{"id":8956,"date":"2009-02-08T08:00:13","date_gmt":"2009-02-08T13:00:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=8956"},"modified":"2024-10-27T17:40:54","modified_gmt":"2024-10-27T21:40:54","slug":"happy-birthday-elizabeth-bishop-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=8956","title":{"rendered":"Happy Birthday, Elizabeth Bishop"},"content":{"rendered":"

Elizabeth Bishop is one of my favorite poets – and she actually didn’t write all that many poems throughout her life – not compared to other poets who lived as long as she did (The Complete Poems: 1927-1979<\/a>\"\"<\/i>) – but the ones she DID write – resonate, reverberate – they’re classics.<\/p>\n

She was independently wealthy – she traveled the world – she was best friends with Robert Lowell – they had a kinship that can only be described as intimate – She lived all over the place, and finally settled down in Key West.<\/p>\n

“It took me an hour or so to get back to my own metre.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Elizabeth Bishop wrote that to Robert Lowell, after reading one of his poems. An amazing symbiotic relationship – the two influencing one another, loving one another – while living separate lives. I am most interested in how the work affected each other. Lowell was much more famous in his own day than Elizabeth Bishop was – although now I am SO pleased to see that she is having a bit of a renaissance, she is one of my favorite poets.<\/p>\n

Bishop and Lowell kept up a correspondence for the 30 years of their friendship, and while some have already been published (in a collection of Bishop’s letters<\/a>\"\") – now a volume has come out with their correspondence – Words in Air: The Complete Correspondence Between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell<\/i><\/a>\"\" – 459 letters in all! Here is a great review in the NY Times<\/a>.<\/p>\n

They never married. Lowell had many lovers, and a wife, Bishop stayed with one woman for many many years (sadly, this woman committed suicide – yet another plot-point in the tragic story that was Bishop’s life). But theirs was a soulmate kind of connection. Lowell did ask her to marry him, and her cooler head prevailed. It seems, though, that they were each other’s “perfect reader”. Every writer needs one. Not a critic, not a gushing fan … but someone who is able to really hear<\/i> not just the words, but the intent. Who can speak to the theme, the greater picture. Last summer I read one of my pieces out loud to Rachel and Mitchell – it was one I had been struggling with. As we settled in for my reading, Rachel said, “What do you want us to be listening for?” Now THAT is a good reader. It helped me to focus my own intentions and goals – and it helped me to think about the piece in a larger way, so that I could work on that LARGER element, not just the language or the progression of events.<\/p>\n

Bishop and Lowell were two very different poets – it is hard to imagine their rapport. She was solitary, with a tiny literate following. She wrote about fish houses and the beach and small moments. He upended his psychology, pouring passion and unrequited feeling into his poems. They worked FOR one another, over decades.<\/p>\n

It was a highly passionate relationship, and you ache reading some of their letters.<\/p>\n

William Logan writes, in the NY Times piece:<\/p>\n

Their admiration even made them light fingered \u00e2\u0080\u0094 they borrowed ideas or images the way a neighbor might steal a cup of sugar. Lowell was especially tempted by this lure of the forbidden, using one of Bishop\u00e2\u0080\u0099s dreams in a heartbreaking poem about their might-have-been affair, or rewriting in verse one of her short stories. They were literary friends in all the usual ways, providing practical advice (the forever dithery and procrastinating Bishop proved surprisingly pragmatic), trading blurbs, logrolling as shamelessly as pork-bellied senators (Lowell was adept at dropping the quiet word on her behalf). There was a refined lack of jealousy between them \u00e2\u0080\u0094 that particular vice never found purchase, though in letters to friends they could afford the occasional peevish remark about each other. The only time Bishop took exception to Lowell\u00e2\u0080\u0099s poems was when, in \u00e2\u0080\u009cThe Dolphin\u00e2\u0080\u009d (1973), he incorporated angry letters from his ex-wife Elizabeth Hardwick \u00e2\u0080\u0094 \u00e2\u0080\u009cArt just isn\u00e2\u0080\u0099t worth that much,\u00e2\u0080\u009d Bishop exclaimed. She flinched when poets revealed in their poems too much of themselves, once claiming that she wished she \u00e2\u0080\u009ccould start writing poetry all over again on another planet.\u00e2\u0080\u009d<\/p>\n

