Poems

by Elizabeth Bishop

  growsricher;thefog,

  shifting,salty,thin,

  comesclosingin.

  Itscold,roundcrystals

  formandslideandsettle

  inthewhitehens’feathers,

  ingrayglazedcabbages,

  onthecabbageroses

  andlupinslikeapostles;

  thesweetpeascling

  totheirwetwhitestring

  onthewhitewashedfences;

  bumblebeescreep

  insidethefoxgloves,

  andeveningcommences.

  OnestopatBassRiver.

  ThentheEconomies—

  Lower,Middle,Upper;

  FiveIslands,FiveHouses,

  whereawomanshakesatablecloth

  outaftersupper.

  Apaleflickering.Gone.

  TheTantramarmarshes

  andthesmellofsalthay.

  Anironbridgetrembles

  andalooseplankrattles

  butdoesn’tgiveway.

  Ontheleft,aredlight

  swimsthroughthedark:

  aship’sportlantern.

  Tworubberbootsshow,

  illuminated,solemn.

  Adoggivesonebark.

  Awomanclimbsin

  withtwomarketbags,

  brisk,freckled,elderly.

  “Agrandnight.Yes,sir,

  allthewaytoBoston.”

  Sheregardsusamicably.

  Moonlightasweenter

  theNewBrunswickwoods,

  hairy,scratchy,splintery;

  moonlightandmist

  caughtinthemlikelamb’swool

  onbushesinapasture.

  Thepassengerslieback.

  Snores.Somelongsighs.

  Adreamydivagation

  beginsinthenight,

  agentle,auditory,

  slowhallucination.…

  Inthecreakingsandnoises,

  anoldconversation

  —notconcerningus,

  butrecognizable,somewhere,

  backinthebus:

  Grandparents’voices

  uninterruptedly

  talking,inEternity:

  namesbeingmentioned,

  thingsclearedupfinally;

  whathesaid,whatshesaid,

  whogotpensioned;

  deaths,deathsandsicknesses;

  theyearheremarried;

  theyear(something)happened.

  Shediedinchildbirth.

  Thatwasthesonlost

  whentheschoonerfoundered.

  Hetooktodrink.Yes.

  Shewenttothebad.

  WhenAmosbegantopray

  eveninthestoreand

  finallythefamilyhad

  toputhimaway.

  “Yes…”thatpeculiar

  affirmative.“Yes…”

  Asharp,indrawnbreath,

  halfgroan,halfacceptance,

  thatmeans“Life’slikethat.

  Weknow it(alsodeath).”

  Talkingthewaytheytalked

  intheoldfeatherbed,

  peacefully,onandon,

  dimlamplightinthehall,

  downinthekitchen,thedog

  tuckedinhershawl.

  Now,it’sallrightnow

  eventofallasleep

  justasonallthosenights.

  —Suddenlythebusdriver

  stopswithajolt,

  turnsoffhislights.

  Amoosehascomeoutof

  theimpenetrablewood

  andstandsthere,looms,rather,

  inthemiddleoftheroad.

  Itapproaches;itsniffsat

  thebus’shothood.

  Towering,antlerless,

  highasachurch,

  homelyasahouse

  (or,safeashouses).

  Aman’svoiceassuresus

  “Perfectlyharmless.…”

  Someofthepassengers

  exclaiminwhispers,

  childishly,softly,

  “Surearebigcreatures.”

  “It’sawfulplain.”

  “Look!It’sashe!”

  Takinghertime,

  shelooksthebusover,

  grand,otherworldly.

  Why,whydowefeel

  (weallfeel)thissweet

  sensationofjoy?

  “Curiouscreatures,”

  saysourquietdriver,

  rollinghis r’s.

  “Lookatthat,wouldyou.”

  Thenheshiftsgears.

  Foramomentlonger,

  bycraningbackward,

  themoosecanbeseen

  onthemoonlitmacadam;

  thenthere’sadim

  smellofmoose,anacrid

  smellofgasoline.

