[In the following essay, Vendler discusses Bishop's major metaphors, as well as influences on her poetry.]

Elizabeth Bishop (1911-79) wrote in her fifties a revealing set of monologues attributed to three ugly tropical animals—a giant toad, a strayed crab, and a giant snail. These prose poems contain reflections on Bishop's self and her art. The giant toad says,

          My eyes bulge and hurt. … They see too much, above, below,
and yet there is not much to see. … I feel my colors changing
now, my pigments gradually shudder and shift over. …
          [I bear] sacs of poison … almost unused poison … my burden and my great responsibility.

The crab says,

I believe in the oblique, the indirect approach, and I keep my feelings to myself. …
My shell is tough and tight. …
I admire compression, lightness, and agility, all rare in this loose world.

The giant snail says,

I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the smallest stones and sticks. … Draw back. Withdrawal is always best. …
          That toad was too big, too, like me. … Our proportions horrify our neighbors. …
Ah, but I know my shell is beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. … Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection.
          My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this.
          But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me.(1)

It is Bishop's opalescent ribbon or glazed shell left behind that we find in the Complete Poems—or so we might say if this were her only metaphor for verse. But, remembering the toad, its sacs of poison, and its shuddering pigments (Keats' “chameleon poet” metamorphosed), we must not take too simple a view of her achievement. Her objectivity and beauty have been praised by many; the pain under the limpid surfaces has more recently been drawn out for observation; but Bishop's self-criticism (on the order of the poison, the deformity, the timidity) has been left rather aside, especially in the commentary following her death.

Many of Bishop's poems take a sinister view of what a poem is. In one famous poem, it is an iceberg, manufacturing jewelry of ice from the graveyard of the sea. Even in a more sympathetic poem, “The Man-Moth,” the radical solitude of the poet is emphasized. The moth (a male version of Keats' Psyche-moth) has an eye of depthless night:

          If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye. It's all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens …

When he closes the eye,

                    Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips.

The tear—round, pure, tensely concentric, a small reflecting globe, a secretion of pain—is Bishop's most justifiably famous definition of a poem and is linked, by its analogy to the bee sting, not only to the toad's sacs of poison but also to Keats' pleasure “turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips.” Though Bishop's figure of a teardrop comes from the Christian use of the dewdrop to represent the soul, the tear is meant not for God but, somewhat obliquely, for an audience:

                                                                                if you're not paying attention
he'll swallow it. However, if you watch, he'll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

Such metaphors (like Shakespeare's “summer's distillation,” Keats' “last oozings,” and Dickinson's “attar of the rose”) insist that poetry is a natural secretion but insist as well that it must be processed in a painful way before it is valuable or drinkable. Bishop's intimation of secretiveness in the poet and the slight hint of bullying in the audience (“If you watch, he'll hand it over”) suggest her correction of her literary predecessors and her more ironic attitude toward the poetic “tear” or “drop.” Like the toad and snail, the man-moth suffers from being physically unlike other creatures: he comes out of his subterranean home only at night and is alone in the populous city. It is tempting to see in this physicality that is alienated from its neighbors a metaphor for sexual difference, and Adrienne Rich has suggested that Bishop's “experience of outsiderhood” is “closely—though not exclusively—linked with the essential outsiderhood of a lesbian identity.”² But the painful eyes of the giant toad are a burden equal to his abnormal size; the spiritual singularity of artists sets them socially apart, in the long run, whether they are sexual “outsiders” or not. Baudelaire's albatross, powerful in the air but ludicrous on deck, is the prototype of Bishop's socially unacceptable beasts.

Thus, though Bishop attempted to take an interest in the life of those not afflicted with a singularity like her own, her poems about them (whether about a burglar hiding from the police or about a house servant) tend to be patronizing—at least to my ear. For her, the general run of people remained a group “talkative / and soiled and thirsty,” wanting only their necessary drink of water (“Under the Window”). Under the tap the peasants drink from, there is a ditch; around the edges of the waste water there is an oil slick; the oil “flashes or looks upward brokenly, / like bits of mirror—no, more blue than that: / like tatters of the Morpho butterfly.” We can read the allegory: the Psyche-moth-butterfly is in tatters; the artist works on the edge of the unregarded.

