Starlight,LaConga, allthedance-halls
intheblockofhonkey-tonks,
cavitiesinourwaningmoon,
strungwithbottlesandbluelights
andsilveredcoconutsandconches.
Aseasilyasthemusicfalls,
thenickelsfallintotheslots,
thedrinkslikelonelywater-falls
innightdescendtheseparatethroats,
andthehandsfallononeanother
darkerdarknessunder
tablecloths&alldescends,
descends,falls,—muchasweenvision
thehelplessearthwardfalloflove
descendingfromtheheadandeye
downtothehands,andheart,anddown.
Themusicpretendstolaughandweep
whileitdescendstodrinkandmurder.
Theburningboxcankeepthemeasure
strict,always,andthedown-beat.
Poesaidthatpoetrywas exact.
Butpleasuresaremechanical
andknowbeforehandwhattheywant
andknowexactlywhattheywant.
&theyobtainthatsingleeffect
thatcanbecalculatedlikealcohol
orliketheresponsetothenickel.
—howlongdoesthemusicburn?
likepoetry,orallyourhorror
halfasexactashorrorhere?
1940s(Vassar75.b,p.239);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box.
TheSoldierandtheSlot-Machine
Iwillnotplaytheslot-machine.
Don’tforcethenickelinmyhand.
Iwillnotplaytheslot-machine
Forallthenickelsintheland.
Iwillnotaskforchangeagain.
Thebarkeepercanseemedead
BeforeI’lltrytomeetthoseeyes
Thatmovelikemoneyinhishead.
Theslot-machineisallembossed
Withhornsofplentydoneingilt;
Andoutofthemalldownitsfront
Streamdummycoinssupposedlyspilt,
Likemedalsforitscleverness,
Asiftheslot-machinecouldcough
Innickelsdownitstunic,but
Onecannotpickthedummiesoff.
Theyaresymbolicofthewhole
Itseemstome,andIshouldknow
Sincehundredsoftimes,thousandsoftimes,
I’veaddedmineontothatrow
Movingalonghereinthisgroove
Towardsthatholetheyallfallthrough.
Theslot-machineiswhoisdrunk
Andyou’readirtynickel,too…
Itsnotionsallarepreconceived.
Ittemptsonemuchtotearapart
Themetalframe,toinvestigate
Theworkingsofitsmetalheart,
Thegrindingsofitsmetalbrain,
Thebiteofitsdecisiveteeth.
Ohyes,theydecoratethetop
Butnottheawfulunderneath.
Theslot-machineisfullof——.
Theslot-machine’smateriel
Andifyousquintyoureyesitlooks
Alittlelikeageneral.
Andevenifgenerouslyinclined
Itsmoneyallwillmelt,I’msure,
Andflowlikemercurythroughthecracks
Andmakeapoolbeneaththefloor…
Itshouldbeflungintothesea.
Itshouldbebrokenupforjunk
Andallitsnickelstakenaway.
Theslot-machineiswhoisdrunk.
Iwillnotplaytheslot-machine.
ItspleasuresIcannotafford.
WhoevergottheTwinJack-Pot?
WhoeverwontheGoldAward?
c.1942(Vassar64.7);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box. Inline46,
“its”hasbeenreadfor“it’s”.
“Ihadabaddream…”
Ihadabaddream,
towardmorning,aboutyou.
Youlayunconscious
Itwastobe
for“24hrs.”
Wrappedinalongblanket
IfeltImustholdyou
eventhougha“loadofguests”
mightcomeinfromthegarden
/at/aminute
&seeuslying
withmyarmsaroundyou
&mycheekonyours.
Itwaswarm—butIhadto
preventyou
fromslippingaway
fromyourbodyyourcheek
fromthewound-roundblanket—
gravedarkmorning
Thinkingofyou
athousandmilesaway,
howItriedtoholdyou
withthenumbarmsofadreamer
inthedeepofthemorning
thedaycoming
thatlonelinesslikefallingon
thesidewalkinacrowd
thatfillssomeslow,elaborateshame.
thesidewalkrisesrises
likeabsolutedespair
n.d.(Vassar75.3b,p.167);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box. The wordatthestartofline10maybe“at,”asinthephrase“ataminute’snotice.”
TheOwl’sJourney
Somewheretheowlrodeontherabbit’sback
downalongslope,overthelong,driedgrasses,
throughahalf-moonlightignitingeverything
withspecksoffaintestgreen&blue.
Theymadenosound,noshriek,no Whoo!
—offonalong-forgottenjourney.
—Theadventure’sminiatureandancient:
collaborationthoughtupbyachild.
Buttheyobliged,andofftheywenttogether.
Theowl’sclawslockdeepintherabbit’sfur,
andtheowlseated
alittlesideways,hismindonsomethingelse;
therabbit’searsareback,hiseyesintent.
—Butthedreamhasnevergotanyfurther.
c.1949–50(Vassar,64.10);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box.
AShort,SlowLife
WelivedinapocketofTime.
Itwasclose,itwaswarm.
