You might hear that after dark in
like Detroit packs of wild dogs took over
the streets. I was there. It never happened.
In the old country
before the Great War,
my people were merchants and butchers,
and then the killing drove the family
to England, then Canada, then here.
My father's brother had a shoe repair shop
for a time on Brush Street; he's
the trade from his father back in Kiev.
My mother's family was in junk. The men
were huge, thick-chested,
with long arms
and great scarred hands. My uncle Leo
could embrace a barrel of scrap metal,
laugh out his
huge laugh, and lift it up
just for the joy. His wife, Rebecca,
let her hair grow out in great wiry tangles
and carried her little fists like hammers.
Late summer Sundays we'd drive out
to the country and pick armloads
of sweet corn, boil them in sugar,
and eat and eat until we couldn't.
Can you believe those people would
dogs take what was theirs, would cross
an ocean and a continent to let
anyone or anything dictate?
dark these same men would drink
out on the front steps. The neighbors claimed
they howled at the moon. Another lie.
Sometimes they told stories of life
back in Russia, stories I half-believed
of magic escapes and revenge
of the gorgeous Ukrainian girls they had.
One night they tore up the lawn wrestling until
Leo in his vested suit,
gray and sweat stained. My uncle Josef
was different; tall and slender, he'd
into the family through marriage
here in Michigan. A pensive, gentle man,
where stray dogs came to the back door
of the shoe shop he'd let them in, even
feed them. Their owners, he told me,
barely had enough to feed themselves.
Uncle Josef would take a battered pair
of work shoes and cut the soles off
with a hooked cobbler's knife
drawing one nail at a time from his mouth,
pound on a new sole. He'd pry off
the heel and do the
same. I was just a kid,
seven at most, and never tired of watching
how at the polishing wheel the leather
on its color and began to glow.
Once he made a knife for me, complete
with a little scabbard that looped
my belt. The black handle too
was leather, taken from a boot no one
reclaimed. He pounded and shaped it
it felt like stone. Whenever you're
scared, he told me, just rub the handle
three times and nothing bad can happen.
In an old photograph, you can find me picketing outside Breslin's Plumbing and Plating.
Spring, April 12, 1951, lilacs are in bloom on the divided strip of the Outer Drive. After dark I'll cut a small branch to
give my mother. She loves both the color and the bouquet. She still lives in the only house she ever owned. The house, the
lilac bushes, the perfume of the blooms, her joy and sadness as she places them in a cut-glass vase my father gave her the
year before he died, none of this is in the photograph taken from the Detroit Free Press and pasted in her lost scrapbook.
That photograph is part of history. It's filed on microfilm in the archives of Labor and Urban Affairs at Wayne State and
even now must be turning into dust, giving up its facts & its faces.
The Gift of Winter
Today the alder outside my window
motionless, the forsythia
holding its breath, the last smear
of fog burnt away so the morning
can enter the long memory
of winter, clear and uncorrupted.
old, I tramped the back alleys
searching for something I couldn't
name or describe and found cinders
jeweled with tiny points of light
that could cut; I found handwritten,
scented letters, gifts from the future,
words frozen in the weather-
"Paola, there's never a right time,"
written in a straight, manly hand that
from exhaustion. There were trees there
a row of tattered Chinese elms
to shade the past year's garbage,
a fenced-in copper beech thicker
that a sedan, its leafless
branches stiffening in wind.
There was always that wind, unnamed
defiant, whistling in the face
of winter and not this odd calm
risen from nowhere
my window and closing in. Back then
when the year's worst blizzards
whited out the old neighborhood,
there was always new life aching
to break through
and held back
by nothing I could do to stop it.
-from The Last Shift (Knopf 2016), selected by Guest Editor T.R. Hummer
This week, two prompts:
A) As in Philip Levine's "1934," eulogize
a magical person (or persons) from your childhood or tell the story of a meaningful gift you received when you were
B) Dig up an old photograph of yourself and describe, in a brief prose poem, that which isn't
Philip Levine was one of the leading poetic voices of his generation,
“a large, ironic Whitman of the industrial heartland,” according to Edward Hirsch. The son of Russian-Jewish immigrants, Levine was born and raised in industrial Detroit, where he began working in the auto
factories at the age of 14. As a young boy in the midst of the Great Depression of the 1930s, he was fascinated by the events
of the Spanish Civil War. His heroes were not only those individuals who struggled against fascism but also ordinary folks
who worked at hopeless jobs simply to stave off poverty. Noted for his interest in the grim reality of blue-collar work and
workers, Levine resolved “to find a voice for the voiceless” while working in the auto plants of Detroit during
the 1950s. “I saw that the people that I was working with … were voiceless in a way,” he explained in Detroit Magazine. “In
terms of the literature of the United States they weren’t being heard. Nobody was speaking for them. And as young people
will, you know, I took this foolish vow that I would speak for them and that’s what my life would be. And sure enough
I’ve gone and done it. Or I’ve tried anyway.”
