Elizabeth Bishop

(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979 / Worcester, Massachusetts)

Elizabeth Bishop Poems

41. The Unbeliever 1/3/2003
42. Invitation To Miss Marianne Moore 1/3/2003
43. The Shampoo 1/3/2003
44. Letter To N.Y. 1/13/2003
45. Giant Toad 1/13/2003
46. Five Flights Up 1/3/2003
47. Love Lies Sleeping 1/13/2003
48. The Map 1/3/2003
49. Casabianca 1/3/2003
50. Sandpiper 1/3/2003
51. Conversation 1/13/2003
52. The Moose 1/3/2003
53. Arrival At Santos 1/13/2003
54. Questions Of Travel 1/3/2003
55. First Death In Nova Scotia 1/3/2003
56. Filling Station 1/3/2003
57. Argument 1/3/2003
58. Cape Breton 1/13/2003
59. A Summer’s Dream 4/7/2010
60. Exchanging Hats 1/13/2003
61. Anaphora 1/3/2003
62. At The Fishhouses 1/3/2003
63. A Prodigal 1/3/2003
64. Chemin De Fer 1/13/2003
65. Insomnia 1/3/2003
66. In The Waiting Room 1/3/2003
67. Florida 1/13/2003
68. A Miracle For Breakfast 1/3/2003
69. Sestina 1/3/2003
70. The Fish 1/3/2003
71. I Am In Need Of Music 1/3/2003
72. One Art 1/3/2003

Comments about Elizabeth Bishop

  • Linda Corrales (10/24/2005 4:58:00 PM)

    I do not like her poem the fish. It is getting on my nerves because we have to write a paper on it and I am struggling.

    21 person liked.
    67 person did not like.
Best Poem of Elizabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ...

Read the full of One Art

Strayed Crab

This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must
be over that way somewhere.
I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful
right claw is saffron-yellow. See, I see it now; I wave it like a
flag. I am dapper and elegant; I move with great precision,
cleverly managing all my smaller yellow claws. I believe in the
oblique, the indirect approach, and I keep my feelings to myself.
But on this strange, smooth surface I am making too much
noise. I wasn't meant

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