Philip Levine

(January 10, 1928 / Detroit, Michigan)

Philip Levine Poems

41. The End Of Your Life 1/13/2003
42. The Negatives 1/13/2003
43. Waking In March 1/13/2003
44. The Red Shirt 1/13/2003
45. Late Light 1/13/2003
46. Red Dust 1/13/2003
47. Picture Postcard From The Other World 1/13/2003
48. The Whole Soul 1/13/2003
49. Gangrene 1/13/2003
50. Voyages 1/13/2003
51. How Much Earth 1/13/2003
52. The Drunkard 1/13/2003
53. The Distant Winter 1/13/2003
54. Making It Work 1/13/2003
55. On The Meeting Of GarcÍA Lorca And Hart Crane 1/13/2003
56. Burial Rites 1/10/2012
57. House Of Silence 1/13/2003
58. In A Light Time 1/13/2003
59. Those Were The Days 1/13/2003
60. Smoke 1/13/2003
61. Ode For Mrs. William Settle 1/13/2003
62. Last Words 1/13/2003
63. The Dead 1/13/2003
64. Once 1/13/2003
65. Mad Day In March 1/13/2003
66. Night Thoughts Over A Sick Child 1/13/2003
67. Milkweed 1/13/2003
68. Fist 1/13/2003
69. Wisteria 1/13/2003
70. Green Thumb 1/13/2003
71. The Mercy 1/13/2003
72. Songs 1/13/2003
73. Where We Live Now 1/13/2003
74. On The Murder Of Lieutenant Jose Del Castillo 1/13/2003
75. My Fathers, The Baltic 1/13/2003
76. For The Country 1/13/2003
77. I Sing The Body Electric 1/13/2003
78. M. Degas Teaches Art &Amp; Science At Durfee Intermediate School--Detroit, 1942 1/13/2003
79. I Won, You Lost 1/13/2003
80. The Water's Chant 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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