The New Yorker this week has three poems from Elizabeth Bishop from the forthcoming collection pictured above. She is one of my favorite poets and I would love to own one of her watercolors or drawings for my den/library when it exists. I thought it was strange that a women who has been dead for almost thirty years continues to publish poems with the same regularity that deceased Tupac cranks out rap albums. It just goes to show you the power of a good agent. In Bishop's case, editor Alice Quinn has sorted through a mountain of papers to come up with many unpublished poems from all stages of Ms. Bishop's life. This book is due out in March.
The Moon Burgled The House
The end of the world
proved to be nothing drastic
when everything was made of plastic
we slept more and more even after
the pills gave out
and vast drops of of the rivers ran
intor the drying canyons of the sea
the sun grew pale as the moon and then
a bit paler
although we could still see -
It was pleasant, it was lovely and
languid
no one felt the urge to do anything,
even the children
we dreamed and dreamed all the cars
were parked, no one went anywhere
they just stayed home and held hands,
at first, then stopped holding hands-
peace peace just what we've wanted all
along-
the whole world turned like a
fading violet, turned in its death
gently, curled up didn't stink at
all but gave off a l0ng sigh-sweet
sigh-
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