One Art ​- Elizabeth Bishop (1976)

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

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Questions Of Travel​ - Elizabeth Bishop (1965)
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
- For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.

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?

But surely it would have been a pity

not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
- Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs

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carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
- A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.

- Yes, a pity not to have pondered,

blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages
- Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
- And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

'Is it lack of imagination that makes us come

to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?

Continent, city, country, society:

the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there... No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be? '

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Squatter's Children - ​Elizabeth Bishop (1965)

On the unbreathing sides of hills

they play, a specklike girl and boy,
alone, but near a specklike house.
The Sun's suspended eye
blinks casually, and then they wade
gigantic waves of light and shade.
A dancing yellow spot, a pup,
attends them. Clouds are piling up;

a storm piles up behind the house.

The children play at digging holes.
The ground is hard; they try to use
one of their father's tools,
a mattock with a broken haft
the two of them can scarcely lift.
It drops and clangs. Their laughter spreads
effulgence in the thunderheads,

Weak flashes of inquiry

direct as is the puppy's bark.
But to their little, soluble,
unwarrantable ark,
apparently the rain's reply
consists of echolalia,
and Mother's voice, ugly as sin,
keeps calling to them to come in.

Children, the threshold of the storm

has slid beneath your muddy shoes;
wet and beguiled, you stand among
the mansions you may choose
out of a bigger house than yours,
whose lawfulness endures.
It's soggy documents retain
your rights in rooms of falling rain.

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The burglar of O Ladrão da
Babylon Babilônia
- Tradução de Paulo Henriques
- Elizabeth Bishop Britto
(1965)

On the fair green hills of Rio Nos morros verdes do Rio

There grows a fearful stain: Há uma mancha a se espalhar:
The poor who come to Rio São os pobres que vêm pro Rio
And can’t go home again. E não têm como voltar.

On the hills a million people, São milhares, são milhões,

A million sparrows, nest, São aves de arribação,
Like a confused migration Que constróem ninhos frágeis
That’s had to light and rest, De madeira e papelão.

Building its nests, or houses, Parecem tão leves que um sopro

Out of nothing at all, or air. Os faria desabar
You’d think a breath would end them, Porém grudam feito líquens
They perch so lightly there. Sempre a se multiplicar,

But they cling and spread like lichen, Pois cada vez vem mais gente.
And the people come and come. Tem o morro da Macumba,
There’s one hill called the Chicken, Tem o morro da Galinha,
And one called Catacomb; E o morro da Catacumba;

There’s the hill of Kerosene, Tem o morro do Querosene,

And the hill of the Skeleton, O Esqueleto, o do Noronha,
The hill of Astonishment, Tem o morro do Pasmado
And the hill of Babylon. E o morro da Babilônia.

Micuçú1 was a burglar and killer, Micuçú* era ladrão,

An enemy of society. Assassino, salafrário.
He had escaped three times Tinha fugido três vezes
From the worst penitentiary. Da pior penitenciária.

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Nota da autora: Micuçu (me - coo - soo) ˜ is
the folk name of a deadly snake, in the North.
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They don’t know how many he Dizem que nunca estuprava,
murdered Mas matou uns quatro ou mais.
(Though they say he never raped), Da última vez que escapou
And he wounded two policemen Feriu dois policiais.
This last time he escaped.

They said, “He’ll go to his auntie, Disseram: “Ele vai atrás da tia,
Who raised him like a son. Que criou o sem-vergonha.
She has a little drink shop Ela tem uma birosca
On the hill of Babylon”. No morro da Babilônia”.

He did go straight to his auntie, E foi mesmo lá na tia,

And he drank a final beer. Beber e se despedir:
He told her, “The soldiers are coming, “Eu tenho que me mandar,
And I’ve got to disappear Os home tão vindo aí.

“Ninety years they gave me. Eu peguei noventa anos,

Who wants to live that long? Nem quero viver tudo isso!
I’ll settle for ninety hours, Só quero noventa minutos,
On the hill of Babylon. Uma cerveja e um chouriço.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me. “Brigado por tudo, tia,
I’ll run as long as I can. A senhora foi muito legal.
You were good to me, and I love you, Vou tentar fugir dos home,
But I’m a doomed man.” Mas sei que eu vou me dar mal”.

