf War Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts, the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought, certain airy white blossoms punctually reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink— a delicate abundance.

They seemed like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving the sackcloth others were wearing. To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well with our shame and bitterness.

Skies ever-blue, daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons. Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches more lightly than birds alert for flight, lifted the sunken heart even against its will. But not as symbols of hope: they were flimsy as our resistance to the crimes committed —again, again—in our name; and yes, they return, year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy over against the dark glare of evil days.

They are , and their presence is quietness ineffable—and the bombings are , were, no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany simultaneous.

No promise was being accorded, the blossoms were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed the war had ended, it had not ended. Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Find Poets. Poetry Near You. The events in society are the ones that make or break a person, especially an outsider.

Denise Levertov expresses her feelings through her words, making herself heard for generations on end. Denise Levertov Poetry Foundation. Herriet munrow poetry institute. United states holocaust memorial museum, Levertov, Denise. Gale, You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account.

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