Bishop's talent had relatively few subjects, in the objective sense; her best poems were about the two places where she felt most rooted—Nova Scotia (the home of her mother's family) and Brazil, where she lived in the fifties and sixties. There are memorable poems on other topics (a notable elegy for Robert Lowell among them), but long after Bishop left Brazil, and even longer after her life in Nova Scotia, the two places—one the permanent place of her displaced childhood, the other the permanent place of her middle age—continued to be the repositories of Bishop's deepest feelings, at least of those successfully brought into the light of art. More superficial feelings were all too easily dismissed by Bishop's habitual irony: when she was only sixteen, she saw herself impatiently as “full of my tiny tragedies and grotesque grieves” (“To a Tree”).

Bishop was both fully at home in, and fully estranged from, Nova Scotia and Brazil. In Nova Scotia, after Bishop's father had died, her mother went insane; Bishop lived there with her grandparents from the age of three to the age of six. She then left to be raised by an aunt in Massachusetts, but spent summers in Nova Scotia till she was thirteen. Subsequent adult visits north produced poems like “Cape Breton,” “At the Fishhouses,” and “The Moose”; and Bishop responded eagerly to other poets, like John Brinnin and Mark Strand, who knew that landscape. Nova Scotia represented a harsh pastoral to which, though she was rooted in it, she could not return. Brazil, on the other hand, was a place of adult choice, where she bought and restored a beautiful eighteenth-century house in Ouro Prêto. It was yet another pastoral, harsh in a different, tropical way—a pastoral exotic enough to interest her noticing eye but one barred to her by language and culture (though she made efforts to learn and translate Portuguese and was influenced by the Brazilian poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade). Foreign abroad, foreign at home, Bishop appointed herself a poet of foreignness, which (as Rich justly says) is, far more than “travel,” her subject. Three of her books have geographical names—North & South, Questions of Travel, and Geography III—and she feels a geographer's compulsions precisely because she is a foreigner, not a native. Her early metaphor for a poem is a map, and she scrutinized that metaphor, we may imagine, because even as a child she had had to become acquainted through maps with the different territories she lived in and traveled back and forth between. In the poem “Crusoe in England,” Bishop's Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked on his island, his nightmares of having to explore more and more new islands and of being required to be their geographer:

                                                            I'd have
nightmares of other islands
stretching away from mine, infinities
of islands, islands spawning islands,
          knowing that I had to live
on each and every one, eventually,
for ages, registering their flora,
their fauna, their geography.

This recurrent anxiety marks the end of one of Bishop's earlier dreams—that one could go home, or find a place that felt like home. In A Cold Spring, a book recording chiefly some unhappy years preceding her move to Brazil, there had yet survived the dream of going home, in a poem using the Prodigal Son as surrogate. He deludes himself, by drinking, that he can be happy away, but finally his evening horrors in exile determine him to return:

Carrying a bucket along a slimy board,
he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight,
his shuddering insights, beyond his control,
touching him. But it took him a long time
finally to make his mind up to go home.

[“The Prodigal Son”]

The poem (except for the drinking and the “shuddering insights,” which recall the toad's shuddering pigments) is not believable, because it cannot envisage any home for the Prodigal to return to. Bishop's mother, confined for life in a hospital for the insane (Bishop never saw her after her departure), remained the inaccessible blank at the center of all Bishop's travel. A foreigner everywhere, and perhaps with everyone, Bishop acquired the optic clarity of the anthropologist, to whom the local gods are not sacred, the local customs not second nature.