Going out, he met a ​mulata Encontrou uma mulata

Carrying water on her head. Logo na primeira esquina.
“If you say you saw me, daughter, “Se tu contar que me viu
You’re just as good as dead.” Tu vai morrer, viu, menina?”

There are caves up there, and Lá no alto tem caverna,

hideouts, And an old fort, falling down. Tem esconderijo bom,
They used to watch for Frenchmen Tem um forte abandonado
From the hill of Babylon. Do tempo de Villegaignon.

Below him was the ocean. Micuçú olhava o mar

It reached far up the sky, E o céu, liso como um muro.
Flat as a wall, and on it Viu um navio se afastando,
Were freighters passing by, Virando um pontinho escuro,

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Or climbing the wall, and climbing Uma mosca na parede,
Till each looked like a fly, Até desaparecer
And then fell over and vanished; Por detrás do horizonte.
And he knew he was going to die. E pensou: “Eu vou morrer”.

He could hear the goats baa-baa-ing, Ouvia berro de cabra,

He could hear the babies cry; Ouvia choro de bebê,
Fluttering kites strained upward; Via pipa rabeando,
And he knew he was going to die. E pensava: “Eu vou morrer”.

A buzzard flapped so near him Urubu voou bem baixo,

He could see its naked neck. Micuçú gritou: “Péra aí”,
He waved his arms and shouted, Acenando com o braço,
“Not yet, my son, not yet!” “Que eu ainda não morri!”

An Army helicopter Veio helicóptero do Exército

Came nosing around and in. Bem atrás do urubu.
He could see two men inside it, Lá dentro ele viu dois homens
But they never spotted him. Que não viram Micuçú.

The soldiers were all over, Logo depois começou

On all sides of the hill, Uma barulheira medonha.
And right against the skyline Eram os soldados subindo
A row of them, small and still. O morro da Babilônia

Children peeked out of windows, Das janelas dos barracos,

And men in the drink shop swore, As crianças espiavam.
And spat a little cachaça Nas biroscas, os fregueses
At the light cracks in the floor. Bebiam pinga e xingavam.

But the soldiers were nervous, even Mas os soldados tinham medo
With tommy guns in hand, Do terrível meliante.
And one of them, in a panic, Um deles, num acesso de pânico,
Shot the officer in command. Metralhou o comandante.

He hit him in three places; Três dos tiras acertaram

The other shots went wild. Os outros tiraram fino.
The soldier had hysterics O soldado ficou histérico:
And sobbed like a little child. Chorava feito um menino.

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The dying man said, O oficial deu suas ordens,
“Finish The job we came here for”. Virou pro lado, suspirou,
He committed his soul to God Entregou a alma a Deus
And his sons to the Governor. E os filhos ao governador.

They ran and got a priest, Buscaram depressa um padre,

And he died in hope of Heaven – Que lhe deu a extrema-unção. –
A man from Pernambuco, Ele era de Pernambuco,
The youngest of eleven. O mais moço de onze irmãos.

They wanted to stop the search, Queriam parar a busca,

But the Army said. “No, go on”, Mas o Exército não quis.
So the soldiers swarmed again E os soldados continuaram
Up the hill of Babylon. A procurar o infeliz.

Rich people in apartments Os ricos, nos apartamentos,

Watched through binoculars Sem a menor cerimônia,
As long as the daylight lasted. Apontavam seus binóculos
And all night, under the stars, Pro morro da Babilônia.

Micuçú hid in the grasses Depois, à noite no mato,

Or sat in a little tree, Micuçú ficou de vigília,
Listening for sounds, and staring De ouvido atento, olhando
At the lighthouse out at sea. Pro farol lá longe, na ilha,

And the lighthouse stared back at him, Que olhava pra ele também,
Till finally it was dawn. Depois dessa noite de insônia
He was soaked with dew, and hungry, Estava com frio e com fome,
On the hill of Babylon. No morro da Babilônia.

The yellow sun was ugly, O sol nasceu amarelo,

Like a raw egg on a plate – Feio feito um ovo cru.
Slick from the sea. He cursed it, Aquele sol desgraçado
For he knew it sealed his fate Era o fim de Micuçú.

