Georgia Review

Three Previously Unpublished Poems: "A Drunkard," "Salem Willows," "Suicide of a Moderate
Dictator"
Author(s): Elizabeth Bishop
Source: The Georgia Review, Vol. 46, No. 4 (Winter 1992), pp. 607-611
Published by: Georgia Review
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/41400957
Accessed: 22-12-2015 22:56 UTC

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Elizabeth
Bishop

Three Previously Unpublished Poems*

A Drunkard

Salem Willows

Suicide of a Moderate Dictator

Afterword by Thomas Travisano

* © 1992by theestateof ElizabethBishop.The editorsof The Geor-

Copyright
gia Reviewaregratefulto ThomasTravisanoforbringing a selec-
to our attention
tionof Bishop'sunpublished executrixof the Bishop
work;to Alice Methfessel,
thepoemsthatfollow;and to Nancy MacKechnie,
to reprint
estate,forpermission
curatorof rarebooksat the Vassar CollegeLibrary,forher help in makingthe
Bishopmanuscriptsavailableforpublication.

[607 ]

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6o8 THE GEORGIA REVIEW

A Drunkard

When I was three,I watched the Salem fire.

It burned all night (or then I thoughtit did)
and I stood in my crib & watched it burn.
The sky was brightred; everythingwas red
out on the lawn, my mother'swhite dress looked
rose-red; my white enameled crib was red
and my hands holding to its rods-
the brass knobs holding specks of fire-

I feltnot fearbut amazement,maybe

my infancy's chief emotion.
People were playing hoses on the roofs
of the summercottages on Marblehead Neck;
the red sky was filledwith flyingmotes,
cinders and coals, and bigger things,burntblack.
The water glowed like fire,too, but flat.
I watched some boats arrivingon our beach
full of escaping people (I didn't know that) .
One dory, silhouettedblack (and later I
thoughtof this as having looked like
WashingtonCrossing the Delaware, all black-
in silhouette).
I was terriblythirstybut mama didn't hear
me calling her. Out on the lawn
she and some neighborswere giving coffee
or food or somethingto the people landing in the boats-
once in a while I caught a glimpse of her
and called and called- no one paid any attention-

In the brilliantmorningacross the bay

the firestillwent on, but in the sunlight
we saw no more glare, just the clouds of smoke.
The beach was strewnwith cinders,dark with ash-
strangeobjects seemed to have blown across the water:
liftedby that terribleheat, throughthe red sky?

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 ELIZABETH BISHOP ÓOÇ

Blackened boards, shiny black like black feathers-

pieces of furniture,parts of boats, and clothes-
I picked up a woman's long black cotton
stocking. Curiosity.My mothersaid sharply
Put thatdown! I rememberclearly, clearly-

But since that night,that day, that reprimand

I have sufferedfromabnormal thirst-
I swear it's true- and by the age
of twenty or twenty-oneI had begun
to drink,& drink- I can't get enough
and, as you must have noticed,
I'm half-drunknow . . .

And all I'm tellingyou may be a lie . . .

Salem JVillows

Oh, Salem Willows,

where I rode a golden lion
around and around and around,
king of the carrousel
and the othergolden creatures,
around and around and around,
sumptuously,slowly,
to the coarse, mechanical music
of the gold calliope!

Round went the golden camel

and the high gold elephant
with his small red velvet rug,
around and around and around;
the staid,two-seated chariot,

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6lO THE GEORGIA REVIEW

gold horses and gold tigers,

but above all others
I preferredthe lion,
and I mounted him astride.

His wooden mane was golden.

His mouth was open; his tongue
enameled red; his eyes
brown glass with golden sparkles.
His rightforepaw was lifted
but the otherswouldn't budge.
There were figuresat the center:
fronthalves, plasterpeople.

From time to time,to the music,

they'd raise a flute,but never
quite to theirlips; they'd almost
beat theirdrums; they'd not quite
pluck theirupheld lyres.
It was as if that music,
coarse, mechanical, loud,
discouraged them fromtrying.

Around and around and around.

Were we all touched by Midas?
Were we a ring of Saturn,
a dizzy, turningnimbus?
Or were we one of the crowns
the saints "cast down" (but why?)
"upon the glassy sea"?
The carrousel slows down.
Really, beyond the willows,
glittereda glassy sea
and Aunt Maud sat and knitted
and knitted,waiting forme.

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 ELIZABETH BISHOP 6ll

Suicide of a Moderate Dictator

forCarlosLacerda

This is a day when truthswill out, perhaps;

leak fromthe dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festoonedswitchboards' strength;
fall fromthe windows, blow fromoffthe sills,
the vague, slight,unremarkablecontents
of emptyashtrays;rub offon our fingers
like ink fromthe un-proof-readnewspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.

Today's a day when those who work

are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry,too, to get it done,
with littledignityor none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway, in the night
the headlines wrote themselves,see, on the streets
and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment'ssplashed
even to the firstfloorsof apartmenthouses.

This is a day that's beautifulas well,

and warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw
the dogs being walked along the famous beach
as usual, in a shinygray-greendawn,
leaving theirpaw printsdrainingin the wet.
The line of breakerswas steady and the pinkish,
segmentedrainbow steadily hung above it.
At eight two littleboys were flyingkites.

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