Philip Levine

(January 10, 1928 / Detroit, Michigan)

Philip Levine Poems

1. Breakfasts With Joachim 6/25/2014
2. You Can Have It 12/31/2013
3. And The Trains Go On 12/26/2014
4. On 52nd Street 1/10/2012
5. The Two 1/10/2012
6. Our Valley 1/10/2012
7. During The War 1/10/2012
8. Gospel 1/10/2012
9. Drum 1/10/2012
10. Unholy Saturday 4/7/2011
11. Baby Villon 1/10/2012
12. Blasting From Heaven 1/10/2012
13. Detroit, Tomorrow 1/10/2012
14. An Extraordinary Morning 1/10/2012
15. A Story 1/10/2012
16. Belle Isle, 1949 1/10/2012
17. The House 1/13/2003
18. Sierra Kid 1/13/2003
19. The Grave Of The Kitchen Mouse 1/13/2003
20. The Return 1/13/2003
21. Passing Out 1/13/2003
22. Montjuich 1/13/2003
23. The Negatives 1/13/2003
24. Something Has Fallen 1/13/2003
25. Magpiety 1/13/2003
26. The Rains 1/13/2003
27. Red Dust 1/13/2003
28. The Helmet 1/13/2003
29. In A Vacant House 1/13/2003
30. The New World 1/13/2003
31. The Rat Of Faith 1/13/2003
32. Salts And Oils 1/13/2003
33. Then 1/13/2003
34. The Distant Winter 1/13/2003
35. Late Moon 1/13/2003
36. Small Game 1/13/2003
37. Noon 1/13/2003
38. The Unknowable 1/13/2003
39. Premonition At Twilight 1/13/2003
40. Told 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Philip Levine

An Abandoned Factory, Detroit

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, ...

Read the full of An Abandoned Factory, Detroit

Mad Day In March

Beaten like an old hound
Whimpering by the stove,
I complicate the pain
That smarts with promised love.
The oilstove falls, the rain,
Forecast, licks at my wound;
Ice forms, clips the green shoot,
And strikes the wren house mute.

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