where everything seems to happen in waves

I have all these happy poems about spring that I want to post, but I am not having the sort of week (or, in all honesty, the sort of month) that allows for those sorts of poems. Mostly I just keep accidentally falling to pieces around my friends. There is a lot of crying; also, a lot of feeling like I am only holding myself together with, like, tape and string and sheer pig-headed tenacity.


For Louise Crane

In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,

and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,

and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,

and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.

— Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.

—Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979), "Letter to N.Y."