Down through the tomb's inward arch He has shouldered out into Limbo to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber... - Denise Levertov

"A voice from the dark called out,
"The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war."

But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can't be imagined before it is made,
can't be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.

A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.

A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses. . . .

A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light — facets
of the forming crystal."

I like the juicy stem of grass that grows
within the coarser leaf folded round,
and the butteryellow glow in the narrow flute from which the morning-glory
opens blue and cool on a hot morning.

When I am a woman — O, when I am
a woman,
my wells of salt brim and brim,
poems force the lock of my throat.