Visits to St. Elizabeth's
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
The is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newsapaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the starting sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round of flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
Commentary
1950.
I’ve never been a big fan of Bishop. She has an incredible eye for images (describing a baby rabbit fleeing a fire as ‘a handful of intangible ash / with fixed, ignited eyes’ – “The Armadillo”) and an almost unmatched ability to sketch a scene or a sensation so that it’s visible / tangible (consider ‘We stand as still as stones to watch / the leaves and ripples / while light and nervous water hold / their interview’ – “Quai D’Orleans” or ‘Hear nothing but a train that goes by, must go by, like tension’ – “Four Poems”) but for me her poems often fail to come together into a coherent whole. They remain beautiful yet insubstantial, like a loose nosegay of impressions that withers easily and is forgotten.
The only exceptions to this are poems where Bishop starts off with a conceit or a clever idea (see for instance, the incredible Gentleman of Shallott or The Man Moth, which features on Minstrels as Poem #1395). Here Bishop is at her best - combining an easy playfulness with touches of exquisite yearning to create poems that are so solipsistic you don’t know how seriously to take them. “Visits to St. Elizabeth’s” is an excellent example of this - a poem of ceaseless and inspired variation that combines some truly heartbreaking images (‘This is a boy that pats the floor / to see if the world is there, is flat’) with a structure that comes out of a children’s rhyme. What makes this poem stunning is the the deftness with which Bishop pulls off that structure (just try running This is the house that Jack built upto twelve lines and see how quickly it becomes tedious) making each new stanza more exhilarating than the last. Minor variations in the lines from stanza to stanza create the illusion of revelation - each repetition promises more clues to the poems true meaning, but it is a meaning never quite grasped. The overall effect is that of an exquisite piece of baroque music - some Bach variation - that tempts and teases and leaves you gasping for more while at the same time convinced that there’s something you’ve missed.
— Aseem