It's
the morning after the night before. The poet looks down upon a yard.
The
dog she sees is little. The bird is unknown. The branch
it sits upon is usual. The enormous morning is
ponderous, meticulous. The scene setting and the descriptions
are simple and clear, generally, though they occasionally falter and
weaken.
Perhaps,
in his sleep, the bird too inquires.
The
bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn.
It
is the dog, not the bird, who reveals the weakness in Bishop, in
all humans.
He
bounces cheerfully up and down
rushes
in circles in the fallen leaves
Thus
are we in Autumn. He gains another adjective (to save the
scansion of the line?).
The
little black dog runs in the yard
and
feels the edge of his owner's tongue.
His
owner's voice arises, stern,
“You
ought to be ashamed!”
But
Bishop knows better.
Obviously,
he has no sense of shame
for,
like the bird, the dog knows
….......................................
everything is answered,
all
taken care of,
It is the morning of a next day, a new day she can't face, because of
yesterday, weakly bound by parentheses that hem in the poet herself.
(A
yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.)
How
would Bishop write about herself were it not for birds and dogs,
viewed from on high?
www.facebook.com/DaveDugganWriter
No comments:
Post a Comment