Author: Elizabeth Bishop
Quotes of Author: Elizabeth Bishop
The moon in the bureau mirrorlooks out a million miles{and perhaps with pride, at herself,but she never, never smiles}far and away beyond sleep, orperhaps she's a daytime sleeper.By the Universe deserted,she'd tell it to go to hell,and she'd find a body of water,or a mirror, on which to dwell.So wrap up care in a cobweband drop it down the wellinto that world invertedwhere left is always right,where the shadows are really the body,where we stay awake all night I am in need of music that would flowOver my fretful, feeling finger-tips,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 coolHeart, that sinks through fading colors deepTo the subaqueous stillness of the sea Filling StationOh, but it is dirty!--this little filling station,oil-soaked, oil-permeatedto a disturbing, over-allblack translucency.Be careful with that match!Father wears a dirty,oil-soaked monkey suitthat cuts him under the arms,and several quick and saucyand greasy sons assist him{it's a family filling station},all quite thoroughly dirty.Do they live in the station?It has a cement porchbehind the pumps, and on ita set of crushed and grease-impregnated wickerwork;on the wicker sofaa dirty dog, quite comfy.Some comic books providethe only note of color--of certain color. They lieupon a big dim doilydraping a taboret{part of the set}, besidea big hirsute begonia.Why the extraneous plant?Why the taboret?Why, oh why, the doily?{Embroidered in daisy stitchwith marguerites, I think,and heavy with gray crochet.}Somebody embroidered the doily.Somebody waters the plant,or oils it, maybe. Somebodyarranges the rows of cansso that they softly say:ESSO--SO--SO--S I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,icily free above the stones,above the stones and then the world.If you should dip your hand in,your wrist would ache immediately,your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burnas if the water were a transmutation of firethat feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,then briny, then surely burn your tongue.It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,drawn form the cold hard mouthof the world, derived from the rocky breastsforever, flowing and drawn, and sinceour knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown." book-quotepoetry
