Archive for the ‘Philip Levine’ Tag

The Simple Truth   Leave a comment

12th Man-art-Edit-1-7212th Man — Photo-Artistry by kenne

Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and
   true
they must be said without elegance, meter and
   rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the
   salt-shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for
   themselves.

— from the poem, The Simple Truth by Philip Levine

Autumn Looking For Messages   2 comments

Seed Pods-Edit-2-Art-blog-2Seed Pods — Photo-Artistry by kenne

“The lake around them changed its name.
Today it’s no more than a pond I walk around
each autumn looking for messages among
the fallen acorns and beer cans left by teenagers.
Another engine fires, the air rings with each precise explosion,
and each image vanishes into photography.”

— from “Photography” by Philip Levine

 

 

Yes, The Sun . . .   Leave a comment

Sunrise (1 of 1)_art blogComputer Painting by kenne

Yes, the sun
has risen again.
I can hear my heart

regular and strong.
I will live to see
the day end as 
I lived to see earth
turn molten and white,
then to metal,
then to whatever shape
we stamped into it
as we laughed the 
long night hours away
or sang how the eagle
flies on Friday.

When Friday came,
the early hours perfect
and cold, we cursed 
our only lives and passed
the bottle back and forth.

— from One Day by Philip Levine

Mushroom Blood   Leave a comment

Kickback Rock 07-30-12Grunge Art by kenne

Brother, you are gone,
that which was earth
gone back to earth,
that which was human
scattered like rain
into the darkened
wild eyes of herbs.

— from Llanto by Philip Levine

Philip Levine — The Voice Of The Voiceless And That’s The Simple Truth   2 comments

WIPPhotosScanned36 Phillip Levain blog art frameSimple TruthPhilip Levine — Image by kenne

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Writers In Performance Series, Mid-1990’s — Images by Nancy Parsons

Voice of the Voiceless

Life,
life is simple,
we make it complicated —
that’s the simple truth.


Today,
I found myself reading
the poems of Philip Levine —
blessed with the gifts
of listening and observing;
enabling him to care,
he has called the
“voice of the voiceless”.

Above all,
Levine is a story-teller
of people decaying
in the spoils of the rich,
speaking directly
from the front lines,
bearing witness to
worker 
revolutions, faded.

By writing about work,
Levine writes about life.
Waiting,
waiting in the work line.
Waiting,
waiting in the assembly line.
Waiting,
waiting for the next task —
not changed from the last.

I, too,
worked an assembly line.
I, too,
bless the imagination
that have given me
myths I live by —
images created by
my visionary power
to bear witness.

I, too,
sing America —
that’s the simple truth.

— kenne

p. s. The other day I was listening to NPR when I heard that Philip Levine added another award to the many this great American poet has received, the American Academy of Poets life-time achievement award (Wallace Stevens Award). Levine, the 2011 U.S. poet laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner for his book, “The Simple Truth” is one of my favorite living poets. It was not long after this book’s publication that we were honored to have Levine read at Long Star College – Montgomery, Writers In Performance Series.

Philip-Levine1

Laureate Philip Levine, Working Class Poet
by Robin Bates

An Abandoned Factory, Detroit

by Philip Levine

The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.

Beyond, through broken windows one can see
Where the great presses paused between their strokes
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught
In the sure margin of eternity.
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought,

And estimates the loss of human power,
Experienced and slow, the loss of years,
The gradual decay of dignity.
Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour;
Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears
Which might have served to grind their eulogy.

 

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