journeys of a restless mind

some Elizabeth Bishop in honor of her centennial

I'm more than a little crazy to post a master here in amongst my own work, but it's Elizabeth Bishop's 100th birthday today, and so I must. This, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do it.

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.

Elizabeth Bishop

the poems

It’s not me,
it’s the poems
that are angry,
pressing against my ear,
brushing aside
my hair, their lips close,
breath hot,
pissed off,
urgently whispering
what to write.

It’s them
with their flat hands
smooth as plates,
pushing at the small of my back.

Nobody else
sings to me in the dark.

I’m a good girl,
you won’t catch me
with my panties down.
It’s the poems undressing me,
laying me bare and hungry
against the sheets, trembling.

When words come
to plant kisses
one by one
like tiny seeds along my spine,
and weeds sprout and tangle there,
not fruit.
What else can I tell you,
but it’s the poems?

It’s a noisy abdication,
doused with blood and snot.
Everything I (do not) hate
is revealed in their hiss. 

 

Author's note: Everyone in my workshop pretty much hated that last stanza, or at the very least thought it should go somewhere else. I did some other editing based on my classmates' suggestions, but I'm not convinced they're right about that stanza.  Feel free to add your two cents in the comments.