Graduate Work
Writer's Workshop Portfolio Project
Response Paper
“Sestina” by Elizabeth Bishop
The form of Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, “Sestina” has a direct reflection on the meaning. Each stanza is composed of six lines, each ending with the same six words that repeat throughout the poem: house, grandmother, child, stove, almanac, and tears. The poem is permeated with sadness and loss. The poem altogether is an unbroken scene of a grandmother reading an almanac to her grandchild and then each of them getting pulled into their own personal activities or musings all within the same small space of the kitchen next to the “Little Marvel Stove” (Bishop 2017). While the poem as a whole is one unit of time and place, the stanzas serve to break up the shifting meaning of the words and the shifting internalization of the theme of sadness.
The first stanza opens with September rains falling outside of this warm little interior space, the kitchen. The grandmother is externally happy, but internally grief-ridden, “reading the jokes from the almanac, / laughing and talking to hide her tears” (Bishop 2017). There is clearly something that is bothering the grandmother that she wants to hide from her grandchild. It is in the second stanza that we begin to see a shift. The grandmother and grandchild are now no longer engaging in the same activity. The grandmother leaves the child and begins to tend to things on the stove. The third stanza focuses on the child’s naivety and curiosity over the “small hard tears” and “hot black stove” paying her grandmother no mind (Bishop 2017). We begin to see the dichotomy between the grief of the grandmother and the innocence of her grandchild.
As the stanzas continue we can see the gap between the two characters growing wider as they both begin to internalize their experiences. The almanac that seemed to have forecasted her tears, “she thinks that her equinoctial tears / and the rain that beast on the roof of the house / were both foretold by the almanac” making the line “the almanac hovers half open above the child, / hovers above the old grandmother” a manifestation of her grief. She sees her grief as something she could have predicted. In the fifth stanza we can see the prophetic objects of the stove and the almanac actually speaking, “It was to be, says the Marvel Stove, / I know what I know, says the almanac” (Bishop 2017). In this same stanza we see the shift away from the grandmother’s grief to the grandchild. The child is drawing a “rigid house” with a man “with buttons like tears” (Bishop 2017). It is possible that there is a reason the child has drawn a man with tears for buttons. It is possible that this man is the cause of the grandmother’s grief.
The sixth stanza seems to spring hope within the otherwise melancholy poem. The “moons fall down like tears / from between the pages of the almanac / into the flower bed” (Bishop 2017). The child is taking this sadness and “growing” new life and new hope through her own innocence. The last triplet of the poem begins with “Time to plant tears” possibly meaning that the time for grief as come to an end. It is time to let go of that grief and allow for new life.
The key word among the six repeating words, although they are all important to the meaning of the poem, is “tears” as it shows the greatest evolution throughout the poem and simply by connotation is the one that best conveys sadness. In the first stanza we can equate the rain outside with the grandmother’s tears. Her sadness has even extended to the weather. The second stanza refers to the tears as equinoctial, something we can think of as seasonal or reoccurring. The tears are then transferred from the grandmother to the observations of the child of the teakettle as it begins to sing. The tears are then described as a “teacup full of dark brown tears” meaning the tea the grandmother has brewed (Bishop 2017). We can see here that the grandmother is still holding on to this grief while the child is unaware of its weight or presence in the room. The child then draws the man with tears for buttons, which as I referred to earlier, can possibly be a representation of who the grandmother is grieving for. The tears are then described as moons that fall into the child’s doodled flower bed, finally ending with the almanac saying that it is “Time to plant tears” (Bishop 2017). This refers to an end to this cycle of grief experienced by the grandmother. As the moons wane the poem suggests that this period of grief for the grandmother does as well, finding new hope in the child.
The title of this poem, “Sestina” refers directly to the form in which it was written. Janine Rogers states in her article “Elizabeth Bishop’s ‘Sestina’ and DNA Structure” that “The title, ‘Sestina,’ appears to simply identify the poetic form that Bishop chose for her story […]. Reading this poem, however, we do not experience it as a display of cold or abstract mechanics. Instead it is a raw and deeply emotional, for all the empirical details of the underlying sorrow […] are concealed from the reader” (Rogers 2010, 93). The poem undermines the readers expectations of “cold or abstract mechanics” based on the title. As the nature of a sestina is inherently complex, the complexity of the relationships that Bishop describes are also reflected in the title. The circular recycling of words throughout the poem reflects the patterns of behavior of the characters included within the poem. By naming the poem, “Sestina,” Bishop both clues in the reader to the complexity and deceives them with simplicity.
