Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
Questions of Travel

Excellent poetry cannot be paraphrased--because then it's not really poetry and ceases to be excellent. Bishop is one of the best poets I have ever had the pleasure of reading slowly and deeply--and I'm upset I discovered her work so late. Professors pushed Milton, Frost, Yeats, Dickinson, E.E. Cummings in college courses--but never Bishop. Why not? She has the ability to articulate observations and experiences and transform them while still allowing the light of reason to shine through each line. This is the poetry of someone who knows their craft.

Damn she's good.

The islands haven't shifted since last summer,
even if I like to pretend they have
--drifting, in a dreamy sort of way,
a little north, a little south or sidewise,
and that they're free within the blue frontiers of bay.
North Haven