ONE ART II
by Elizabeth Bishop
One Art is considered one of the best villanelles in existence, and it is based on a relationship Bishop had with a woman named Alice Methfessel. They were domestic partners from 1971 to 1979, the year of Bishop’s death.
There are 16 drafts of this poem written in 1976. The first draft of One Art interests me because we can hear the woman in this, not just the poet. Her stream-of-consciousness writing in this draft is where many poems begin. The poem in its original state is all over the page emotionally. It took 15 more drafts for Bishop to craft in the understated tone she needed to give the poem power.
But that voice isn’t here. This is a poem written by an alcoholic who is losing her love because of frequent black outs. This is a woman who is losing her teaching job at Harvard because she is missing classes. She is losing her friends because she would say things to them when drunk she couldn’t remember later.
Bishop did not lose the relationship with Methfessel as she feared. She wrote about her, “Alice [is] a wonderful traveling companion. Since she is so athletic and big, tall, I mean – I thought I’d never keep up with her (and she is 28 or 29 too [in 1972] – but I manged to. I think you’d like her very much – very American in the nicest way; she cheers me up a lot about my native land – …. Alice has had a happy life and is the only child of devoted parents – pampered, really – but nevertheless has turned out to be kind and generous and very funny. – She’s good for me because she cheers me up.”
Brett Millier wrote about the couple in her book, Elizabeth Bishop Life and the Memory Of It, “Although Elizabeth still described Alice as her ‘young friend’ or ‘secretary’ to certain correspondents, very quickly ‘Elizabeth and Alice’ became a recognized couple in the circle of poets and teachers in which Elizabeth moved and in her letters to faraway friends.
“But an intimate relationship between apparently unequal partners, one of whom was an alcoholic, was bound to have its unruly energies. Alice grew weary from time to time of the great demands placed on her by Elizabeth’s pain and poor health; of the cycles of illness, drunkenness and injury that often marked the last years of Elizabeth’s life; and of doling out the Antabuse that helped to prevent such cycles from getting started. And Elizabeth lived in mortal fear of losing Alice and of what would happen if she were to be left alone to grow old and care for herself in her indispositions and incapacities. Alice’s attempts to put distance between herself and Elizabeth’s myriad problems resulted in desperate attempts on Elizabeth’s part to get her back.”
In the chaos of her life, Bishop created one of the most beautiful poems ever written. It begins here, it begins really in the last lines of the first draft when she starts trying to describe her lover’s blue eyes. You can see the writer failing then. You can see a person who is desperate to hold onto a woman she can’t imagine living her life without.
My favorite change in all the drafts is the last one she made. It is in the second line of the poem. For 15 drafts that line was, so many things seem really to be meant to be lost. It became so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost. She was stuck on the word meant for 15 drafts and sent the final version to the publisher with the awkward meant line. And then, maybe because she had let go of the poem, a way to use word intent came to her, something she had been considering for many drafts.
Semantically, they mean the same thing, but poetically the line flows much more easily with that final handwritten change called into her editor. It is the line that drew me to this poem so many years ago. It made me ask the question: Are there things in our life we can in no way keep from losing?
It is still a question I ask. It makes for a life of uncertainty, and that’s why this poem is so universally understood. The list of lost things in this poem are things we all lose: car keys, reading glasses, mortgages (she lost houses because she would forget to pay her mortgage), her mother’s watch, the hour badly spent, places and names we meant to travel. These lines are lifted out of life that has sorted through the mixture of things we lose, and the poem progresses slowly through each loss. She begins with car keys, persists through houses and places and ends in losing the woman she loves.
Bishop suggests all these losses in a villanelle, a quiet, elegant form. The villanelle gives the list dignity it wouldn’t have in free verse. But in the villanelle, each thing leans over and kisses us on the cheek as it passes.
When a poet finds the right form for a poem, the tuning fork of the poem sounds right to the ear. The poem has a certain balance it wouldn’t have otherwise. By the second draft of this poem it is starting to look like a villanelle. She had the repeating lines marked out and possible end words scribbled in. In her writing of it then through the various drafts, she remained curious about the poem. She wasn’t stifled by the form.