These poets, in short, inspired each other. Lowell always seems to be stuffing her newest poem into his billfold, so he can take it out later like a hundred-dollar bill. Bishop saw immediately how strange and even shocking \u00e2\u0080\u009cLife Studies\u00e2\u0080\u009d (1959) was (its confessional style caused as violent an earthquake in American poetry as \u00e2\u0080\u009cThe Waste Land\u00e2\u0080\u009d); but he noticed something more subtle, that she rarely repeated herself. Each time she wrote, it was as if she were reinventing what she did with words, while he tended to repeat his forms until he had driven them into the ground, or driven everyone crazy with them. Bishop was loyal enough to admire, or pretend to, even Lowell\u00e2\u0080\u0099s mediocre poems.<\/p>\n

If Lowell and Bishop often seem to love no poems more than each other\u00e2\u0080\u0099s, as critics perhaps they were right. A hundred years from now, they may prove the 20th century\u00e2\u0080\u0099s Whitman and Dickinson, an odd couple whose poems look quizzically at each other, half in understanding, half in consternation, each poet the counter-psyche of the other. Their poems are as different as gravy from groundhogs, their letters so alike \u00e2\u0080\u0094 so delightfully in concord \u00e2\u0080\u0094 the reader at times can\u00e2\u0080\u0099t guess the author without glancing at the salutation.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Her influences were Marianne Moore and Gerard Manley Hopkins. For a long time she was known as a “poet’s poet” – but I think her appeal is much broader than that (although her works may not be as well-known as those with more populist appeal). In my opinion, she’s up there with Robert Frost. She’s in the same continuum. Her work has that grandeur, and also that … homeliness. She writes about “small” things – the look of waves, a moose in the darkness, fishing rods – in the same way that Frost writes about “small” things – an axe, a snowfall … Yet nobody could ever say that these are trivial poets, or “surface” poets. They plumb the depths of the human condition itself, not by focusing on their experiences with electric shock therapy, or their family psychodramas but by excavating the meaning and grace and import in things, objects, nature. Bishop’s poem ‘One Art’ stands out – it is different from her other poems. In it, she speaks in an “I” voice – rather than a detached narrator, or observer. You can feel the influence of her soulmate Robert Lowell – even though the expression, the poem itself, is all hers. People who know about poetry love Elizabeth Bishop – and rightly so – but her work is not inaccessible, you don’t need Cliff Notes to “get” it … And yet she is as deep as the ocean. I love her stuff so much.<\/p>\n

It’s a toss-up what is her best-known poem. There are two that seem to consistently make it into the anthologies “At the Fishhouses” and “One Art” (which I mentioned above). If you read these poems one after the other it is very difficult to not be in awe of her versatility with language. They are both truly great poems – and yet the voice used in each is so completely specific, and perfect<\/i> to the subject matter.<\/p>\n

I love “At the Fishhouses” (I suggest reading it out loud to get the full effect) – maybe I love it because it is familiar to me – as an East Coast girl who grew up 10 minutes from the vast heaving Atlantic. The fishing industry is a part of the landscape of my childhood – and there’s just something about it that Bishop captures – and it’s in the images, yes – but … more than that … it’s in the language<\/i>. Bishop is truly a master. She makes it look so easy that it is hard to remember just how good she is.<\/p>\n

And then there’s “One Art” – which has a blunt open-faced honesty – and I love the last line – with the italicized word … She expresses something I know, on a cellular level, which is the “art of losing”. Disaster<\/em>. She’s marvelous.<\/p>\n

