Elizabeth Bishop

Worcester, Massachusetts
Elizabeth Bishop
Worcester, Massachusetts
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Large Bad Picture

Rating: 3.2
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.

Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,

their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.

On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.

And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.

One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.

In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,

while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
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COMMENTS
Edward Kofi Louis 12 February 2019
High above them! ! ! ! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
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Khairul Ahsan 12 February 2019
'It would be hard to say what brought them there, commerce or contemplation.' - These two lines will leave the readers contemplating.
0 0 Reply
Adrian Flett 12 February 2019
Such fine descriptive lines ending in 'commerce or contemplation'.
1 0 Reply
Bernard F. Asuncion 12 February 2019
Beautiful poem by Elizabeth Bishop.......
1 0 Reply

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