I'm getting lazy

... Maybe because the more I read, the less I believe I actually have any ability to speak intelligently about it. I picked up a book of Elizabeth Bishop's poems in the library this week, because I'm not as familiar with her as I could be, and so far I find some of them beautiful, some of them more difficult than it seems they ought to be, and some of them clunky. But I just finished one that really took my breath away - "The Man-Moth." The asterix by the title says that it was a newspaper misprint for "mammoth" ... which puts the poem in a very interesting context. Out of carelessness is born a very deliberately crafted creature.

The idea of a "man-moth" is intriguing; partly because of its terribly tragic connotations. Moths have always felt full of despair to me. Perhaps it's some combination of them being more ordinary and ugly than a butterfly with the whole "like a moth to a flame" image of the hapless creatures bumbling into a fatal fire. Elizabeth Bishop's poem captures that tragic hopelessness along with a sense of persistent survival that is really quite touching. The last stanza is stunning, ending:


Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips.
Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention
he'll swallow it. However, if you watch, he'll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.


Why will he swallow his tear? Is it his only sustenance? Or a reminder of the "man" part of him? And if a regular person drank it, would it tell them something about life they were too blinded by the sun to realize? The image is sad, and delicate, and carries itself without an explanation.