{"id":6,"date":"2008-06-23T00:14:15","date_gmt":"2008-06-23T04:14:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/?p=6"},"modified":"2008-06-30T16:33:01","modified_gmt":"2008-06-30T20:33:01","slug":"the-moose-elizabeth-bishop","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/poem.oftheweek.org\/?p=6","title":{"rendered":"The Moose – Elizabeth Bishop"},"content":{"rendered":"

[audio:moose.mp3] (5:48)
\n
\nread by Elizabeth Bishop. audio from salon.com<\/a>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

For Grace Bulmer Bowers<\/em><\/p>\n

From narrow provinces
\nof fish and bread and tea,
\nhome of the long tides
\nwhere the bay leaves the sea
\ntwice a day and takes
\nthe herrings long rides,<\/p>\n

where if the river
\nenters or retreats
\nin a wall of brown foam
\ndepends on if it meets
\nthe bay coming in,
\nthe bay not at home;<\/p>\n

where, silted red,
\nsometimes the sun sets
\nfacing a red sea,
\nand others, veins the flats’
\nlavender, rich mud
\nin burning rivulets;<\/p>\n

on red, gravelly roads,
\ndown rows of sugar maples,
\npast clapboard farmhouses
\nand neat, clapboard churches,
\nbleached, ridged as clamshells,
\npast twin silver birches,<\/p>\n

through late afternoon
\na bus journeys west,
\nthe windshield flashing pink,
\npink glancing off of metal,
\nbrushing the dented flank
\nof blue, beat-up enamel;<\/p>\n

down hollows, up rises,
\nand waits, patient, while
\na lone traveller gives
\nkisses and embraces
\nto seven relatives
\nand a collie supervises.<\/p>\n

Goodbye to the elms,
\nto the farm, to the dog.
\nThe bus starts. The light
\ngrows richer; the fog,
\nshifting, salty, thin,
\ncomes closing in.<\/p>\n

Its cold, round crystals
\nform and slide and settle
\nin the white hens’ feathers,
\nin gray glazed cabbages,
\non the cabbage roses
\nand lupins like apostles;<\/p>\n

the sweet peas cling
\nto their wet white string
\non the whitewashed fences;
\nbumblebees creep
\ninside the foxgloves,
\nand evening commences.<\/p>\n

One stop at Bass River.
\nThen the Economies
\nLower, Middle, Upper;
\nFive Islands, Five Houses,
\nwhere a woman shakes a tablecloth
\nout after supper.<\/p>\n

A pale flickering. Gone.
\nThe Tantramar marshes
\nand the smell of salt hay.
\nAn iron bridge trembles
\nand a loose plank rattles
\nbut doesn’t give way.<\/p>\n

On the left, a red light
\nswims through the dark:
\na ship’s port lantern.
\nTwo rubber boots show,
\nilluminated, solemn.
\nA dog gives one bark.<\/p>\n

A woman climbs in
\nwith two market bags,
\nbrisk, freckled, elderly.
\n“A grand night. Yes, sir,
\nall the way to Boston.”
\nShe regards us amicably.<\/p>\n

Moonlight as we enter
\nthe New Brunswick woods,
\nhairy, scratchy, splintery;
\nmoonlight and mist
\ncaught in them like lamb’s wool
\non bushes in a pasture.<\/p>\n

The passengers lie back.
\nSnores. Some long sighs.
\nA dreamy divagation
\nbegins in the night,
\na gentle, auditory,
\nslow hallucination. . . .<\/p>\n

In the creakings and noises,
\nan old conversation
\n–not concerning us,
\nbut recognizable, somewhere,
\nback in the bus:
\nGrandparents’ voices<\/p>\n

uninterruptedly
\ntalking, in Eternity:
\nnames being mentioned,
\nthings cleared up finally;
\nwhat he said, what she said,
\nwho got pensioned;<\/p>\n

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
\nthe year he remarried;
\nthe year (something) happened.
\nShe died in childbirth.
\nThat was the son lost
\nwhen the schooner foundered.<\/p>\n

He took to drink. Yes.
\nShe went to the bad.
\nWhen Amos began to pray
\neven in the store and
\nfinally the family had
\nto put him away.<\/p>\n

“Yes . . .” that peculiar
\naffirmative. “Yes . . .”
\nA sharp, indrawn breath,
\nhalf groan, half acceptance,
\nthat means “Life’s like that.
\nWe know it (also death).”<\/p>\n

Talking the way they talked
\nin the old featherbed,
\npeacefully, on and on,
\ndim lamplight in the hall,
\ndown in the kitchen, the dog
\ntucked in her shawl.<\/p>\n

Now, it’s all right now
\neven to fall asleep
\njust as on all those nights.
\n–Suddenly the bus driver
\nstops with a jolt,
\nturns off his lights.<\/p>\n

A moose has come out of
\nthe impenetrable wood
\nand stands there, looms, rather,
\nin the middle of the road.
\nIt approaches; it sniffs at
\nthe bus’s hot hood.<\/p>\n

Towering, antlerless,
\nhigh as a church,
\nhomely as a house
\n(or, safe as houses).
\nA man’s voice assures us
\n“Perfectly harmless. . . .”<\/p>\n

Some of the passengers
\nexclaim in whispers,
\nchildishly, softly,
\n“Sure are big creatures.”
\n“It’s awful plain.”
\n“Look! It’s a she!”<\/p>\n

Taking her time,
\nshe looks the bus over,
\ngrand, otherworldly.
\nWhy, why do we feel
\n(we all feel) this sweet
\nsensation of joy?<\/p>\n

“Curious creatures,”
\nsays our quiet driver,
\nrolling his r’s.
\n“Look at that, would you.”
\nThen he shifts gears.
\nFor a moment longer,<\/p>\n

by craning backward,
\nthe moose can be seen
\non the moonlit macadam;
\nthen there’s a dim
\nsmell of moose, an acrid
\nsmell of gasoline.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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