Alongthedarkseamoftheriver
thehouses,thebarns,thetwochurches,
hidlikewhitecrumbs
inafluffofgraywillows&elms,
tillTimemadeoneofhisgestures;
hisnailsscratchedtheshingledroof.
Roughlyhishandreachedin,
andtumbledusout.
1950s(Vassar74.10);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box.
SuicideofaModerateDictator
forCarlosLacerda
Thisisadaywhentruthswillout,perhaps;—
leakfromthedanglingtelephoneear-phones
sappingthefestoonedswitchboards’strength;
fallfromthewindows,blowfromoffthesills,
—thevague,slightunremarkablecontents
ofemptyingash-trays;ruboffonourfingers
likeinkfromtheun-proof-readnewspapers,
crockingthewaytheunfocusedphotographs
ofcrookedfacesdothatsoilourcoats,
ourtropical-weightcoats,likeslapped-atmoths.
Today’sadaywhenthosewhowork
areidling.Thosewhoplayedmustwork
andhurry,too,togetitdone,
withlittledignityornone.
Thenewspapersaresold;thekioskshutters
crashdown.Butanyway,inthenight
theheadlineswrotethemselves,see,onthestreets
andsidewalkseverywhere;asediment’ssplashed
eventothefirstfloorsofapartmenthouses.
Thisisadaythat’sbeautifulaswell,
andwarmandclear.Atseveno’clockIsaw
thedogsbeingwalkedalongthefamousbeach
asusual,inashinygray-greendawn,
leavingtheirpaw-printsdraininginthewet.
Thelineofbreakerswassteadyandthepinkish,
segmentedrainbowsteadilyhungaboveit.
Ateighttwolittleboyswereflyingkites.
c. 1954 or after, following the suicide of Getúlio Vargas on August 24, 1954
(Vassar67.14);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box.
“Dear,mycompass…”
Dear,mycompass
stillpointsnorth
towoodenhouses
andblueeyes,
fairy-taleswhere
flaxen-headed
bringhomethegoose,
loveinhay-lofts,
Protestants,and
heavydrinkers…
Springsarebackward,
butcrab-apples
ripentorubies,
cranberries
todropsofblood,
andswanscanpaddle
icywater,
sohottheblood
inthosewebbedfeet.
—Coldasitis,we’d
gotobed,dear,
early,butnever
tokeepwarm.
c.1965(privatecollection;photographcourtesyofCarmenOliveira,withthanks toBarbaraPageandLloydSchwartz).Asecond,typedversionorganizesallthe stanzasintoquatrains,andwaspublishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box.
ADrunkard
WhenIwasthree,IwatchedtheSalemfire.
Itburnedallnight(orthenIthoughtitdid)
andIstoodinmycrib&watcheditburn.
Theskywasbrightred;everythingwasred:
outonthelawn,mymother’swhitedresslooked
rose-red;mywhiteenammelledcribwasred.
andmyhandsholdingtoitsrods—
thebrassknobsheldspecksoffire
itsbrassknobsholdingspecksoffire—
Ifeltamazementnotfear
butamazementmaybe
myinfancy’smainemotion—chief
Peoplewereplayinghosesontheroofs
ofthesummercottagesinMarbleheadonMarbleheadneck
theredskywasfilledwithflyingmoats,
cindersandcoals,andbiggerthings,scorchedblackburnt
Thewaterglowedlikefire,too,butflat
Iwatchedsomeboatsarrivingonourbeach
fullofescapingpeople(Ididn’tknowthat)
Onedory,silhouettedblack(andlaterI
thoughtofthisashavinglookedlike
WashingtonCrossingtheDelaware,allblack—
insilhouette—
Iwasterriblythirstybutmamadidn’thear
mecallingher.Outonthelawn
sheandsomeneighborsweregivingcoffee
orfoodorsomethingtothepeoplelandingintheboats—
IglimpsedheronceinawhileIcaughtaglimpseofher
andcalledandcalled—noonepaidanyattention—
Inthemorningacrossthebaybrilliantmorning
thefirestillwenton,butinthesunlight
wesawnomoreglare,justthecloudsofsmoke
Thebeachwasstrewnwithcinders,darkwithash—
strangeobjectsseemedtohaveblownacrossthewater
liftedbythatterribleheat,throughtheredsky?
Blackenedboards,shinyblacklikeblackfeathers—
piecesoffurniture,partsofboats,andclothes—
Ipickedupawoman’slongblackcotton
stocking.Curiosity.Mymothersaidsharply
Putthatdown! Irememberclearly,clearly—
Butsincethatday,thatreprimand
thatnightthatdaythatreprimand—
Ihavehadasufferedfromabnormalthirst—
Iswearit’strue—andbytheage
oftwentyortwenty-oneIhadbegun
todrink,&drink—Ican’tgetenough
and,asyoumusthavenoticed,
I’mhalf-drunknow…
AndallI’mtellingyoumaybealie…
c. 1970–1971 (Vassar 64.22); published in Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box.
Spellingiscorrectedandwordsseparatedthroughout.