That’s the difficulty in writing in any form. You begin to think, no, I need a word that ends in “ing” here or I need to stick with iambic pentameter there. It keeps you from experimenting with the poem and changing the whole thing if the “ing” word doesn’t work or doesn’t feel right. Some possibilities begin to be dismissed. She allows the places in the poem she is working on to stay open and receptive to the voices she is hearing. She allowed all the same stream-of-consciousness writing to continue as she doodled in possibilities around the edges of each stanza, as the poem pressed her for new language or longer lines or a different title.
Writing poems is like taking music lessons. We begin writing down our thoughts, we begin with the technical work of writing sentences, and then the unexpected music rises out of the words, it isn’t thinking anymore, it is singing. It has departed into the music of its life. Words for the poem, like intent, rise out of a passing voice in a building or from a page in a book. The sensation of the poem rises in us and we imagine a line in a new way.
It is a useful way the muses have given us to pay attention to our imaginations. Every artist is blessed this way. They have another way of listening to the world. A soul and a poem are both connected to intuitions and unknown interests far away.
The fact that the poem became a villanelle so soon in its birth makes me believe that a poem has a form it is called to. This poem wanted to be a villanelle. A poem welcomes certain forms and dislikes others. This means that a poem has a life of its own, its own mind, its own voice, its own likes and dislikes just like a person does. And that means all art does. Art wants to be created in a way that welcomes in all the possibilities of its existence.
(Lines struck through are in red.)
HOW TO LOSE THINGS/? /The GIFT OF LOSING THINGS
One might begin by losing one’s reading glasses
oh 2 or 3 times a day – or one’s favorite pen.
The thing to do is to begin by “mislaying”.
Mostly, one begins by “mislaying”:
keys, reading-glasses, fountain pens
- these are almost too easy to be mentioned,
and “mislaying” means that they usually turn up
in the most obvious place, although when one
is making progress, the places grow more unlikely
- This is by way of introduction.
I really want to introduce myself – I am such a
fantastic lly good at losing things
I think everyone shd. profit from my experiences.
You may find it hard to believe, but I have actually lost
I mean lost, and forever two whole houses,
one a very big one. A third house, also big, is
at present, I think, “mislaid” – but
Maybe it’s lost too. I won’t know for sure for some time.
I have lost one long (crossed out) peninsula and one island.
I have lost – it can never be has never been found –
a small-sized town on that same island.
I’ve lost smaller bits of geography, like
a splendid beach, and a good-sized bay.
Two whole cities, two of the
world’s biggest cities (two of the most beautiful
although that’s beside the point)
A piece of one continent –
and one entire continent. All gone, gone forever and ever.
One might think this would have prepared me
for losing one averaged-sized not especially——— exceptionally
beautiful or dazzlingly intelligent person
(except for blue eyes) (only the eyes were exceptionally beautiful and
But it doesn’t seem to have, at all … the hands looked intelligent)
the fine hands<
a good piece of one continent
and another continent – the whole damned thing!
He who loseth his life, etc… – but he who
loses his love – neever, no never never never again -
In the first drafts, we see her playing with the words start out with, begin with. She realizes she wants to open the poem showing the loss of small things and build toward larger ones. She’s writing in the repeat lines now. The awkward line, The mastered art of losing’s no disaster remains for many drafts before she finally changes it. We also have the first of the small things, car keys. We hear her working with irony, You’ll find your time well spent.
Drafts four, five and six are handwritten and unreadable, but in draft five she is trying out end words. In draft seven, we have reading glasses as another possible lost thing. And we see the humorous line, forget the faster-money. Ahome enters and the important word intent. That remains throughout the drafts. She knows she wants to use it but she’s not sure where yet.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
or many things seem really to be meant
to be lost that their loss is no disaster
Start out with
Begin with little things
her words where they went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
The practice brings losses, lose them faster,
faster
The mastered art of losing’s no disaster.
Look! I’ve had ten houses
Look! and my last, or next to last,
[Draft 3]
the art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things seem almost to be meant
to be lost, that their loss is no disaster.
Begin with car keys
I’ll never
the art of losing isn’t hrd to master
The practice brings losses, lose them faster,
you’ll find your time well spent
the mastered art of loss is no disaster.