  12O’ClockNews

  As you all know, tonight is the night of the full moon, half the world over. But gooseneck here the moon seems to hang motionless in the sky. It gives very little light; it lamp

  couldbedead.Visibilityispoor.Nevertheless,weshalltrytogiveyousomeidea ofthelayofthelandandthepresentsituation.

  Theescarpmentthatrisesabruptlyfromthecentralplainisinheavyshadow,but theelaborateterracingofitssouthernglacisgleamsfaintlyinthedimlight,like typewriter fishscales.Whatendlesslaborthosesmall,peculiarlyshapedterracesrepresent!

  Andyet,onthemthewelfareofthistinyprincipalitydepends.

  Aslightlandslideoccurredinthenorthwestaboutanhourago.Theexposedsoil pileof

  appears to be of poor quality: almost white, calcareous, and shaly. There are mss.

  believedtohavebeennocasualties.

  Almost due north, our aerial reconnaissance reports the discovery of a large typed

  rectangular “field,” hitherto unknown to us, obviously man-made. It is dark-sheet

  speckled.Anairstrip?Acemetery?

  Inthissmall,backwardcountry,oneofthemostbackwardleftintheworldtoday, envelopes communications are crude and “industrialization” and its products almost nonexistent.Strangetosay,however,signboardsareonatrulygiganticscale.

  We have also received reports of a mysterious, oddly shaped, black structure, at an undisclosed distance to the east. Its presence was revealed only because its highly polished surface catches such feeble moonlight as prevails. The natural resources of the country being far from completely known to us, there is the possibilitythatthismaybe,ormaycontain,somepowerfulandterrifying“secret ink-bottle weapon.”Ontheotherhand,givenwhatwe doknow,orhavelearnedfromour anthropologists and sociologists about this people, it may well be nothing more thana numen, oragreataltarrecentlyerectedtooneoftheirgods,towhich,in their present historical state of superstition and helplessness, they attribute

  magicalpowers,andmayevenregardasa“savior,”onelasthopeofrescuefrom theirgravedifficulties.

  Atlast!Oneoftheelusivenativeshasbeenspotted!Heappearstobe—rather,to have been—a unicyclist-courier, who may have met his end by falling from the typewriter heightoftheescarpmentbecauseofthedeceptiveillumination.Alive,hewould eraser

  havebeensmall,butundoubtedlyproudanderect,withthethick,bristlingblack hairtypicaloftheindigenes.

  Fromoursuperiorvantagepoint,wecanclearlyseeintoasortofdugout,possibly a shell crater, a “nest” of soldiers. They lie heaped together, wearing the camouflage “battle dress” intended for “winter warfare.” They are in hideously contorted positions, all dead. We can make out at least eight bodies. These ashtray

  uniformsweredesignedtobeusedinguerrillawarfa
reonthecountry’sonesnow-coveredmountainpeak.Thefactthatthesepoorsoldiersarewearingthem here, on the plain, gives further proof, if proof were necessary, either of the childishnessandhopelessimpracticalityofthisinscrutablepeople,ouropponents, orofthesadcorruptionoftheirleaders.

  Poem

  Aboutthesizeofanold-styledollarbill,

  AmericanorCanadian,

  mostlythesamewhites,graygreens,andsteelgrays

  —thislittlepainting(asketchforalargerone?)

  hasneverearnedanymoneyinitslife.

  Uselessandfree,ithasspentseventyyears

  asaminorfamilyrelic

  handedalongcollaterallytoowners

  wholookedatitsometimes,ordidn’tbotherto.

  ItmustbeNovaScotia;onlythere

  doesoneseegabledwoodenhouses

  paintedthatawfulshadeofbrown.

  Theotherhouses,thebitsthatshow,arewhite.

  Elmtrees,lowhills,athinchurchsteeple

  —thatgray-bluewisp—orisit?Intheforeground

  awatermeadowwithsometinycows,

  twobrushstrokeseach,butconfidentlycows;

  twominusculewhitegeeseinthebluewater,

  back-to-back,feeding,andaslantingstick.

  Upcloser,awildiris,whiteandyellow,

  fresh-squiggledfromthetube.

  Theairisfreshandcold;coldearlyspring

  clearasgrayglass;ahalfinchofbluesky

  belowthesteel-graystormclouds.