[LineswritteninacopyofFannieFarmer’s BostonCookingSchoolCookBook,
giventoFrankBidart]
Youwon’tbecomea gourmet*cook
BystudyingourFannie’sbook—
HerthoughtsonFood&KeepingHouse
ArescarcelythoseofLevi-Strauss.
Nevertheless,you’llfind,Frankdear,
The basicelements**arehere.
Andifaproblemshouldarise:
TheSouffléfallbeforeyoureyes,
OrstrangethingshappentotheRice
—YouknowI lovetogiveadvice.
Elizabeth
Christmas,1971
P.S.Fannieshouldnotbeunderrated;
Shehasbecomesophisticated.
She’spickedupmany gourmet*tricks
Sincetheeditionof’96.
1971 (Houghton bMS Am 2036); published in Elizabeth Bishop and Her Art (1983), edited by Lloyd Schwartz and Sybil P. Estess, and in The Complete
“August23rd(Ithink)1977,”CollectionofLloydSchwartz.)
VaguePoem( Vaguelylovepoem)
Thetripwest—
—IthinkI dreamedthattrip.
Theytalkedalotof“RoseRocks”
ormaybe“RockRoses”
—I’mnotsurenow,butsomeonetriedtogetmesome.
(Andtwoorthreestudentshad.)
Shesaidshehadsomeatherhouse.
Theywerebythebackdoor,shesaid.
—Aramshacklehouse.
AnArmyhouse?—No,“a Navyhouse.”Yes,
thatfarinland.
Therewasnothingbythebackdoorbutdirt
orthatsamedrymonochrome,sepiastrawI’dseeneverywhere.
Ohshesaidthedoghascarriedthemoff.
(Abigblackdog,female,wasdancingaroundus.)
Later,aswedrankteafrommugs,shefoundone,
“asortofone”.“Thisoneisjustbeginning.See—
youcanseehere,it’sbeginningtolooklikearose.
It’s—well,acrystal,crystalsform–
Idon’tknowanygeologymyself…”
(NeitherdidI.)
Faintly,Icouldmakeout—perhaps—inthedull,
rose-redlumpof,apparently,soil,
arose-likeshape;faintglitters…Yes,perhaps
therewasasecret,powerfulcrystalatworkinside.
I almostsawit:turningintoarose
withoutanyoftheintervening
roots,stem,buds,andsoon;just
earthtoroseandbackagain.
Crystalographyanditslaws:
somethingIIoncewantedbadlytostudy,
untilIlearnedthatitwouldinvolvealotofarithmetic,thatis,mathematics.
Justnow,whenIsawyounakedagain,
Ithoughtthesamewords:rose-rock;rock-rose…
Rose,trying,workingtoshowitself,
forming,foldingover,
unimaginableconnections,unseen,shiningedges.
Rose-rock,unformed,fleshbeginning,crystalbycr
ystal,
clearpinkbreastsanddarker,crystallinenipples,
rose-rock,rose-quartz,roses,roses,roses,
exactingrosesfromthebody,
andtheevendarker,accurate,roseofsex—
c.1973?(Vassar,67.23);publishedin EdgarAllanPoe&TheJuke-Box.
BreakfastSong
Mylove,mysavinggrace,
youreyesareawfullyblue.
Ikissyourfunnyface,
yourcoffee-flavoredmouth.
LastnightIsleptwithyou.
TodayIloveyouso
howcanIbeartogo
(assoonImust,Iknow)
tobedwithuglydeath
inthatcold,filthyplace,
tosleeptherewithoutyou,
withouttheeasybreath
andnightlong,limblongwarmth
I’vegrownaccustomedto?
—Nobodywantstodie;
tellmeitisalie!
Butno,Iknowit’strue.
It’sjustthecommoncase;
there’snothingonecando.
Mylove,mysavinggrace,
youreyesareawfullyblue
early&instantblue
c. 1973–1974. Collection of Lloyd Schwartz; published in Edgar Allan Poe &
The Juke-Box. The manuscript is in Lloyd Schwartz’s hand, copied from Bishop’s notebook on or around January 3, 1974. The notebook does not survive, but a surviving typescript draft of a poem entitled “Simple-Minded MorningSong,”consistingoftwolines—“Mylove,mysavinggrace,/youreyes areveryblue.”—isinBishop’spapers(Vassar64.24).
ForGrandfather
Howfarnorthareyoubynow?
—ButI’malmostcloseenoughtoseeyou:
undertheNorthStar,
stocky,broadbacked&determined,
trudgingonsplayingsnowshoes
overthesnow’shard,brilliant,curdledcrust…
AuroraBorealisburnsinsilence.
Streamersofred,ofpurple,
fleckwithcoloryourbaldhead.
Whereisyoursealskincapwithear-lugs?
Thatoldfurcoatwiththeblackfrogs?
You’llcatchyourdeathagain.
IfIshouldovertakeyou,kissyourcheek,
itssilverstubblewouldfeellikehoar-frost
andyourold-fashioned,walrusmoustaches
behungwithicicles.