What Bishop said she admired in her favorite poet, George Herbert, was his “absolute naturalness of tone”: of course, a foreigner tries unfailingly for this effect so that he will not be convicted of oddness or of being a spy: one suspects a long history in childhood of Bishop's affecting to be a child like other children, while knowing herself shamefully unlike, unable to answer those questions about parents that other children pryingly put. Bishop could taste for herself, each time she found another environment, her own chilling difference from it. Into no territory could she subside gratefully and grip down into native soil. Instead, she was a cold current washing above the native stones; her thoughts, like the ocean, coursed over and against the land without ever being joined, eroticized in an endogamous way, put at rest:

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.

[“At the Fishhouses”]

Whatever knowledge Bishop owned, it was the knowledge of the homeless and migrant,

drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever …

Our myths about such displaced persons have tended to create male theatrical characterizations like the Ancient Mariner, the Wandering Jew, or Robinson Crusoe. Bishop repudiates (after “The Prodigal Son”) that stereotype, lightening the portrait of the exile. In refusing melodrama and aiming for that “naturalness of tone” that she often succeeded in finding, Bishop was helped by her humor. Even in the dark poem I have been quoting, “At the Fishhouses,” she can divert herself at the ocean's edge with a companionable seal:

He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.

In anthropomorphizing the seal, Bishop suggests that people are only a different mammalian species; she uses of the seal exactly the sort of words she could use of an acquaintance. Bishop's own “total immersion” takes place in the bitter Atlantic of an icy truth:

If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn …

And yet the curious seal is at home in the water; perhaps (Bishop's humor suggests) one can get used to total immersion. The seal is, one might say, Bishop's characteristic “signature” here; her radical isolation and skepticism are rarely presented without such a moment of self-detachment and self-irony. At her best, she is never entirely solemn. Even the elegy for Lowell mocks, although gently, his compulsive revising of his poems:

Nature repeats herself, or almost does:
repeat, repeat, repeat; revise, revise, revise.
                                                                                                              s—you've left
for good. You can't derange, or re-arrange,
your poems again. (But the Sparrows can their song.)
The words won't change again. Sad friend, you cannot change.

[“North Haven”]

As any quotation from Bishop will suggest, one of her formal aims was to write in monosyllables for a substantial amount of the time. (In this she was imitating Herbert's great successes in this mode.) She became an expert not only in the short monosyllables every poet loves (“cold dark deep and absolutely clear,” she says of water, rivaling Frost's account of the woods “lovely, dark and deep”) but also in what we might call “long” monosyllables—past participles, like “bleached” or “peaked”; consonantally “thick” adjectives, like “sparse” or “brown”; and interestingly shaped, quasi-symmetrical nouns, like “scales” or “thumb.” The advantage of using monosyllables is that they sound true; the occasionally polysyllabic grace notes (like Bishop's “absolutely” and “immediately” in “At the Fishhouses”) set the monosyllables in musical boldface by contrast.

Against the monosyllables (a legacy from Bishop's dissenting Protestantism) we may set her polysyllabic passages, the province of the eye—as though, compared with the plainness of truth, the world of appearance were treacherously plural:

The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.

[“At the Fishhouses”]

This is visibly Keatsian, resembling

          Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
                    And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
          The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

And the old man at the fishhouses, scraping off herring scales with his knife, is the hermit-in-nature we know chiefly from Wordsworth (who inherited him from Milton). He has to be old, since he is experience itself:

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.

From him, and the complex organic beauty and decay of the ancient fishhouses, the poem withdraws to the shore and the seal; then, leaving even the seal behind (and with him the human and animal community alike), it immerses itself totally into the icy waters of the sea, saying,

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
                    and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

This is the briny knowledge of Bishop's origins. She cannot, as happier orphans might, forget her historical griefs; nor can she anchor in conventional or social bonds; nor can she evade the knowledge of knowledge flown. She had once thought that poetry could be “artlessly rhetorical” (“The Imaginary Iceberg”); it is now darkly historical. The later poems, which bear that historical weight, are not always oceanic enough to be dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free—but the ambition of Bishop's poetics is evident in those tidal adjectives. She wanted to come to bedrock and ocean as her aesthetic ground—those places that belong to no country—and to write something as essential as ogham or runes, “the admirable scriptures made on stones by stones.” And, in musicality, she wanted the pure unmeaning of the Keatsian swallows:

          thousands of light song-sparrow songs floating upward
freely, dispassionately, through the mist, and meshing
in brown-wet, fine, torn fish-nets.

