Levertov's grave in Seattle, WA.
"At David’s Grave"
Denise Levertov
for B. and H.F.
Yes, he is here in this
open field, in sunlight, among
the few young trees set out
to modify the bare facts--
he's here, but only
because we are here.
When we go, he goes with us
to be your hands that never
do violence, your eyes
that wonder, your lives
that daily praise life
by living it, by laughter.
He is never alone here,
never cold in the field of graves.
It was written about the son of Howard Fussiner, who died at 23 months. I would like to know where this grave is? There is another Levertov poem which references David's grave, called Despair.
By Denise Levertov
While we were visiting David’s grave
I saw at a little distance
a woman hurrying towards another grave
hands outstretched, stumbling
fell at the stone she made for
and lay sprawled upon it, sobbing,
sobbing and crying out to it.
and seemed neither old nor young.
I couldn’t see her face, and my friends
seemed not to know she was there.
Not to distress them, I said nothing.
But she was not an apparition.
And when we walked
back to the car in silence
I stood stealthily back and saw she rose
and quieted herself and began slowly
to back away from the grave.
Unlike David, who lives
in our lives, it seemed
whoever she mourned dwelt
there, in the field, under stone.
It seemed the woman
believed whom she loved heard her,
heard her wailing, observed
the nakedness of her anguish,
and would not speak.
~from: “Denise Levertov Poems 1968 - 1972”
Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell
Down through the tomb's inward arch
He has shouldered out into Limbo
to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber:
the merciful dead, the prophets,
the innocents just His own age and those
unnumbered others waiting here
unaware, in an endless void He is ending
now, stooping to tug at their hands,
to pull them from their sarcophagi,
dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas,
neighbor in death, Golgotha dust
still streaked on the dried sweat of his body
no one had washed and anointed, is here,
for sequence is not known in Limbo;
the promise, given from cross to cross
at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn.
All these He will swiftly lead
to the Paradise road: they are safe.
That done, there must take place that struggle
no human presumes to picture:
living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud; to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home. He must return,
first, in Divine patience, and know
hunger again, and give
to humble friends the joy
of giving Him food—fish and a honeycomb.
Undated 1975
34
“.... No! No! The poem is about actual wood doves,” Denise corrects, “actual wood doves in the woods of Temple , Maine.” Denise is sitting at one end of her living room couch facing another woman, seated at the opposite end, who had misunderstood her poem “Knowing the Way” [from Footprints] as only metaphorical, and not about real wood doves seen, observed. Denise is being interviewed, there is a cassette tape recorder between them. The woman is French, but speaks English fluently and with a noticeable British accent.
35
“Of course, the poem is metaphorical on one level,” Denise continues. “The dove being a symbol of peace. I wrote it at a time during the anti-war movement when I felt that aggressive action had to replace passive resistance as a strategy. Against our common association of the dove’s soft cooing utterance with passivity, I wanted to contrast the swift, bold flight of the wood dove of my actual experience. A poem can have only literal meaning and still be a poem. I think of such poems as ‘plain’ poems. But, myself, I prefer that layering of meaning upon meaning which metaphor allows. However, any metaphor deserving the name must in poetry arise from the literal; and the layering of one meaning upon another must never obscure the literal; reading of the poem.”
