This was written for Lowell, who as many of you might know, was bipolar. He was in the hospital repeatedly with manic episodes. He was very much off his rocker. But...a good poet. Not my favorite, actually, but a good one. But Bishop, well to me, she's been the voice of sanity to me over the last year. A brilliant poet. Anyway, thought I'd put it up here for Miguel (who doesn't even have internet access from the hospital. Now THAT would drive me crazy!)
And one of my friends wrote me alluding that it sounded like things were hard right now after he read my blog. Couldn't be further from the truth. Hell, Miguel is in the hospital not me! The visit I paid him was as much out of concern as it was out of curiosity as to what a Bronx psych ward looks like.... And it was an interesting field trip. Miguel knows me well enough too that I was fascinated by the whole thing. Also, the heat...well, it's become a badge of honor for me. As in "See? Now I'M a New Yorker!!!"
I quite my job yesterday. My boss was devestated. Actually, the team was pretty sad. But happy for me. I think they will try and keep me as long as they can justify it. And in other news, I just got an email today saying I made it into James Tate's workshop class for the fall. If you don't know who Tate is, well, he's this really famous poet. Pultizer and all that... So I'm excited. Should be fun. Or terrifying. All depends on how you look at it.
Ok...onto the poem.
The Armadillo
by Elizabeth Bishop
For Robert Lowell
This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars--
planets, that is--the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,
or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,
receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair
of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,
and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic,
and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!
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