[Draft 4]
the art of losing isn’t hard to master
so many things really seem to be meant
to be lost, and the loss is no disaster —
Intent is really the key word in this poem. It says something about the person. If your intent deep down is to lose someone, you will no matter how big a show you put on to prove you want them in your life. To live with intention is to live paying attention to your feelings and what you really want. Bishop was drowning her feelings in alcohol. She may not have been aware what she wanted. It must have worried her that her intent all along was to lose Alice Methfessel.
Losing things and people had become a pattern in her life. Her partner of 15 years, Lota de Soares (1910 -1967), had committed suicide by overdosing on tranquilizers in 1967. Many of De Soares’ family and friends in Brazil blamed Bishop for the suicide. They felt Bishop abandoned De Soares when she was ill and depressed. This must have haunted the poet.
Bishop said, “I lost my mother, and Lota, and others, too–I’d like to try to save somebody, for a change.”
Bishop didn’t know her mother well and lived with relatives. When she was young, her father died and and her mother was committed to a mental asylum. She was sent to live with relatives in Nova Scotia. In the line, I lost my mother’s watch, I hear Bishop saying, I lost my mother. The watch may have represented her mother to her in some way.
(The handwriting is mostly unreadable.)
[Draft 7]
The art of losing not so hard to master:
so many things seem really to be meant
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Start slowly will you, keep, a face, a gesture
Stood with your glasses
Reading-glasses, car–keys, you can master
easy things.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
The practice brings losses, lose them faster,
forget the faster-money, home, intent,
the mastered art of losing’s no disaster.
Look! I myself have lost or
next to last, at least, houses and
In drafts eight we see the “ent” at the end of lines. She knows what sound she is working toward, but she’s not quite sure how to get there yet. She adds the word innumerable here in draft nine. Here also is the word mortgages. She eventually lost the property she and De Soares owned in Brazil.
David Kalstone said about this in his biography about Bishop, A Poet’s Life, “[The suicide] was effectively the end of Bishop’s Brazilian life. She still owned the Ouro Preto house and returned there regularly for several years trying to make it her home, but the living tie that bound her to Brazil was broken and in the most devastating fashion. The life that once seemed to remind her of the way an orphaned child survived in Nova Scotia now reminded her only of her great losses. Their mutual friends in Rio refused to receive her, as if to say she had abandoned Lota; relatives sued to gain the properties Lota’s will had denied them. Bishop lost the house in Petropolis. She began living with a young woman she had met in Seattle. They took an apartment in San Francisco and spent part of the year in Ouro Preto. Bishop loved the house there, which she called Casa Mariana in honor of [Marianne] Moore, but was robbed blind by contractors and domestics in the course of trying to restore it and keep it going. ‘I suppose I had Lota for so long to intervene for me, in Petropolis, at least – and I really was happy there for many years,’ she wrote [Robert] Lowell in December 1969. ‘Now I feel her country really killed her – and is capable of killing anyone who is honest and has high standards and wants to do something good … and my one desire is to get out. But HOW TO LIVE?’ Or again, a few weeks later, of Lota: “I miss her more every day of my life. This is one of the reasons I want to leave Brazil (forgive me.)”
[Draft 8]
The art of losing isn’t hard to master
Practicing my
and possibly will end disaster
We see the word forgetting in draft nine. She was forgetful because of her alcoholism. Forgetting is another way of losing things. We still have the wordsspells disaster in this draft. She’s playing with the word spells because she’s going to place the word disaster behind it in quotes later. As if to say, “It’s a quote ‘disaster’” It’s not really a disaster but we’ll just say it’s one. The wordspells emphasizes that.
Disaster is a big word, and she knew that. She’s building the whole poem around that word, and she might have doubts about the poem’s tone. If you say something is a disaster, the tone must reflect that. By playing with these words, she’s asking questions of the poem, “How do I craft in the understated tone I want in this.” She wants to say the real disaster in life isn’t in losing things but people we love. She is implying that in losing small things we are working toward losing something larger. If we aren’t capable of holding on to small things, how can we hold on to important things.
In draft one, she quotes the beginning of a line from the Bible in the book of Matthew, He who loseth his life (for my sake shall gain it). And I wonder if she didn’t have other verses in the back of her mind from the book of Luke, “If a person can be trusted with small things, then he can also be trusted with big things. If a person is dishonest in little things, then he will be dishonest with big things too. If you cannot be trusted with worldly riches, then you will not be trusted with heavenly riches.”
