The Bight
by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches,
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
p>One could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves .
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard.
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings,
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm.
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
the bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful .
When the tide recedes to this point, the water becomes extremely clear.
The white lime mudflats are exposed to water layer by layer, with mottled waves and shining brightly.
The boats are dry in the sun; the wooden piles are as dry as matchsticks.
Absorbing rather than being absorbed,
The water in the bay does not wet anything,
and takes on the color of a gas fire at its lowest setting .
You can smell the seawater turning into gas; if you are Baudelaire
You might be able to hear the seawater turning into the sound of the marimba .
At the end of the pier, a small brown fishing net is fishing there
It has been playing a double-jointed stick in an absolutely cold tone and accompanying it.
Waterfowl are all extra-large. The pelicans splashed
What a fuss about this strange gas,
The sight looked a bit like a pickaxe to me,
As soon as I hoeed it down, I pulled it back and looked, but there was nothing.
So I had to swim to the side and squeezed into the pile of pelicans with a funny look.
The black and white frigate bird soars in the unpredictable airflow
The tail is spread out, like a scissors cutting through it
The tail is tight and twitching like a wishbone.
The smelly sponge boats kept coming in
With a diligent attitude like a hunting dog picking up something,
there was a scarecrow-like harpoon on it. Fish hooks
Decorated with hanging sponges.
Along the pier, there is a row of checkered wire mesh walls
On it, hung gleaming plow-like tails
The tails of gray and blue sharks, one by one, There it is dried and prepared for sale to Chinese restaurants.
Some white boats are still leaning against each other
Stacked or placed on their sides, the hulls of the boats are broken,
it has not been repaired yet (if in the future If you really want to repair it), it was all damaged by the last storm,
It's like letters that have been opened without replying.
Abandoned letters are scattered everywhere in this small bay.
Crack, click, catch, the fishing net was fishing up and down,
A lot of lime mud came up.
All the messy things are going on, it’s terrible, but it’s very enjoyable.
Saying Good-bye to Cambridge Again
Very quietly I take my leave
As quietly as I came here;
Quietly I wave good-bye
To the rosy clouds in the western sky.
Gently I leave,
As gently as I came;
p>
I wave gently,
Being farewell to the clouds in the western sky.
The golden willows by the riverside
Are young brides in the setting sun;
Their reflections on the shimmering waves
Always linger in the depth of my heart.
The golden willow by the river
is the bride in the sunset
The beautiful shadow in the ripples,
Ripples in my heart.
The floating heart growing in the sludge
Sways leisurely under the water;
In the gentle waves of Cambridge
I would be a water plant!
The green water plant on the soft mud,
swaying oilily at the bottom of the water;
In the soft waves of the Cam River,
I am willing to be a waterweed
That pool under the shade of elm trees
Holds not water but the rainbow from the sky;
Shattered to pieces among the duck weeds
Is the sediment of a rainbow-like dream?
The pool under the shade of elm trees,
It is not a clear spring, but a rainbow in the sky
Crushed among the floating algae,
Precipitated a rainbow-like dream.
To seek a dream?
Just to pole a boat upstream
To where the green grass is more verdant;
Or to have the boat fully loaded with starlight
And sing aloud in the splendor of starlight.
Looking for a dream?
Put a long pole,
Walk upstream to where the grass is greener,
Load a boat full of stars,
Under the stars Singing in the radiance
But I cannot sing aloud
Quietness is my farewell music;
Even summer insects keep silence for me
Silent is Cambridge tonight!
But I can't sing,
Quietness is the shengxiao of parting;
The summer insects are also silent for me,
< p>Silence is Cambridge tonight!Very quietly I take my leave
As quietly as I came here;
Gently I flick my sleeves
Not even a wisp of cloud will I bring away
Quietly I leave,
Just as quietly as I came;
I wave my sleeves,
Don't take away a single cloud.