April 13, 2006
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I was reading the January 23-30 issue of The New Yorker and came across this poem by Elizabeth Bishop on page 76; I thought it was worthy of a reprint.
The Moon Burgled The House . . .
The end of the world
proved to be nothing drastic
when everything was made of plastic
we slept more and more even after
the pills gave out
and vast drops of of the rivers ran
intor the drying canyons of the sea
the sun grew pale as the moon and then
a bit paler
although we could still see -
It was pleasant, it was lovely and
languid
no one felt the urge to do anything,
even the children
we dreamed and dreamed all the cars
were parked, no one went anywhere
they just stayed home and held hands,
at first, then stopped holding hands-
peace peace just what we’ve wanted all
along –
the whole world turned like a
fading violet, turned in its death
gently, curled up didn’t stink at
all but gave off a long sigh-sweet
sigh –