Her mother’s watch enters in draft nine as well as a cape, an entire continent. The word geographical is seen for the first time. This is a word we associate with Bishop because of her book titles, Georgraphy III, North & South and Questions of Travel. Bishop not only lost the geography of places but of people she loved.
The interesting line all that I write is false first appears. And later that becomes,lies now, I’m writing lies now. You can hear the desperation in her voice. She’s pleading, I don’t want to lose these things but I don’t know how to stop. Keeping things is really important to me, but I don’t know how to hold on.
She’s also beginning to play with say it versus write it. She goes back and forth between those two possibilities until the final draft.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
innumerable thing seem really to be meant so many things that
to be lost, so their loss is no disaster.
Lose something everyday. Oh you can muster a list might muster
the usual list: car-keys keys, reading-glasses, mortgages unsent –
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing bigger, losing faster,
forgetting faster
The practice losing big, losing faster: forgetting faster
places and name and where it was you meant
to go – None of them spells disaster disaster
Lose something every day. Oh, you can muster
the usual list:
Lose something eevery day. Lose every day. Oh ayone can muster
the the packages un sent
Look! I have lost my mother’s watch last two houses homes land my last, or
next-to-last on of my three houses. Where they went beloved houses.
isn’t a problem, much less a disaster.
I’ve lost two cities, loveley ones,
Two cities vanished, loveley ones, and vaster
losses a cape, a continent.
You won’t believe the losses I can master.
Look! I have lost my mother’s watch; my last, or
next-to-last of three beloved houses went they went
Look! I have lost my mother’s watch; my last, or
next-to-last of three loved houses went
into nowhere away somewhere, band they weren’t a disaster.
Two cities, lovely ones. And on to vaster
and vaster loss, a cape, a con an entire continent.
the art of losing isn’t hard to master.
geographical loss – a continent.
The art of losing isn’t too hard to master.
gesture?
All that I write is false, it’s evident
the art of losing isn’t hard to master.
oh no.
anythng at all anything but one’s love (Sat it: disaster.)
with one exception. (Write it here)
(Why not just write “disaster”?)
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things semm really to be meant
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. A list might muster an hour’s
keys, reading glasses, money, good intent one one nights good intent
The art of losing is’t hard to master/
Then practise losing bigger, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to go – and none will spell disaster.
Look! I have lost my mother’s watch. My last, or
next-to-last of three loved houses. They went.
off into nowhere, but they weren’t disaster. nothing so serious as disaster
I’ve lost two cities, lovely ones. Then vaster
things, rivers, a cape, an entire continent. thing: islan a cape, a continent
The art of losing isn’t so hard to master.
But, losing you (eyes of Azure Aster)
But you if I lose you (eyes of azure aster)
all that I write is false. It’s evident lies, now. I’m writing lies now. It’s quite evident.
tha rt of losing isn’t hard to master.
I’ve written lies above. It’s evident
the art of losing isnt’ hard to master
with one exception. (Say it) That’s disaster.
with one exception (Write it!)
(Say it – yes, disaster.)
In draft eleven is, I’ve written lies. I wrote a lot of lies. This sounds like the speaking voice of a woman talking to someone she loves. I’ve lied to you. It’s all lies. I like that this voice is still here in drafts ten and eleven. She continues writing in the voice from the first draft. She wants that voice here whether we see it in the final version or not. That’s the beauty of poetry. We can delete lines, and they are still there energetically whether the reader sees them or not. And that energy, that desperate tone in the first draft remains throughout the poem. Lies, it’s all lies, you’re really the most important thing in the world to me keeps coming through.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things we seem really to be meant
to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
Lose something every day. Grow comfortable with fluster
lost keys, glasses, hour’s intent.
lost keys, The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practise losing bigger, lose faster:
places, and names, and it was you meant
to go. none will spell disaster.
Look! I have lost my mother’s watch. My last, or
next-to-last of three loved houses went.
but nothing quite so serious as disaster.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. Then And faster
then segments of geography; a continent.
The art of losing”s not so hard to master.
But, losing you [eyes of the small wild aster]
above’s all lies now. It’s quite evident
the art of losing wasn’t hard to master
with one exception
except for (Say it! Say it!) that disaster.