[“Cape Breton”]

The ocean and the sparrows have in common their dispassionateness and their freedom; but knowledge is unbound and song is not. The “fine, torn fish-nets” that catch the song at Cape Breton are those matrices of English verse that Bishop still uses, though in the torn form she had learned from Spender, among others; her rhymes are often slant, her rhythms irregular, her stanzas disproportionate, her comedy often a violation of genre, her allusions oblique; but we see in these rents in the mesh her intimate knowledge of the fabric she works in.

When Bishop fails, it is sometimes because she takes herself less than seriously—the defect, as we would expect, of her virtues of understatement and irony. Some of the brittle poems in “A Cold Spring,” as John Ashbery has remarked, are disappointing. But more often she fails because the feeling in the poem seems shallow or forced, as it does in some of the poems of social concern. When she admits complicity in social evil, she is more interesting. Her own possession of Brazil, she suspects, has something in it not unlike the plunder and rape of the Conquistadors, who came “hard as nails, / tiny as nails, and glinting / in creaking armor” to the New World, a tapestry of vegetative and human attraction:

Directly after Mass, humming perhaps
L'Homme armé or some such tune,
they ripped away into the hanging fabric,
each out to catch an Indian for himself—
those maddening little women who kept calling,
calling to each other (or had the birds waked up?)
and retreating, always retreating, behind it.

[“Brazil, January 1, 1502”]

To the foreigner, the tropical scene and its inhabitants are a scrim behind which there lies another scrim, and so on forever:

Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?

[“Questions of Travel”]

The foreignness of land drives Bishop to postulate a deeper region, where she feels more at home, until the alien Amazon tidal estuary feels like a kinder, purifying version of the salty ocean at Cape Breton:

          everything must be there
in that magic mud, beneath
the multitudes of fish,
with the crayfish, with the worms
The river breathes in salt
and breathes it out again,
and all is sweetness there
in the deep, enchanted silt.

[“The Riverman”]

The notion of poetry as a tidal river that can welcome the inrush of the undrinkable sea and yet exhale it, preserving a freshwater sweetness in which its flora and fauna can live, is a late hope in Bishop, contradicted perhaps by the unsuccessful but revealing 1979 poem about a naked female “pink” dog, hairless, with scabies, that runs the streets of Rio. Warning the dog that society kills its outsiders, Bishop tells it to don a carnival costume as a concealment: “Dress up! Dress up and dance at Carnival!” Otherwise, the dog will meet the fate of other pariahs:

                                                                                          how [do] they deal with beggars?
They take and throw them in the tidal rivers.
Yes, idiots, paralytics, parasites
go bobbing in the ebbing sewage, nights
out in the suburbs, where there are no lights.

[“Pink Dog”]

Even this hideous subterfuge of the suburbs carries the characteristic Bishop joke:

In the cafés and on the sidewalk corners
the joke is going round that all the beggars
who can afford them now wear life preservers.

This mordant poem implies that Bishop's poems may be her life preservers, her carnival dress: would society have accepted her without them? The physical self-loathing of the giant snail is reproduced in more candidly female terms here, but, perhaps because of its very outspokenness of social protest, the poem rings hollow. The tidal river here can do nothing for the pariahs thrown into its current; they cannot find its silt “sweet” or “enchanted.” Poetry makes nothing happen, not at this level, whatever it can do for the soul that creates it.

Because of Bishop's dislike for the explicitly “confessional” and her equal dislike for the sectarian of any description, her poetry resists easy classification. She always refused to be included in any anthology containing only poems by women: she did not want to be a “poetess” (the old-fashioned term) or a “woman writer” (the current term). Equally (though her landscapes come from North and South America) she resists the label “American poet”: there is in her work no self-conscious rebellion against English genres, or even English attitudes, of the sort we find in our poetry from Whitman and Dickinson on. As far as she was concerned, she was happy to be in the company of Herbert, Wordsworth, Keats, and Hopkins.

