Elizabeth Bishop
Strayed Crab
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must Be over that way somewhere. I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful Right
First Death In Nova Scotia
In the cold, cold parlor My mother laid out Arthur Beneath the chromographs: Edward, Prince of Wales, With Princess Alexandra, And King George with Queen Mary. Below them on the table Stood a stuffed
O Breath
Beneath that loved and celebrated breast, Silent, bored really blindly veined, Grieves, maybe lives and lets Live, passes bets, Something moving but invisibly, And with what clamor why restrained I cannot fathom even a
Sestina
September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother Sits in the kitchen with the child Beside the Little Marvel Stove, Reading the jokes from the almanac, Laughing and talking
A Miracle For Breakfast
At six o’clock we were waiting for coffee, Waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb That was going to be served from a certain balcony -like kings of old, or like a miracle. It
Squatter's Children
On the unbreathing sides of hills They play, a specklike girl and boy, Alone, but near a specklike house. The Sun’s suspended eye Blinks casually, and then they wade Gigantic waves of light and
Letter To N. Y
For Louise Crane In your next letter I wish you’d say Where you are going and what you are doing; How are the plays and after the plays What other pleasures you’re pursuing: Taking
Songs For A Colored Singer
I A washing hangs upon the line, but it’s not mine. None of the things that I can see belong to me. The neighbors got a radio with an aerial; we got a little
Manuelzinho
Half squatter, half tenant (no rent)- A sort of inheritance; white, In your thirties now, and supposed To supply me with vegetables, But you don’t; or you won’t; or you can’t Get the idea
Giant Snail
The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all Night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body foot, That is is wet and cold and covered with
The Fish
I caught a tremendous fish And held him beside the boat Half out of water, with my hook Fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn’t fight. He hadn’t fought at all. He
The Unbeliever
He sleeps on the top of a mast. – Bunyan He sleeps on the top of a mast With his eyes fast closed. The sails fall away below him Like the sheets of his
Visits To St. Elizabeths
This is the house of Bedlam. This is the man That lies in the house of Bedlam. This is the time Of the tragic man That lies in the house of Bedlam. This is
At The Fishhouses
Although it is a cold evening, Down by one of the fishhouses An old man sits netting, His net, in the gloaming almost invisible, A dark purple-brown, And his shuttle worn and polished. The
Florida
The state with the prettiest name, The state that floats in brackish water, Held together by mangrave roots That bear while living oysters in clusters, And when dead strew white swamps with skeletons, Dotted