Elizabeth Bishop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is so peaceful on the ceiling! It is the Place de la Concorde. The little crystal chandelier Is off, the fountain is in the dark. Not a soul is in the park. Below,

Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for “mammoth.” Here, above, Cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like

We’d rather have the iceberg than the ship, Although it meant the end of travel. Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock And all the sea were moving marble. We’d rather have the iceberg

Hidden, oh hidden In the high fog The house we live in, Beneath the magnetic rock, Rain-, rainbow-ridden, Where blood-black Bromelias, lichens, Owls, and the lint Of the waterfalls cling, Familiar, unbidden. In a

Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily Like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, Listen to it growling. Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys Lying out there

Alone on the railroad track I walked with pounding heart. The ties were too close together or maybe too far apart. The scenery was impoverished: scrub-pine and oak; beyond Its mingled gray-green foliage I

I can make out the rigging of a schooner A mile off; I can count The new cones on the spruce. It is so still The pale bay wears a milky skin; the sky

I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do? Collect no interest otherwise what I can; Above all I am not that staring man.

For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me As we sat on the wagon seat, “Be sure to remember to always Speak to everyone you meet.” We met a stranger on foot.

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of

You won’t become a gourmet* cook By studying our Fannie’s book Her thoughts on Food & Keeping House Are scarcely those of Lévi-Strauss. Nevertheless, you’ll find, Frank dear, The basic elements** are here. And

Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn’t be worse, Minutes of a barbaric condescension. Stare out the bathroom window at the fir-trees, At their dark needles, accretions to no purpose Woodenly crystallized, and where two fireflies

I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower). In the cold heart, its final thought Stood frozen, drawn immense and clear, Stiff

I am too big. Too big by far. Pity me. My eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even So. They see too much, above, below. And yet, there is not

For Robert Lowell This is the time of year When almost every night The frail, illegal fire balloons appear. Climbing the mountain height, Rising toward a saint Still honored in these parts, The paper

Still dark. The unknown bird sits on his usual branch. The little dog next door barks in his sleep Inquiringly, just once. Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires Once or twice, quavering.

The brown enormous odor he lived by Was too close, with its breathing and thick hair, For him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty Was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung. Light-lashed,

Moving from left to left, the light Is heavy on the Dome, and coarse. One small lunette turns it aside And blankly stares off to the side Like a big white old wall-eyed horse.

Caught the bubble In the spirit level, A creature divided; And the compass needle Wobbling and wavering, Undecided. Freed the broken Thermometer’s mercury Running away; And the rainbow-bird From the narrow bevel Of the

The moon in the bureau mirror Looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at herself, But she never, never smiles) Far and away beyond sleep, or Perhaps she’s a daytime sleeper. By

Unfunny uncles who insist In trying on a lady’s hat, oh, even if the joke falls flat, We share your slight transvestite twist In spite of our embarrassment. Costume and custom are complex. The

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; So many things seem filled with the intent To be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster Of lost

The roaring alongside he takes for granted, And that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, In a state of controlled panic, a

[On my birthday] At low tide like this how sheer the water is. White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare And the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches. Absorbing, rather than