Philip Levine Poems (94 Poems)
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Late Light (Philip Levine Poems)
Rain filled the streets once a year, rising almost to door and window sills, battering walls and roofs until it cleaned away the mess we’d made. My father told me this, he told me it ran downtown and spilled into … Continue reading
Gin (Philip Levine Poems)
The first time I drank gin I thought it must be hair tonic. My brother swiped the bottle from a guy whose father owned a drug store that sold booze in those ancient, honorable days when we acknowledged the stuff … Continue reading
I Sing The Body Electric (Philip Levine Poems)
People sit numbly at the counter waiting for breakfast or service. Today it’s Hartford, Connecticut more than twenty-five years after the last death of Wallace Stevens. I have come in out of the cold and wind of a Sunday morning … Continue reading
The Helmet (Philip Levine Poems)
All the way on the road to Gary he could see where the sky shone just out of reach and smell the rich smell of work as strong as money, but when he got there the night was over. People … Continue reading
The Whole Soul (Philip Levine Poems)
Is it long as a noodle or fat as an egg? Is it lumpy like a potato or ringed like an oak or an onion and like the onion the same as you go toward the core? That would be … Continue reading
Late Moon (Philip Levine Poems)
2 a.m. December, and still no mon rising from the river. My mother home from the beer garden stands before the open closet her hands still burning. She smooths the fur collar, the scarf, opens the gloves crumpled like letters. … Continue reading
You Can Have It (Philip Levine Poems)
My brother comes home from work and climbs the stairs to our room. I can hear the bed groan and his shoes drop one by one. You can have it, he says. The moonlight streams in the window and his … Continue reading
Holding On (Philip Levine Poems)
Green fingers holding the hillside, mustard whipping in the sea winds, one blood-bright poppy breathing in and out. The odor of Spanish earth comes up to me, yellowed with my own piss. 40 miles from Málaga half the world away … Continue reading
My Fathers, The Baltic (Philip Levine Poems)
Along the strand stones, busted shells, wood scraps, bottle tops, dimpled and stainless beer cans. Something began here a century ago, a nameless disaster, perhaps a voyage to the lost continent where I was born. Now the cold winds of … Continue reading
A Theory Of Prosody (Philip Levine Poems)
When Nellie, my old pussy cat, was still in her prime, she would sit behind me as I wrote, and when the line got too long she’d reach one sudden black foreleg down and paw at the moving hand, the … Continue reading
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