Here are both poems:<\/p>\n

At the Fishhouses<\/big><\/p>\n

Although it is a cold evening,
\ndown by one of the fishhouses
\nan old man sits netting,
\nhis net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
\na dark purple-brown,
\nand his shuttle worn and polished.
\nThe air smells so strong of codfish
\nit makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.
\nThe five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
\nand narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
\nto storerooms in the gables
\nfor the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
\nAll is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
\nswelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
\nis opaque, but the silver of the benches,
\nthe lobster pots, and masts, scattered
\namong the wild jagged rocks,
\nis of an apparent translucence
\nlike the small old buildings with an emerald moss
\ngrowing on their shoreward walls.
\nThe big fish tubs are completely lined
\nwith layers of beautiful herring scales
\nand the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
\nwith creamy iridescent coats of mail,
\nwith small iridescent flies crawling on them.
\nUp on the little slope behind the houses,
\nset in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
\nis an ancient wooden capstan,
\ncracked, with two long bleached handles
\nand some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
\nwhere the ironwork has rusted.
\nThe old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
\nHe was a friend of my grandfather.
\nWe talk of the decline in the population
\nand of codfish and herring
\nwhile he waits for a herring boat to come in.
\nThere are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
\nHe has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
\nfrom unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
\nthe blade of which is almost worn away.<\/p>\n

Down at the water’s edge, at the place
\nwhere they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
\ndescending into the water, thin silver
\ntree trunks are laid horizontally
\nacross the gray stones, down and down
\nat intervals of four or five feet.<\/p>\n

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
\nelement bearable to no mortal,
\nto fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
\nI have seen here evening after evening.
\nHe was curious about me. He was interested in music;
\nlike me a believer in total immersion,
\nso I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
\nI also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
\nHe stood up in the water and regarded me
\nsteadily, moving his head a little.
\nThen he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
\nalmost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
\nas if it were against his better judgment.
\nCold dark deep and absolutely clear,
\nthe clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
\nthe dignified tall firs begin.
\nBluish, associating with their shadows,
\na million Christmas trees stand
\nwaiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
\nabove the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
\nI have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
\nslightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
\nicily free above the stones,
\nabove the stones and then the world.
\nIf you should dip your hand in,
\nyour wrist would ache immediately,
\nyour bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
\nas if the water were a transmutation of fire
\nthat feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
\nIf you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
\nthen briny, then surely burn your tongue.
\nIt is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
\ndark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
\ndrawn from the cold hard mouth
\nof the world, derived from the rocky breasts
\nforever, flowing and drawn, and since
\nour knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.<\/p>\n

\nOne Art<\/big>
\nThe art of losing isn’t hard to master;
\nso many things seem filled with the intent
\nto be lost that their loss is no disaster.<\/p>\n

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
\nof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
\nThe art of losing isn’t hard to master.<\/p>\n

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
\nplaces, and names, and where it was you meant
\nto travel. None of these will bring disaster.<\/p>\n

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
\nnext-to-last, of three loved houses went.
\nThe art of losing isn’t hard to master.<\/p>\n

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
\nsome realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
\nI miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.<\/p>\n

–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
\nI love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
\nthe art of losing’s not too hard to master
\nthough it may look like (Write <\/i>it!) like disaster.<\/p>\n

\nBut in my opinion – it is “The Moose” that is her greatest poem. Somehow I had missed that one, I was not familiar with it – and for whatever reason, recently, my Dad brought it to my attention – saying, “Have you read “The Moose”? You have to read it.”<\/p>\n

So I sat down and read it. Its greatness speaks for itself. Breathtaking.<\/p>\n

\nTHE MOOSE<\/big><\/p>\n

From narrow provinces
\nof fish and bread and tea,
\nhome of the long tides
\nwhere the bay leaves the sea
\ntwice a day and takes
\nthe herrings long rides,<\/p>\n

where if the river
\nenters or retreats
\nin a wall of brown foam
\ndepends on if it meets
\nthe bay coming in,
\nthe bay not at home;<\/p>\n

where, silted red,
\nsometimes the sun sets
\nfacing a red sea,
\nand others, veins the flats’
\nlavender, rich mud
\nin burning rivulets;<\/p>\n

on red, gravelly roads,
\ndown rows of sugar maples,
\npast clapboard farmhouses
\nand neat, clapboard churches,
\nbleached, ridged as clamshells,
\npast twin silver birches,<\/p>\n

through late afternoon
\na bus journeys west,
\nthe windshield flashing pink,
\npink glancing off of metal,
\nbrushing the dented flank
\nof blue, beat-up enamel;<\/p>\n

down hollows, up rises,
\nand waits, patient, while
\na lone traveller gives
\nkisses and embraces
\nto seven relatives
\nand a collie supervises.<\/p>\n

