Poems on Elizabeth Bishop by Top Critiquers

She stood there,
slightly ominous with a red hood that covered most of her face,
with a long red coat that reached all the way down to her boots.
“What about her?” I asked him curiously “she looks really cool”,
“Her name is Mother Hood” he responded “but she’s a villain”.
“How can she be a villain is she’s a mother?” I asked surprised,
“Technically she’s not a mother” he said as we glanced at her stance,
menacing like something out of a comic book or a graphic novel.

Then I wondered,
why on earth he would conjure up such a villainous...

( After Elizabeth Bishop )          
             
             —for Clewless and those suffering anxiety              
             
Poison oak grows beautiful on the vine
its lush leaves inviting to the touch,
think of this as life, at times: biting.

Behind that velvet green lies a subtle itch—
its urushiol blood birthing blisters that will not last,
yet, stake their claim in pain nonetheless.

For everything there is something—
nature ensures that,  Calamine eases
the stinging of rash, Moringa a restless...

Your villanelle intrigues him from the start    
he reads it many times - he’s mesmerised -      
it stokes desire to learn this sacred art      
      
and teasing meaning from the poem’s parts      
poetic prowess sensed and recognised      
your villanelle intrigues him from the start.      
     
He sees it’s not a case of being ‘smart’ -      
disaster looms when trust is compromised      
killing desire to learn a sacred art.      
     
And though the final line looks off the chart      
the mastery leaves...

How in my heart I can picture you and me,
sitting upon the mantle smilingly
gazing out upon the world as it appears,  
an endless sea  
  
Burning our eyes like fire,  
salty and drawing our breath.  
For what would we wish,    
for Heaven in our midst,  
for losing ourself in this dream.  
   
For what we can hope for in this place,  
for that which we can only esteem.  
Setting suns and rising tides    
are cherished moments in our time,  
together are pondered frame by frame,  
but what can...