Bishop's poem burns my skin today: Yes, constantly letting go of people and things
can become an art-form if it must be constantly polished by practice. And naming each loss--tossing it off over our shoulders as we toss salt to keep away bad luck--helps it stop searing the flesh. But, in "One Art" Bishop even inserts self mockery--not heavy, not too light. I imagine her sitting by an open window, her head leaning on one hand, after a long night that finally ends. She wears a long cotton gown and picks up her pen with an ironic smile and writes this self jest. I love her.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