Works Cited
Bishop, Elizabeth. “Sestina.” Canvas.du.edu: Comola, Jessica. August 24, 2016.
Rogers, Janine. "Life Forms: Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" and DNA Structure." Mosaic: An Interdisciplinary Critical Journal 43, no. 1 (March 2010): 93-109. Accessed May 31, 2018. doi:10.1007/3-540-08917-9_174.
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Fiction
MTWTF
Monday
My husband leaned over, “This place smells like rubber bands and farts.”
“Hon, it just smells like a hospital. Can you quit it? You’re making me nervous.”
He leaned back into his own chair and sat quietly sulking until the doctor came in. The office was small so the doctor in the one-size-too-small lab coat had to suck in his stomach as he squeezed by my chair. His face was too tan and you could see the glisten of sweat behind his short, white beard.
“Well, we got the tests back and I’m afraid that the news isn’t quite what we were hoping for.” My husband’s hand instinctively reached over and grabbed mine. I could see that his knuckles were strained and white making the dark hair on the back of each finger stand out.
“Okay, well what does that mean?” I asked, the patience for this visit slowly draining.
“Well, your t-cell count isn’t anywhere near where we hoped it would be. It doesn’t seem like the cancer is back, but it means that you aren’t out of the woods yet. I am going to recommend at least another six courses of treatment just to be sure that it’s completely gone.”
Doctors’ offices were not places of hope so I had left it at the door on the way in. It seemed that Cory hadn’t though. His hand was still clutching mine and I could feel the subtle tremble of disappointment shudder through his body.
“Lisa will discuss scheduling with you on your way out. Thanks for coming in.” The doctor said as he stood indicating that we should leave. No time for questions apparently.
Tuesday
“Mom it’s fine. It’s just six more treatments. The doctor said that the cancer isn’t back, it’s just a precaution.” Cory was talking to his mother over the phone.
I listened on the other side of the kitchen wall so that he couldn’t see me from the living room. He was taking this much harder than me. The first round was really hard. Harder on me than him, I think. Cory had been strong and proactive while all I did was curl into myself. The first three months, I barely left the house. I barely even left our bed except for treatments. I told Cory that the treatments just made me feel sick, which they did, but there was something darker that pulled me back. I felt betrayed. My body had betrayed me. Even my own cells didn’t find me deserving of life. And at the root of it, I was scared. Not of the pain, or the treatment, but death. How would I know that everyone I was leaving behind be okay? I blamed myself for the pain that I was causing all my loved ones. Thinking back, it was probably this that kept me locked away. They were going to have to get used to life without me, I might as well start the transition now, I thought.
When I went into remission, I still laid in bed for long periods but they slowly became shorter and shorter. Soon I was out getting groceries again, going to happy hours with friends, even though I couldn’t drink, tinkering around in the garden. I started to think that life was going to go on and that it would be alright. I chided myself for a long time for the pain that I saw in my parent’s eyes. “Why haven’t you called us?” My mother would ask. I didn’t have an answer but I vowed to call more often. And I did. Slowly mending the relationships that I had systematically destroyed.
“God!” I could hear Cory throw his phone down on the sofa. I rounded the corner, leaning up against the wall with my arms folded.
“She’s just worried, honey. I think it’s actually kind of sweet you know. I never thought that she would care this much.”
“She’s not a monster, Violet. Of course she cares.” Clearly it wasn’t the conversation he was planning to have. My first treatment was the next day and I didn’t feel like wasting energy fighting so I turned and left the room.
We made love that night and I could feel how desperate he was. Every touch was full of fear and worry and love. So much love.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” he said. “I just can’t lose you.”
“I can’t lose you either.”
We laid on our sides staring at each other until we both fell asleep, still wrapped in each other’s arms.
Wednesday
The sunburn was back. Or at least that is what it looked like. A huge swath of red, burnt skin reaching across my body. I was so relieved during the first round when I found out that the radiation wasn’t going to cause me to lose my hair. I always felt that it was the only good thing I had going for me. I said as much to Cory one day and he looked at me as if I had a third eyeball sticking out of my forehead.