He saw the long white beaches Ele via as praias brancas,

And people going to swim, Os banhistas bem dormidos,
With towels and beach umbrellas, Com barracas e toalhas.
But the soldiers were after him. Mas ele era um foragido

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Far, far below, the people A praia era um formigueiro:
Were little colored spots, Toda a areia fervilhava,
And the heads of those in swimming E as pessoas dentro d’água
Were floating coconuts. Eram cocos que boiavam.

He heard the peanut vendor Micuçú ouviu o pregão

Go peep-peep on his whistle, Do vendedor de barraca,
And the man that sells umbrellas E o homem do amendoim
Swinging his watchman’s rattle. Rodando sua matraca.

Women with market baskets Mulheres que iam à feira

Stood on the corners and talked, Paravam um pouco na esquina
Then went on their way to market, Pra conversar com as vizinhas,
Gazing up as they walked. E às vezes olhavam pra cima.

The rich with their binoculars Os ricos, com seus binóculos,

Were back again, and many Voltaram às janelas abertas.
Were standing on the rooftops, Uns subiam nos telhados
Among TV antennae. Para assistir mais de perto.

It was early, eight or eight-thirty. Um soldado – ainda era cedo,

He saw a soldier climb, Oito horas, oito e dez –
Looking right at him. He fired, Fez mira no Micuçú
And missed for the last time. E errou pela última vez.

He could hear the soldier panting, Micuçú ouvia o soldado

Though he never got very near. Ofegando, esbaforido,
Micuçú dashed for shelter. Tentou se embrenhar no mato:
But he got it, behind the ear. Levou uma bala no ouvido.

He heard the babies crying Ouviu um bebê chorando

Far, far away in his head, E sua vista escureceu.
And the mongrels barking and barking. Um vira-lata latiu.
Then Micuçú was dead. Então Micuçú morreu.

He had a Taurus revolver, Tinha um revólver Taurus

And just the clothes he had on, E mais as roupas do corpo,
With two contos in the pockets, Com dois contos no bolso.
On the hill of Babylon. Foi tudo que acharam com o morto.

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The police and the populace A polícia e a população
Heaved a sigh of relief, Respiraram aliviadas.
But behind the counter his auntie Porém na birosca a tia
Wiped her eyes in grief. Chorava desesperada.

“We have always been respected. “Eu criei ele direito,

My shop is honest and clean. Com carinho, com amor.
I loved him, but from a baby Mas não sei, desde pequeno
Micuçú was always mean. Micuçú nunca prestou.

“We have always been respected. “Eu e a irmã dava dinheiro,

His sister has a job. Nunca faltou nada, não.
Both of us gave him money. Por que foi que esse menino
Why did he have to rob? Cismou de virar ladrão?

“I raised him to be honest, “Eu criei ele direito,

Even here, in Babylon slum”. Mesmo aqui, nessa favela”.
The customers had another, No balcão os homens bebiam,
Looking serious and glum. Sérios, sem olhar pra ela.

But one of them said to another, Mas já fora da birosca

When he got outside the door, Comentou um dos fregueses:
“He wasn’t much of a burglar, “Ele era um ladrão de merda.
He got caught six times – or more”. Foi pego mais de seis vezes”.

This morning the little soldiers Hoje está chovendo fino

Are on Babylon hill again; E estão de volta os soldados,
Their gun barrels and helmets Com fuzis metralhadoras
Shine in a gentle rain. E capacetes molhados.

Micuçú is buried already. Vieram dar mais uma batida,

They’re after another two, Só que é outro criminoso.
But they say they aren’t dangerous Mas o pobre Micuçú –
As the poor Micuçú. Dizem – era mais perigoso.

On the fair green hills of Rio Nos morros verdes do Rio

There grows a fearful stain: Há uma mancha a se espalhar:
The poor who come to Rio São os pobres que vêm pro Rio
And can’t go home again. E não têm como voltar.

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There’s the hill of Kerosene, Tem o morro do Querosene,
And the hill of the Skeleton, O Esqueleto, o do Noronha,
The hill of Astonishment, Tem o morro do Pasmado
And the hill of Babylon. E o morro da Babilônia

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