Elizabeth Bishop

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 air smells so strong of codfish it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls. The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered with creamy iridescent coats of mail, with small iridescent flies crawling on them. Up on the little slope behind the houses, set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, is an ancient wooden capstan, cracked, with two long bleached handles and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, where the ironwork has rusted. The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. He was a friend of my grandfather. We talk of the decline in the population and of codfish and herring elizabeth bishop

O ladrão da Babilônia

On the fair green hills of RioThere grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to RioAnd can’t go home again.On the hills a million people,A million sparrows, nest,Like a confused migrationThat’s had to light and rest,Building its nests, or houses,Out of nothing at all, or air.You’d think a breath would end them,They perch so lightly there.But they cling and spread like lichen,And the people come and come.There’s one hill called the Chicken,And one called Catacomb;There’s the hill of Kerosene,And the hill of the Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment,And the hill of Babylon.Micucu

Elizabeth Bishop: Her Poetics of Loss

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Reading and Writing Nature: The Poetry of Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, Marianne Moore, and Elizabeth Bishop

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The Unbeliever: The Poetry of Elizabeth Bishop

Robert Parker ranges widely through literary history and theory to give the poems of Elizabeth Bishop (1911-79) the serious critical attention they deserve. The Unbeliever shows that Bishops poems, already famous for their clear and quiet tone, also struggle with confusion and wonder about things she can never make quiet or clear.