But in one crucial way she is not of their company; she is a creature of her own century, and her poetry represents one of the attempts made in our era to write a poetry no longer dependent on religious or nationalist feeling—a poetry purely human, refusing even Keats' mythological resources. Religious nostalgia was, of course, still present in Bishop:

                                                                                          Why couldn't we have seen
this old Nativity while we were at it?
—the dark ajar, the rocks breaking with light,
an undisturbed, unbreathing flame,
colorless, sparkless, freely fed on straw,
and, lulled within, a family with pets,
—and looked and looked our infant sight away.

[“Over 2,000 Illustrations and a Complete Concordance”]

The opposite pole to this wishfulness must be, in the nature of things, death unredeemed by any meaning:

I saw what frightened me most of all:
A holy grave, not looking particularly holy,
An open, gritty, marble trough, carved solid
with exhortation, yellowed
as scattered cattle-teeth;
half-filled with dust, not even the dust
of the poor prophet paynim who once lay there.

The open grave, vacant even of its proper dust, owes something to Herbert's “Church-monuments”: it was, I think, the echo of Herbert that called up the Nativity that ends this poem, perhaps Bishop's best. The wish for the Nativity concludes a succession of scenes, the disparate experience afforded to this solitary poet by a life of travel—a scene in Nova Scotia, a scene in Rome, a scene in Mexico, a scene at the ancient North African ruins at Volubilis, a scene in Ireland, and then, directly after a lesbian brothel near Marrakesh, the open grave. “Everything only connected by ‘and’ and ‘and.’” So much for experience. If meaning cannot be sought in experience itself (“the pilgrimage of life,” “a citizen's life,” or some other formula affording a ready-made pattern to which one subscribes), then one is left with the mind and the shapes it can confer upon the chain of “ands.”

As far as we can gather from the poetry, Bishop began at a very early age to try to connect the “ands,” not so much from deliberate choice as from sheer fear. There is a curious poem, frail and steely at once, called “First Death in Nova Scotia” (published when Bishop was fifty-four) that concerns itself with the death of her “little cousin Arthur,” but we may guess that it deals implicitly with the earlier death of Bishop's father and with the very idea of death as the principle of disconnection. The poem is written out of a sensibility in shock, that of a child unable to take in the reality of death and unable, in consequence, to subordinate or blot out apparently irrelevant perceptual “noise.” The “noise” consists of all the things in the family parlor surrounding the coffined corpse: the chromographs of the royal family, the lily in little Arthur's hand, and a grotesque stuffed loon with red glass eyes, shot by the father of dead little Arthur. The poem goes steadily, but crazily, from little Arthur in his coffin to the royal pictures to the loon to Arthur to the child-speaker to the loon to Arthur to the royal pictures. This structure, which follows the bewildered eye of the gazing child trying to put together all her information—sense data, stories of an afterlife, and the rituals of mourning—is a picture of the mind at work. It will not change, in its essentials, throughout Bishop's poetry. The frightened child makes up three helpless fictions, trying to unite items of the scene into a gestalt. In the first, she fears that the loon might want to eat up Arthur and his coffin together, because the loon must share her metaphor for the coffin, brown wood topped off with white lace:

Arthur's coffin was
a little frosted cake,
and the red-eyed loon eyed it
from his white frozen lake.

[“First Death in Nova Scotia”]

The second fiction tries to account for little Arthur's fearful pallor by conjecturing that Jack Frost had started to paint him, got as far as his red hair, but then “had dropped the brush / and left him white, forever.” The third fiction is an attempted consolation, making up an afterlife more agreeable than the Christian heaven of which the child has been told; Arthur will join the royal couples in a place warmer than the freezing parlor:

The gracious royal couples
were warm in red and ermine;
their feet were well wrapped up
in the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to be
the smallest page at court.