  (Theyweretheartist’sspecialty.)

  Aspecklikebirdisflyingtotheleft.

  Orisitaflyspecklookinglikeabird?

  Heavens,Irecognizetheplace,Iknowit!

  It’sbehind—Icanalmostrememberthefarmer’sname.

  Hisbarnbackedonthatmeadow.Thereitis,

  titaniumwhite,onedab.Thehintofsteeple,

  filamentsofbrush-hairs,barelythere,

  mustbethePresbyterianchurch.

  WouldthatbeMissGillespie’shouse?

  Thoseparticulargeeseandcows

  arenaturallybeforemytime.

  Asketchdoneinanhour,“inonebreath,”

  oncetakenfromatrunkandhandedover.

  Wouldyoulikethis?I’llprobablynever

  haveroomtohangthesethingsagain.

  YourUncleGeorge,no,mine,myUncleGeorge,

  he’dbeyourgreat-uncle,leftthemallwithMother

  whenhewentbacktoEngland.

  Youknow,hewasquitefamous,anR.A.…

  Ineverknewhim.Webothknewthisplace,

  apparently,thisliteralsmallbackwater,

  lookedatitlongenoughtomemorizeit,

  ouryearsapart.Howstrange.Andit’sstillloved,

  oritsmemoryis(itmusthavechangedalot).

  Ourvisionscoincided—“visions”is

  tooseriousaword—ourlooks,twolooks:

  art“copyingfromlife”andlifeitself,

  lifeandthememoryofitsocompressed

  they’veturnedintoeachother.Whichiswhich?

  Lifeandthememoryofitcramped,

  dim,onapieceofBristolboard,

  dim,buthowlive,howtouchingindetail

  —thelittlethatwegetforfree,

  thelittleofourearthlytrust.Notmuch.

  Aboutthesizeofourabidance

  alongwiththeirs:themunchingcows,

  theiris,crispandshivering,thewater

  stillstandingfromspringfreshets,

  theyet-to-be-dismantledelms,thegeese.

  OneArt

  Theartoflosingisn’thardtomaster;

  somanythingsseemfilledwiththeintent

  tobelostthattheirlossisnodisaster.

  Losesomethingeveryday.Acceptthefluster

  oflostdoorkeys,thehourbadlyspent.

  Theartoflosingisn’thardtomaster.

  Thenpracticelosingfarther,losingfaster:

  faces,andnames,andwhereitwasyoumeant

  totravel.Noneofthesewillbringdisaster.

  Ilostmymother’swatch.Andlook!mylast,or

  next-to-last,ofthreelovedhouseswent.

  Theartoflosingisn’thardtomaster.

  Ilosttwocities,lovelyones.And,vaster,

  somerealmsIowned,tworivers,acontinent.

  Imissthem,butitwasn’tadisaster.

  —Evenlosingyou(thejokingvoice,agesture

  Ilove)Ishan’thavelied.It’sevident

  theartoflosing’snottoohardtomaster

  thoughitmaylooklike( Writeit!)likedisaster.

  TheEndofMarch

  forJohnMalcolmBrinninandBillRead:Duxbury

  Itwascoldandwindy,scarcelytheday

  totakeawalkonthatlongbeach.

  Everythingwaswithdrawnasfaraspossible,

  indrawn:thetidefarout,theoceanshrunken,

  seabirdsinonesortwos.

  Therackety,icy,offshorewind

  numbedourfacesononeside;

  disruptedtheformation

  ofaloneflightofCanadageese;

  andblewbackthelow,inaudiblerollers

  inupright,steelymist.

  Theskywasdarkerthanthewater

  — itwasthecolorofmutton-fatjade.

  Alongthewetsand,inrubberboots,wefollowed

  atrackofbigdog-prints(sobig

  theyweremorelikelion-prints).Thenwecameon

  lengthsandlengths,endless,ofwetwhitestring,

  loopinguptothetide-line,downtothewater,

  overandover.Finally,theydidend:

  athickwhitesnarl,man-size,awash,

  risingoneverywave,asoddenghost,

  fallingback,sodden,givinguptheghost.…

  Akitestring?—Butnokite.

