Elizabeth Bishop’s complete published poetry fills one moderate volume. This goes some way toward explaining why she, who ought not need an introduction, unavoidably does. Bishop was reluctant to publish anything imperfect, and she could spend years shaping and reshaping a poem; such care exacts a price. Little of her work beyond the villanelle “One Art” enjoys the ubiquity that attends true fame.

But her reputation has only grown since her death in 1979, and so far she has also managed to avoid posthumous conversion either into a decadent reactionary, as was the case with James Merrill (a friend and admirer, and another poorly understood poet), or a bloodthirsty progressive, as was the case with Robert Lowell (a contemporary and aesthetic kin, and another great admirer and close friend). This is the sign of a sterling if highly idiosyncratic talent.

© 2008 Commentary Inc.