Tim Miller

Poetry * Mythology * Podcast

Category: Denise Levertov

  • Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers
    and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon,
    and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a
    stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps,
    I am Essex-born:
    Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel,
    the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves,
    Roding held my head above water when I thought it was
    drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees
    stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt,
    the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there.
    Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower,
    Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots
    sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong,
    Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry,
    in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves,
    through its trees the ghost of a great house. In
    Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the
    light of flaring sundown, seven kings
    in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings
    the place of law
    where my birth and marriage are recorded
    and the death of my father. Woodford Wells
    where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white
    statue forlorn in its garden)
    saw the meeting and parting of two sisters,
    (forgotten? and further away
    the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once
    but many times?).
    All the Ivans dreaming of their villages
    all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities,
    picking up fragments of New World slowly,
    not knowing how to put them together nor how to join
    image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map
    made long before I was born shows ancient
    rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire
    for the world’s great splendors, a child who traced voyages
    indelibly all over the atlas, who now in a far country
    remembers the first river, the first
    field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building,
    that new smell, and remembers
    the walls of the garden, the first light.

    Denise Levertov, 1923-1997 – “A Map of the Western Part of the County of Essex in England” from Selected Poems