But this childish invention of a fictive paradise for little Arthur is itself immediately questioned, as Bishop replicates for us that skepticism that was a natural motion of her mind (at least, so the poem implies) even in her earliest years:

But how could Arthur go,
clutching his tiny lily,
with his eyes shut up so tight
and the roads deep in snow?

Wherever Arthur (or perhaps Bishop's father) has to go, the child feels terrible apprehension and confusion, displaced onto her mute observation of the parlor and its awful central object, and displaced as well onto her helpless social obedience (“I was lifted up and given / one lily of the valley / to put in Arthur's hand”). A poem of this sort suggests that Bishop's habit of observing and connecting was initially a defense invented against ghastly moments of disconnection and that it was practiced throughout childhood even before it found a structure in poetry.

Abstracting from particulars to make a coherent sketch of social reality seems to Bishop very like what mapmakers do when they rise above the ups and downs of physical terrain in order to represent the earth. Though Rich says that she found “The Map” (the first poem in Bishop's first book) “intellectualized to the point of obliquity,” in it Bishop is simply describing her idea of what a poem must do to make experience accessible. In the map, experience is held still for inspection, and rendered palpable to the touch (though under glass); names are given to towns and cities. However, the printer of the map betrays the excitement of creation:

The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
—the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.

[“The Map”]

Eliot's famous criticism of Hamlet—that it did not work as an “objective correlative” of its author's presumed feelings because Shakespeare's emotions had been too intense for the invention constructed to contain them—hovers behind Bishop's remark here, as she defends the tendency of the work of art to run beyond its own outlines: why should not the names of cities run across the neighboring mountains, if excitement makes them do so? Experiences far too large for human comprehension are rendered attainable by the map:

These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

The ending of the poem is an apologia for Bishop's own detachment of treatment:

Topography displays no favorites: North's as near as West.
More delicate than the historians' are the map-makers' colors.

One can see in this praise Bishop's own early disparagement of “historical” poetry—verse that deals with a social or personal chronicle unelevated into the abstract topographical status of a map. The fact that her own last book allowed for more personal chronicling than had been her habit earlier perhaps means that as Lowell learned from her, so she learned from him.

The attitudes in Bishop that I have dwelt on here—her sense of deformity, her cold capacity for detachment, her foreignness in human society, her suspicion that truth has something annihilating about it, her self-representation as observer of meaninglessly additive experience, her repugnance for social or political or religious association, her preference for mapping and abstraction—are those that are particularly well-sustained, thematically and formally, in the Complete Poems. Each of these attitudes had consequences. They led Bishop toward certain genres (landscape poetry, poetry about sky and ocean, travel poetry) and away from others (historical poetry, religious poetry, poetry of social enumeration). They led her as well to certain moments that recur in her verse: the moment of existential loneliness (“The Waiting Room”), the moment of epistemological murk or vacancy (the yawning grave in “Over 2,000 Illustrations”), and the moment of abstraction (“The Monument”). And they ensured Bishop's avoidance of closure through certainty or through social solidarity, in favor of closure in questioning, loss, or inscrutability. Bishop made a new sort of lyric by adhering to a singular clarity of expression, simplicity of effect, and naiveté of tone while making the matter of her poetry the opacity and inexplicability of being. Without her sense of deformity, estrangement, and even murderousness (the poisoned toad, the dangerous iceberg) as central matters of art, she could not have felt the benign contrast of her apparitional moose (“The Moose”). Had she not had the greatest admiration for artists (Herbert, Cornell) who used very common means for very subtle effects, she would not have couched her conviction of the opacity of existence in words of such limpidity of effect. The combination of somber matter with a manner net-like, mesh-like, airy, reticulated to let in light, results in the effect we now call by her name—the Bishop style.

Notes

1. Elizabeth Bishop, “Rainy Season; Sub-Tropics,” Complete Poems (New York, 1983); all further quotations from Bishop's poetry are taken from this edition.

2. Adrienne Rich, “The Eye of the Outsider: The Poetry of Elizabeth Bishop,” Boston Review 8 (Mar./Apr. 1983): 16.