Levine earned his BA from Wayne
State University in 1950 and began attending writing workshops at the University of Iowa, as an unregistered student, in 1953.
He took classes with Robert Lowell and John Berryman, and would later pay tribute to Berryman's teaching influence on his development as a poet. Levine officially earned an MFA
from the University of Iowa in 1957, and later that year won a Jones Fellowship at Stanford University. Shortly thereafter,
he began teaching at the California State University, Fresno, where he would remain until 1992. Levine also taught at Columbia,
Princeton, NYU, Brown, the University of California at Berkeley, and Tufts.
Though Levine did not return to
live in Detroit, its people and economy would remain central concerns of his poetry. Critic Herbert Leibowitz, commenting on
Levine’s 1980 National Book award and National Books Critics Circle award-winning collection Ashes: Poems New and Old, wrote:
“Levine has returned again and again in his poems to the lives of factory workers trapped by poverty and the drudgery
of the assembly line, which breaks the body and scars the spirit.” However, the speaker in Levine’s poems “is
never a blue-collar caricature,” argued Richard Tillinghast in his New
York Times Book Review piece, “but someone with brains, feelings and a free-wheeling imagination that constantly
fights to free him from his prosaic environment.” In addition to concentrating on the working class in his work, Levine
paid tribute to the Spanish anarchist movement of the 1930s, especially in The Names of the Lost (1976). In his book, The Fierce Embrace: A Study of Contemporary
American Poetry, Charles Molesworth explained that Levine connected the Spanish revolutionaries with Detroit’s
laboring class during a brooding stay in Barcelona: “Both cities are built on the backs of sullen, exploited workers,
and the faded revolution in one smolders like the blunting, racist fear in the other.” As Leibowitz summed up, “The
poet’s ‘Spanish self,’ as he calls it, is kin to his Detroit self. Both bear witness to the visionary ideal
Critics have described Levine’s work as dark and unflinching. Time contributor Paul Gray called
Levine’s speakers “guerrillas, trapped in an endless battle long after the war is lost.” This sense of defeat
is particularly strong when the poet recalls scenes from his Detroit childhood, where unemployment and violence colored his
life. But despite its painful material, Levine’s verse can also display a certain joyfulness, suggested Marie Borroff.
Writing in the Yale
Review, she described the title poem of They Feed They Lion (1972) as “a litany celebrating, in rhythms and images
of unflagging, piston-like force, the majestic strength of the oppressed, rising equally out of the substances of the poisoned
industrial landscape and the intangibles of humiliation.” Richard Hugo commented in the American Poetry Review: “Levine’s poems are important because in them we hear and we care.”
Though Levine’s poems are full of loss, regret and inadequacy, Hugo felt that they also embody the triumphant potential
of language and song. Levine has kept alive in himself “the impulse to sing,” Hugo concluded, adding that Levine
“is destined to become one of the most celebrated poets of the time.”
Levine’s poetry for and
about the common man is distinguished by simple diction and a rhythmic narrative style—by what Robert Pinsky once called “the strength of a living syntax.” In an American Poetry Review appraisal of Ashes (1979) and 7 Years from Somewhere (1979), contributor Dave Smithnoted that in Levine’s poems “the language, the figures of speech, the narrative progressions are never so obscure,
so truncated as to forbid less sophisticated readers. Though he takes on the largest subjects of death, love, courage, manhood,
loyalty … he brings the mysteries of existence down into the ordinarily inarticulate events and objects of daily life.”
Because Levine values reality above all in his poetry, his language is often earthy and direct, his syntax colloquial and
his rhythms relaxed. Molesworth argued that Levine’s work reflects a mistrust of language; rather than compressing multiple
meanings into individual words and phrases as in traditionally conceived poetry, Levine’s simple narratives work to
reflect the concrete and matter-of-fact speech patterns of working people. Levine’s work was typically more concerned
with the known, visible world than with his own perception of those phenomena, and this made it somewhat unique in the world
of contemporary poetry. Levine himself, in an interview with Calvin Bedient for Parnassus,
defined his ideal poem as one in which “no words are noticed. You look through them into a vision of … the people,
Several critics faulted Levine for his reliance on narrative descriptions of realistic situations.
