The Complete Poems, 1927–1979 (1983)

I recall her in her black dress, reading to a group of Yale undergrads (and strays like me) in a badly lit classroom. She read well and precisely, these poems of internal explosion. The snow fell outside. I thought it so strange that only 15 or so of us had bothered to stop by. But I was glad I did. ( )

This was a high school assignment I was not fond of at the time; picked it up again this week in the hope that I had merely been prejudiced at the time. It was a mostly-vain hope.

I do not understand why one of the blurbs on the back claims that Bishop is a great poet. There are maybe half a dozen pieces in here which could possibly justify that claim, and while that is half a dozen more than many people ever write, I would like to think that true greatness demands a little more than that. Like inarguably great poems that are now awash in a sea of mediocrity, for example. (Granted, the completeness of the book, while impressive, doesn't help the cause -- the poems she published in her school's lterary magazine at sixteen? Seriously?)

I find Bishop's work largely inaccessible. The language she uses is devoid of striking images, wordplay, insight; I can never quite tell what she's trying to *say* in any one piece. Even the best of her work is not rewarding on first reading, or second, and quite possibly third. Alas. ( )

It took me many rereadings to appreciate the way in which Bishop pares her poems down to the bone, and yet conveys stories as complex as those contained in the longest of novels. She is the opposite of her obsessed-with-grains sandpiper - she sees everything, painfully yet unflinching, and bears witness. The most careful observer and the most precise recorder. I believe she is regarded as eschewing the confessional yet details of her life are to be found in her poems, from In the Waiting Room to One Art. Yet my favourite Bishop poem is full of fun, Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore, where the older poet is urged to come flying over the Brooklyn Bridge 'like a daylight comet/with a long unnebulous train of words'. This excellent volume has previously unpublished poems too. ( )

Elizabeth Bishop often complained that her poetic output was inadequate, but in truth, she never wrote (or, rather, published) a bad poem in her lifetime, and her final product resembles a series of crystalline jewels on a string--absolutely delicious and evocative and inventive. ( )

I have extra copies of this book in case it goes out of print. ( )