pomegranates

do we still look for Virtuous? the tribe
has long vanished.  gone after its
last, and last farewell parade.  how 
they had come together, a flock 

merging from crevices of mountains 
wet mounds of rivers, wides from flatlands. 
i look past the large glass windows
of the 15th floor and wonder

was Virtuous ever real at all? or are they
as real as stories of nymphs
no longer believed and yet, men
dreamed in the kept hollows 

of their minds? do we still look for 
Virtuous? on the streets, there could be
a nun, a student, a lawyer,  a thief,
mother, father, children, aunts, uncles

a strange array of the Less
--this whole world--including ourselves
who, after having bitten 
the pomegranates of the underworld

attempts every day
to rise Virtuous above the self.

I Learned That Her Name Was Proverb

I Learned That Her Name Was Proverb




And the secret names
of all we meet who led us deeper
into our labyrinth
of valleys and mountains, twisting valleys
and steeper mountains-
their hidden names are always,
like Proverb, promises:
Rune, Omen, Fable, Parable,
those we meet for only
one crucial moment, gaze to gaze,
or for years Know and don’t recognize

but of whom later a word
sings back to us
as if from high among leaves,
still near beyond sight

drawing us from tree to tree
towards the time and the unknown place
where we shall know
what it is to arrive.






by Denise Levertov