"Elizabeth Bishop: Petropolis, Brazil, 1952": a poem by Blake Morrison

My toucan is flourishing, now he takes cold baths:
he plunges in as though he hates it but knows he must.
Once wet, his skin goes the colour of blueberries
or as if he’s wearing jeans. I’ve a cat now, too,
black with a white bib, perfect evening wear for the opera.
The house is under a cliff, and I’ve my own studio.
I am so high here, so high. Clouds spill over the mountains
like waterfalls in slow motion, then float into my bedroom.
No one can tell me what day it is, or even the time of year,
all I know is it’s the season of blue butterflies.
I am learning Portuguese, which is packed with diminutives –
buttonholes are buttonhouses. I’ve bought an MG,
with red leather seats, which my story in the New Yorker
will pay for once they stop demanding changes –
one tires of typing even a masterpiece.
The fireflies move with milky blue lights, like distant trains.
We go to bed at 9.30 and read, surrounded by oil-lamps.
Apart from my asthma, and an allergy to cashews,
I feel better than I have for years. I know it’s a cliché
but Brazilians really are (which I love them for) crazy.

This poem, part of a longer sequence, is a collage of words and images that Elizabeth Bishop used in her letters. Blake Morrison and Ali Smith will discuss Bishop’s time in Brazil at the Cambridge Literary Festival on 5 April (cambridgeliteraryfestival.com; 01223 300 085).

This article first appeared in the 10 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Tech Issue

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood