To R.D., March 4th 1988

By Denise Levertov 1923–1997 Denise Levertov

You were my mentor. Without knowing it,

I outgrew the need for a mentor.

Without knowing it, you resented that,

and attacked me. I bitterly resented

the attack, and without knowing it

freed myself to move forward

without a mentor. Love and long friendship

corroded, shrank, and vanished from sight

into some underlayer of being.

The years rose and fell, rose and fell,

and the news of your death after years of illness

was a fact without resonance for me,

I had lost you long before, and mourned you,

and put you away like a folded cloth

put away in a drawer. But today I woke

while it was dark, from a dream

that brought you live into my life:

I was in church, near the Lady Chapel

at the head of the west aisle. Hearing a step

I turned: you were about to enter

the row behind me, but our eyes met

and you smiled at me, your unfocussed eyes

focussing in that smile to renew

all the reality our foolish pride extinguished.

You moved past me then, and as you sat down

beside me, I put a welcoming hand

over yours, and your hand was warm.

I had no need

for a mentor, nor you to be one;

but I was once more

your chosen sister, and you

my chosen brother.

We heard strong harmonies rise and begin to fill

the arching stone,

sounds that had risen here through centuries.

“To R.D., March 4th 1988” By Denise Levertov, from A Door in the Hive, copyright 1989 by Denise Levertov. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

Source: A Door in the Hive (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1988)

Biography

During the course of a prolific career, Denise Levertov created a highly regarded body of poetry that reflects her beliefs as an artist and a humanist. Her work embraces a wide variety of genres and themes, including nature lyrics, love poems, protest poetry, and poetry inspired by her faith in God. "Dignity, reverence, and strength are words that come to mind as one gropes to characterize . . . one of America's most respected . . .

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