However, Thomas Hackett, in his review of A Walk with Tom Jefferson (1988), argued that, rather than being a weakness, Levine’s “strength
is the declarative, practically journalistic sentence. He is most visual and precise when he roots his voice in hard, earthy
Levine’s ability to craft deeply affecting poems has long been his hallmark. “His poems
are personal, love poems, poems of horror, poems about the experiencing of America,” Stephen Spender wrote in the New
York Review of Books. Joyce Carol Oates commented of Levine in the American Poetry Review:“He is one of those poets whose
work is so emotionally intense, and yet so controlled, so concentrated, that the accumulative effect of reading a number of
his related poems can be shattering.” Oates dubbed Levine “a visionary of our dense, troubled mysterious time.” David Baker, writing about What
Work Is (1991), said Levine has “one of our most resonant voices of social conviction and witness, and he
speaks with a powerful clarity … What Work Is may be one of the most important books of poetry of our time. Poem after
poem confronts the terribly damaged conditions of American labor, whose circumstance has perhaps never been more wrecked.”
The book won the National Book Award in 1991. His next book, The Simple Truth (1994), was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Levine explored the forces that shaped his life and poetry in The Bread of Time: Toward an Autobiography (1994), a collection of nine essays
in which he addresses his experiences as a factory worker, his family and friends, the writers who served as his mentors and
his fascination with the Spanish Civil War and Spanish poets. Levine’s portrayal of his mentors, John Berryman and Yvor Winters, garnered critical applause. Richard Eder, writing in the Los Angeles Times Book Review, considered the essays on Berryman, Winters, and
the Spanish poet Antonio Machado to be the strongest in the book. Through it all, added Tod Marshall in the Georgia
Review, “the book’s main focus—much to the benefit and delight of anyone interested in the formative
years of one of our best contemporary poets—is Levine’s relationship with poetry.”
Levine’s later books include The Mercy (1999), Breath (2004), and News of the World (2009). Breath was hailed by a Terrence Rafferty
in the New York
Times as a “graceful new collection” that showcases Levine’s unique brand of elegy, one that operates
in long, thoughtful lines that summon the un-glorious past and its hard-working inhabitants. “What gives Levine’s
work its urgency,” Rafferty went on “is that impulse to commemorate, the need to restore to life people who were
never, despite their deadening work, dead things themselves, and who deserve to be rescued from the longer death of being
Levine won several other awards, including the Ruth Lilly Prize in Poetry and the Wallace
Stevens Award. In 2006 he was elected a a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, and in 2011 was appointed
poet laureate of the United States. His poetry “will be remembered for his giving voice to the complicated lives of men and women
and for making something closer to simple song than ordinary speech,” wrote the poet Carol Frost. “The
territory of this poetry keeps coming back to a center—praise for the common person, an American, probably with immigrant
parents, who having gotten ‘off the bus/at the bare junction of nothing/with nothing’ manages to find a way home.”
Levine retired from teaching at the California
State University, Fresno in 1992. He split his time between Fresno and Brooklyn in his later years, before his death in early
2015. A collection of poetry, The Last Shift (2016), was published posthumously.
Read more at https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/philip-levine
Phil Levine on the
Job by Edward Hirsch, American Poets, Fall–Winter 2016.
I met Philip Levine in 1982. He was fifty-four years old and had published ten books.
I looked up to him, I felt as if I had been reading him my whole life. I came to his work with his homegrown books of urban
fury, Not This Pig and They Feed They Lion, but I had also been moved by his book of elegies, 1933, which evokes "the
blind night of Detroit" in the 1930s, and I loved the vanished utopia and anarchist dream of The Names of the Lost, which
enlarges his vision. He took a special interest in me, I suppose, because I was living in Detroit and teaching at his alma
mater, Wayne State University, which, as he once quipped, "wasn't trying to be the Harvard of Shitville." I recognized
him immediately-we came from similar backgrounds. I loved his wisecracks, his street smarts, his offhanded learning, and his
tremendous devotion to poetry. We became friends.
and I traded poems over the years-he was ruthlessly honest, you didn't want to show him anything unless you were prepared
to hear the truth about it-and I often worked on his manuscripts. At some point in the nineties he asked me to become his
literary executor. Every now and then we talked about the future of his work, the tasks ahead of me, what he wanted and didn't
want. That's how I came to edit his last book after his death in 2015.
