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.
“I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.”
Elizabeth Bishop
Resting, John Singer Sargent, 1880.
Thoughts
This poem explores the human experience of loss. The speaker argues that "losing" is an art form that can be mastered over time: first begin with small losses, such as a doorkey. Then gradually build up to losing more significant things such as a house or city.
After all this practice, one should ultimately be able to lose a person that they love and still find it manageable. Despite the speaker's insistence that this is not a disaster either, no one believes her. By the end, the speaker's repetitive insistence that loss is no disaster is seen for what it really is: her obsessive attempt to downplay her grief and profound loss.
Does loss become easier if a person has had "practice" losing?
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