Goodbye to the elms,
\nto the farm, to the dog.
\nThe bus starts. The light
\ngrows richer; the fog,
\nshifting, salty, thin,
\ncomes closing in.<\/p>\n

Its cold, round crystals
\nform and slide and settle
\nin the white hens’ feathers,
\nin gray glazed cabbages,
\non the cabbage roses
\nand lupins like apostles;<\/p>\n

the sweet peas cling
\nto their wet white string
\non the whitewashed fences;
\nbumblebees creep
\ninside the foxgloves,
\nand evening commences.<\/p>\n

One stop at Bass River.
\nThen the Economies
\nLower, Middle, Upper;
\nFive Islands, Five Houses,
\nwhere a woman shakes a tablecloth
\nout after supper.<\/p>\n

A pale flickering. Gone.
\nThe Tantramar marshes
\nand the smell of salt hay.
\nAn iron bridge trembles
\nand a loose plank rattles
\nbut doesn’t give way.<\/p>\n

On the left, a red light
\nswims through the dark:
\na ship’s port lantern.
\nTwo rubber boots show,
\nilluminated, solemn.
\nA dog gives one bark.<\/p>\n

A woman climbs in
\nwith two market bags,
\nbrisk, freckled, elderly.
\n“A grand night. Yes, sir,
\nall the way to Boston.”
\nShe regards us amicably.<\/p>\n

Moonlight as we enter
\nthe New Brunswick woods,
\nhairy, scratchy, splintery;
\nmoonlight and mist
\ncaught in them like lamb’s wool
\non bushes in a pasture.<\/p>\n

The passengers lie back.
\nSnores. Some long sighs.
\nA dreamy divagation
\nbegins in the night,
\na gentle, auditory,
\nslow hallucination. . . .<\/p>\n

In the creakings and noises,
\nan old conversation
\n–not concerning us,
\nbut recognizable, somewhere,
\nback in the bus:
\nGrandparents’ voices<\/p>\n

uninterruptedly
\ntalking, in Eternity:
\nnames being mentioned,
\nthings cleared up finally;
\nwhat he said, what she said,
\nwho got pensioned;<\/p>\n

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
\nthe year he remarried;
\nthe year (something) happened.
\nShe died in childbirth.
\nThat was the son lost
\nwhen the schooner foundered.<\/p>\n

He took to drink. Yes.
\nShe went to the bad.
\nWhen Amos began to pray
\neven in the store and
\nfinally the family had
\nto put him away.<\/p>\n

“Yes . . .” that peculiar
\naffirmative. “Yes . . .”
\nA sharp, indrawn breath,
\nhalf groan, half acceptance,
\nthat means “Life’s like that.
\nWe know it (also death).”<\/p>\n

Talking the way they talked
\nin the old featherbed,
\npeacefully, on and on,
\ndim lamplight in the hall,
\ndown in the kitchen, the dog
\ntucked in her shawl.<\/p>\n

Now, it’s all right now
\neven to fall asleep
\njust as on all those nights.
\n–Suddenly the bus driver
\nstops with a jolt,
\nturns off his lights.<\/p>\n

A moose has come out of
\nthe impenetrable wood
\nand stands there, looms, rather,
\nin the middle of the road.
\nIt approaches; it sniffs at
\nthe bus’s hot hood.<\/p>\n

Towering, antlerless,
\nhigh as a church,
\nhomely as a house
\n(or, safe as houses).
\nA man’s voice assures us
\n“Perfectly harmless. . . .”<\/p>\n

Some of the passengers
\nexclaim in whispers,
\nchildishly, softly,
\n“Sure are big creatures.”
\n“It’s awful plain.”
\n“Look! It’s a she!”<\/p>\n

Taking her time,
\nshe looks the bus over,
\ngrand, otherworldly.
\nWhy, why do we feel
\n(we all feel) this sweet
\nsensation of joy?<\/p>\n

“Curious creatures,”
\nsays our quiet driver,
\nrolling his r’s.
\n“Look at that, would you.”
\nThen he shifts gears.
\nFor a moment longer,<\/p>\n

by craning backward,
\nthe moose can be seen
\non the moonlit macadam;
\nthen there’s a dim
\nsmell of moose, an acrid
\nsmell of gasoline.<\/p>\n

\n