  Iwantedtogetasfarasmyproto-dream-house,

  mycrypto-dream-house,thatcrookedbox

  setuponpilings,shingledgreen,

  asortofartichokeofahouse,butgreener

  (boiledwithbicarbonateofsoda?),

  protectedfromspringtidesbyapalisade

  of—aretheyrailroadties?

  (Manythingsaboutthisplacearedubious.)

  I’dliketoretirethereanddo nothing,

  ornothingmuch,forever,intwobarerooms:

  lookthroughbinoculars,readboringbooks,

  old,long,longbooks,andwritedownuselessnotes,

  talktomyself,and,foggydays,

  watchthedropletsslipping,heavywithlight.

  Atnight,a grogàl’américaine.

  I’dblazeitwithakitchenmatch

  andlovelydiaphanousblueflame

  wouldwaver,doubledinthewindow.

  Theremustbeastove;there isachimney,

  askewbutbracedwithwires,

  andelectricity,possibly

  —atleast,atthebackanotherwire

  limplyleashesthewholeaffair

  tosomethingoffbehindthedunes.

  Alighttoreadby—perfect!But—impossible.

  Andthatdaythewindwasmuchtoocold

  eventogetthatfar,

  andofcoursethehousewasboardedup.

  Onthewaybackourfacesfrozeontheotherside.

  Thesuncameoutforjustaminute.

  Forjustaminute,setintheirbezelsofsand,

  thedrab,damp,scatteredstones

  weremulti-colored,

  andallthosehighenoughthrewoutlongshadows,

  individualshadows,thenpulledtheminagain.

  Theycouldhavebeenteasingthelionsun,

  exceptthatnowhewasbehindt
hem

  —asunwho’dwalkedthebeachthelastlowtide,

  makingthosebig,majesticpaw-prints,

  whoperhapshadbattedakiteoutoftheskytoplaywith.

  Objects&Apparitions

  forJosephCornell

  Hexahedronsofwoodandglass,

  scarcelybiggerthanashoebox,

  withroominthemfornightandallitslights.

  Monumentstoeverymoment,

  refuseofeverymoment,used:

  cagesforinfinity.

  Marbles,buttons,thimbles,dice,

  pins,stamps,andglassbeads:

  talesofthetime.

  Memoryweaves,unweavestheechoes:

  inthefourcornersofthebox

  shadowlessladiesplayathide-and-seek.

  Fireburiedinthemirror,

  watersleepingintheagate:

  solosofJennyColonneandJennyLind.

  “Onehastocommitapainting,”saidDegas,

  “thewayonecommitsacrime.”Butyouconstructed

  boxeswherethingshurryawayfromtheirnames.

  Slotmachineofvisions,

  condensationflaskforconversations,

  hotelofcricketsandconstellations.

  Minimal,incoherentfragments:

  theoppositeofHistory,creatorofruins,

  outofyourruinsyouhavemadecreations.

  Theatreofthespirits:

  objectsputtingthelaws

  ofidentitythroughhoops.

  “GrandHoteldelaCouronne”:inavial,

  thethreeofclubsand,verysurprised,

  Thumbelinaingardensofreflection.

  Acombisaharpstrummedbytheglance

  ofalittlegirl

  borndumb.

  Thereflectoroftheinnereye

  scattersthespectacle:

  Godallaloneaboveanextinctworld.

  Theapparitionsaremanifest,

  theirbodiesweighlessthanlight,

  lastingaslongasthisphraselasts.

  JosephCornell:insideyourboxes

  mywordsbecamevisibleforamoment.

  TranslatedfromtheSpanishofOctavioPaz.

  FiveFlightsUp

  Stilldark.

  Theunknownbirdsitsonhisusualbranch.

  Thelittledognextdoorbarksinhissleep

  inquiringly,justonce.

  Perhapsinhissleep,too,thebirdinquires

  onceortwice,quavering.

  Questions—ifthatiswhattheyare—

  answereddirectly,simply,

  bydayitself.

  Enormousmorning,ponderous,meticulous;