for Elizabeth Bishop
Why did I write of the artist and not her art?
Her art is all, her life mere driftwood,
wrecked ships that once were trees. Most days
were a dreary round of drinking, loving painfully,
and being praised with condescension
for her art: her art which was called womanly
and workmanlike. Yet her poems, precise
and powerful, are trees that will outlive her critics,
are ships that roam the world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful tribute to a great poetess written with conviction. Thanks for sharing and do remain enriched.