“What in the ever living hell are you talking about?”
“Oh you know,” I had said. “If you shaved off my hair, you wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”
“You could have looked like the elephant man, and I mean literally, the elephant man, and nothing could have kept me away from you.”
I had blushed and pretended I had an itch on my face to wipe away the grateful tear that escaped my eye.
When we got back from the treatment center, Cory slowly walked me into the living room. He held my hand with the other at the small of my back, as if I were an old woman who couldn’t feel her feet.
“I can walk you know,” I giggled.
“I know,” he grinned still looking down at my feet. “I just don’t know what else to do.”
“Just set me up on the chaise in the living room. I want to stretch out my legs. And maybe put on that baking show I like?”
“Of course, hon.”
I laid back, getting myself comfortable. It was snowing outside. The windows at the back of the house were huge and since the room was on the second floor I could see over the tops of all the evergreen trees that lined the backyard. The large fluffy flakes were bright against the dark green backdrop. I was exhausted and slightly nauseous. Cory turned on the aroma therapy defuser and filled it with peppermint oil. He knew it calmed my stomach. I drifted off to sleep with the gentle sounds of whisking and cracking eggs in my ears.
Thursday
I didn’t remember feeling so sick the first time. It was like my stomach was a pit of boiling snakes.
“Have you ever seen a pit of boiling snakes?” Cory laughed trying to take my mind off of the pain.
“No, but I can imagine. Just like I know that celery tastes like the devil’s butthole even though I’ve never tasted the devil’s butthole.”
“Touché…I guess,” Cory laughed as I drifted back to sleep.
Friday
Cory was opposed but I felt alright enough to return to work that day. I got up and didn’t feel the unbearable weight of the radiation dragging me back into bed. It was the last day of the week and I knew that there were plenty of things to catch up on in the office. Just one day and then the weekend.
“Just promise to call me if you start to feel sick, even a little. I’ll come and pick you up immediately.”
“I promise. I just don’t want to get too far behind. Plus I have to make sure that Shelly hasn’t stolen the chair from my office. I know she’s been eyeing it,” I winked but his face just looked pained.
The office looked the same as always. It’s funny, I thought, how some things never change even when everything seems different. I didn’t remember everything feeling so foreign when I had come back the last time. When I had left the office on Friday I had been sure that this was all over. No more treatments, only checkups from here on out. They surely all had to know how the appointment went since I hadn’t shown up in four days.
There were two get well cards waiting on my desk and my office door was littered with post-it notes of: call me to talk about publishing deadline, or waiting for response from you on new product template. The day was filled with pitying glances through my glass door. There were also the few huffy and resentful conversations with those who had to pick up the “slack” while I was out.
I put in a sabbatical request that morning. Six months off with a job to come back to. Not all non-profit jobs sucked. I put it in thinking, who knows if I’ll decide to come back. It was many months later when my mother said to me, “You have almost had your life ripped away from you twice now. Why would you go back to that job? You hate it? Don’t you think your time left here, whether it’s months or years, is better spent?” And I never went back.
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Poetry
I Was So
When I was young and pure as white linen in the morning sun,
I loved a boy
who was as sweet as melted summer ice pops,
And whose laughter was clear
and shook the leaves from the glowing auburn trees.
We walked together in the burnished fields,
hand in hand as the wheat grew tall around us,
And we came to a fork in the road
and I watched as the wind blew him out of my arms.
I was so young.
When I was a woman as placid as a floating white lily,
I loved a man
whose smile lingered in his eyes
even after it faded from his lips,
He made potpourri of pillows.
And I fell to my knees at the fear in his eyes
when I saw her wrapped in his arms.
And he cowered at my sound and fury,
Now only another in the ranks of once loved women.
When I was old and fragile as a white flake of snow,
I loved a gentleman
whose hand reached for mine in our golden age,
And who looked toward the sky with tears in his eyes,
And our laughter was muffled and full of years.
And his eyes slipped from my face as he departed back into the sky.
I was so old.
And when I could no longer see the white light of day
or feel the gentle caress of the wind,
I loved my God who replaced my daylight
and spoke soft words into all the empty spaces.
And the wind that flowed around me
became the call of the angelic host.
And at last I was welcomed into their warm embrace.
I was so dead.
*See Love Poem 1990 by Peter Mienke as reference