Poems List

Lines Written In The Fannie Farmer Cookbook

Lines Written In The Fannie Farmer Cookbook

[Given to Frank Bidart]


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 if a problem should arise:
The Soufflé fall before your eyes,
Or strange things happen to the Rice
--You know I love to give advice.


Elizabeth
Christmas, 1971


* Forbidden word
** Forbidden phrase
P.S. Fannie should not be underrated;
She has become sophisticated.
She's picked up many gourmet* tricks
Since the edition of '96.
447

Manners

Manners


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.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."
And I said it and bowed where I sat.


Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride;
don't forget that when you get older,"


my grandfather said. So Willy
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?


But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when Willy whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said,


"and he's well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do."


When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people's faces,
but we shouted "Good day! Good day!
Fine day!" at the top of our voices.


When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired,
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required.
705

Large Bad Picture

Large Bad Picture

Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.


Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,


their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.


On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.


And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.


One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.


In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,


while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
634

Insomnia

Insomnia


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 the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well


into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.
506

I Am in Need of Music

I Am in Need of Music

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!


There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
535

Giant Snail

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 sharp gravel. It is
white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a
certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there.
Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze
the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are
already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is
only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the
smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be distracted
by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Draw
back. Withdrawal is always best.

The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And
what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such
clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides.
When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have
come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarpments,
much less dream of climbing them.

That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my
love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors.

Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like
a pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell?
Nothing. Let's go on.

My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from
front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly
melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull's
head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that
can't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They
press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is
beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well,
although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest
enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection.

My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely
opalescent ribbon: I know this.

But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me.

If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack
there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through
my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can
rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.
592

Filling Station

Filling Station

Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!


Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.


Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and greaseimpregnated
wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.


Some comic books provide
the only note of color-of
certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.


Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)


Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO


to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
546

Five Flights Up

Five Flights Up

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.
Questions---if that is what they are--answered
directly, simply,
by day itself.


Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;
gray light streaking each bare branch,
each single twig, along one side,
making another tree, of glassy veins...
The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn.


The little black dog runs in his yard.
His owner's voice arises, stern,
"You ought to be ashamed!"
What has he done?
He bounces cheerfully up and down;
he rushes in circles in the fallen leaves.


Obviously, he has no sense of shame.
He and the bird know everything is answered,
all taken care of,
no need to ask again.
---Yesterday brought to today so lightly!
(A yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.)
550

Chemin De Fer

Chemin De Fer

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 saw the little pond


where the dirty old hermit lives,
lie like an old tear
holding onto its injuries
lucidly year after year.


The hermit shot off his shot-gun
and the tree by his cabin shook.
Over the pond went a ripple
The pet hen went chook-chook.


"Love should be put into action!"
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
tried and tried to confirm it.
564

Conversation

Conversation


The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.


Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;


until a name
and all its connotation are the same.
517

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Identification and basic context

Elizabeth Bishop was an American poet and writer. She was born on February 8, 1911, and died on October 10, 1979. She is celebrated for her precise and descriptive poetry, often characterized by a sense of detachment combined with deep empathy. She traveled extensively throughout her life, living in various countries, including Brazil and Canada, which greatly influenced her work. Her nationality was American, and she wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Bishop's childhood was marked by loss and instability. Her father died when she was an infant, and her mother was institutionalized for mental illness when Bishop was five, leading her to live with relatives in Nova Scotia, Canada. This early experience of separation and displacement informed her later poetic themes of loss, memory, and the search for home. She attended Vassar College, where she discovered her passion for poetry and formed lasting friendships with fellow poets. She graduated in 1934.

Literary trajectory

Bishop's literary career was characterized by a slow, deliberate pace of publication, a reflection of her meticulous crafting of poems. She published relatively few poems during her lifetime, but those she did were highly regarded. Her first major collection, "North & South," was published in 1946, followed by "A Cold Spring" (1955) and "Questions of Travel" (1965). She also served as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (a position now known as Poet Laureate) from 1949 to 1950. Her later collections, "Geography III" (1976) and "The Complete Poems" (published posthumously), solidified her reputation.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Bishop's major works include "North & South" (1946), "A Cold Spring" (1955), "Questions of Travel" (1965), and "Geography III" (1976). Her dominant themes explore geography, travel, exile, the natural world, loss, memory, and the challenges of perception. She was a master of vivid, precise description, often rendering everyday objects and landscapes with extraordinary clarity. Her style is characterized by its formal control, subtle irony, objective observation, and a profound, often understated, emotional depth. She utilized a wide range of forms, including sonnets and rhyming couplets, but is perhaps best known for her expertly crafted free verse. Her poetic voice is often described as compassionate, observant, and intellectually rigorous, yet deeply empathetic. She avoided overt sentimentality, preferring to let the details of the world speak for themselves.

Cultural and historical context

Bishop wrote during a period of significant artistic and social change in the 20th century. While not overtly political in the way some of her contemporaries were, her experiences living in countries like Brazil during periods of political transition and social inequality undoubtedly informed her perspective. She was part of a generation of poets who sought new ways of representing the world after the disruptions of modernism and the experiences of war. Her travels and expatriate life exposed her to diverse cultures and perspectives, contributing to the unique global scope of her work.

Personal life

Bishop's personal life was marked by early loss and a quiet, private demeanor. Her lifelong friendships, particularly with fellow poet Louise Crane and later with the architect Lota de Macedo Soares in Brazil, were significant. Her relationships and travels often provided the raw material for her poems, but she maintained a remarkable capacity for objective observation, even when writing about deeply personal experiences. She struggled with health issues throughout her life.

Recognition and reception

Bishop received considerable critical acclaim during her lifetime, including the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1956 for "North & South" and "A Cold Spring," and the National Book Award in 1970. Despite her relatively small output, her work was consistently praised for its originality, skill, and emotional resonance. Posthumously, her reputation has grown, and she is widely regarded as one of the most significant American poets of the 20th century.

Influences and legacy

Bishop was influenced by poets such as Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, and W.H. Auden. Her meticulous attention to detail and her focus on the visual world have inspired numerous poets. Her legacy lies in her unique approach to poetic observation, her profound empathy, and her subtle yet powerful emotional impact. She is a central figure in the American literary canon, and her work continues to be widely studied and admired for its quiet mastery.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Bishop's poetry is often analyzed for its careful use of metaphor, its exploration of the relationship between the observer and the observed, and its sensitive portrayal of human vulnerability and connection. Critics have noted the profound ethical dimensions of her work, stemming from her compassionate gaze upon the world. Her travel poems, in particular, are rich with cultural observation and reflections on identity and belonging.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Bishop was a highly private person and rarely gave interviews. She was an avid reader and collector of books. Her extensive travels, particularly her long stays in Brazil, deeply shaped her worldview and her poetry, providing unique perspectives on landscape, culture, and human relationships.

Death and memory

Elizabeth Bishop died of ovarian cancer at the age of 68. Her death marked the loss of a singular poetic voice. Her collected poems and prose have been published posthumously, ensuring her enduring presence in literature. Her work continues to be studied extensively in universities, and she is remembered as a poet of exceptional clarity, precision, and quiet profundity.