Philip Levine selected the poems for The Last Shift, but he left it to me, as his friend and literary
executor, to organize and title it. This is the final book of his own making, and I've tried to honor his achievement. The
title has the elegiac shadings of a last book, but I hope it also celebrates all that he brought into American poetry. He
was a poet of the night shift, a late, ironic Whitman of our industrial heartland, and his life's work is a long assault on
isolation, an ongoing struggle against the enclosures of suffering. Looking back, I would say that his poetry began in rage,
ripened toward elegy, and culminated in celebration. All three moods-anger, grief, and, finally, joy-are present in this collection,
his last book on the job. ...
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Philip Levine, who
died last February, made his reputation with poems about the lives of blue-collar workers in his native Detroit. Ahren Warner
interviewed him in 2014 as part of the Bloodaxe Archive Project at Newcastle University.
AW: You've said before that you got a lot
from reading poets' letters, and you say somewhere that you found that the letters of poets have been a great fascination
for you. The letters of Keats, for example, were a big thing.
PL: Dylan Thomas's letters, I loved them. Byron's—I remember reading Byron's and being
very surprised by how rich and interesting they were. And Williams and Stevens. Emily Dickinson. Yeah, I love those letters.
Hart Crane's. My old teacher, Yvor Winters, had been an early promoter of Hart Crane, and they had an exchange of letters,
and when Winters was dying he wanted his letters destroyed, except for the letters from Hart Crane. And they're published
and you can read them and they are interesting; they're really interesting. I mean, he had such a vision of what he wanted
to accomplish. And I was surprised by Dylan Thomas's letters, the immense wit in them. And the kind of saucy fellow he was.
He was so saucy and, you know, the fuck you attitude. It was quite wonderful. I mean, I thought, Jesus, I would have—I
did meet him once, but just for a few seconds, you know—I would have loved this guy. Keats's letters are, for me, in
a category all by themselves, because they contain a vision, and they're so miraculous. He was so young, and to be—even
though wracked with illness and everything—, to be so at peace with creation, in spite of his intense social awareness,
is something quite remarkable.
talk about the letters having discussions of technique and form, and I wondered if we could talk about your early work and
syllabics, because I've read you talk about it as a kind of impulsive move on your part.
PL: I found that it could give me a sense of structure, even
rhyme, and at the same time sound so much like speech. It could help me make decisions, which is one of the things which I
think form is valuable for; it helps you make all kinds of decisions about where the line ends and what it contains. And yet
it wouldn't be so intrusive as to sound academic. I also found that I wrote it differently. Because I wrote for many many
years metrical poetry. And I found that in metrical poetry, with rhyme, I was always thinking in terms of a stanza, and you're
going to work out the rhyme and blah blah blah blah. But with syllabics, I found that I'd get a sense of more like a paragraph,
how it would proceed down the page, and I might write eighteen, twenty lines in two minutes, you know. And at the time I was
very comfortable with rhyme, and syllabic rhyme is so much subtler and quieter. You could work it in there and it would give
you a sense of form. Gradually, after a while, I discovered I didn't need this sense of form. I think the sense of form was
there because my life seemed disorganized, and I wanted to impose some kind of structure in which I could write. 'Here, this
is a form. You're in here. You know where you've got to go'. But as my life became more formal in a way—married, children,
controlled—and I had a job, the poetry could be more reckless. It could go where the hell it wanted. And so I got looser
and looser and looser. Never really trying to write like Walt Whitman. Much as I love his work, it just wasn't me. I grew
up loving a certain amount of finish to a poem, a kind of roundness to it. But then, you know, a point came where—let's
see what this poem will do—where I didn't feel I had to impose anything on the poem. Let the poem kind of dictate
where it wants to go, and I'll see if I can do it. And if I can't, well, it's no big deal. You know, when you're young, every
poem seems to matter so much, because maybe you've got twenty poems that you like, really, you're fiercely devoted to. So
each one is—what, twenty of them?—each one is five per cent of your collected works. Whereas later on, you've
got so many poems out there that if you fuck it up and it's not worth having, big deal. You've got all these others that are
there. So you get chancier, and more willing to take all kinds of risks. I don't care if I write a lot of them, 'cause what
I want to write is something that I can be proud of. ...
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