I’ve written lies above. It’s evident
the art of losing wasn’t hard to master
in gnereal, but (Say it!)
with one exception, which
not one exception is
The art of losing wasn’t hard to master
All losing hasn’t een too hard to master
but losing you
My losses haven’t been too hard to master
with with but th
with this exception (Say it!) this disaster.
I”ve written lies. I wrote a lot of lies. It’s evident
the art of losing wasn’t hard to master
with one exception (Write it!) Write “disaster.”
In draft twelve she uses the word stupid. She strikes out Stupid! Write! Here is the inner voice coming through. You’re so stupid to lose her. What is wrong with you. Are you just stupid. A tortured voice is in these words. It reveals how insecure she is, I’m just stupid, I’m worthless, I’m just a loser.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things seem really to be meant
to be lost that their loss is no disaster
Try losing every day. Accept the fluster
of the lost glasses, kesys, houses, intent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing further, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to go. And non will spell disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And, look! my last, or
next-to-last of three loved houses went.
off into nowhere. That was not disaster.
I miss them. disaster. two rivers, then a cape; a continent.
— of geography: a cape, a continent
But losing you (even a a gesture)
above’s all lies now. It is evident
the art of losing isn’t wasn’t hard to master above’s not lies, but it is evident
with this exception (Write it!)
but there
will
generally speaking
But, losing you (even to or gesture)
above’s not lies – it’s only evident
the art of losing isn’t hard to master wasn’t
with this exception (Stupid! Write!)
(Write it!) this disaster.
except this loss (Oh, write it!) this disaster.
but this lost it (Go on! write it !) disaster.
But losing you
I haven’t lied above, It’s evident ( even gesture)
In draft thirteen is the first appearance of the wonderful an hour badly spent. It’s something so many people can relate to, the loss of time. We lose an hour of the day in traffic or on trivialities like finding lost car keys or reading glasses, and it’s very frustrating.
In draft thirteen, she finally begins to flesh out those awkward middle stanzas she’s been having trouble with. You can see her questioning, what should I put in here, we’ve got to go from car keys and my mother’s watch to something. But what? She picks places, realms and rivers and continents. She’s writing those words around the edges throughout the drafts, trying to work out how to get all this into three lines.
And she wants to hold on to the word lied. When you write a poem, you often have lines and words you don’t want to lose. Sometimes they trigger the writing of the poem. Giving them up for the sake of the poem is difficult, but she manages to hold onto lied until the end.
As we are winding down to the end, the tone of the poem begins to take shape. It reveals itself more and more. Tone is the hardest thing for a poet to hear. You can’t hear how another person is going to read your poem when you are in the thick of it. You lose all sense of that. But the poem starts to give hints that you are on the right track by giving you words and lines that haven’t come before. The poem starts softening in your hands. It’s not the hard clay you began with. It’s the poem’s way of saying, “You’re getting this right.” And that’s what we see in the final three and four drafts, the words starting to fall into place.
If you write a beautiful poem and have the wrong tone, the poem falls flat on its face. She wanted to flatten out the tone enough that the words would have weight. To scream something in a poem, you must say it quietly. And that quiet tone has entered in now. She isn’t screaming at us anymore, neever, no never never never again. She wanted to scream, It’s all lies! It’s all lies! You’re the most important thing in the world to me but that wouldn’t engage the reader’s interest as much.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things seem really to be meant
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door-keys, an hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing further, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to go. none will spell disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch, lovely ones, And, vaster,
small realms, two rivers, then a continent. some realms of mine, two rives, a continent
I miss them, but I would not say disaster.
I’d never say disaster.
And losing you new (a special voice, a gesture)
doesn’t mean I’ve lied. It’s evident
the loss of love is possible to master,
even if this looks like (Write it!) like disaster.
In losing you I haven’t lied above. It’s evident
does not mean that I’ve I’m lying. It’s evident
the loss of love is something one must master
even which it look like (Write it!) like disaster.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things seem really to be meant
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.
The practice losing further, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will spell 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 of mine, two rivers, a continent x I owned,
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
Even In losing you (a joking voice, a gesture
I love), I haven’t lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
even when it looks (Oh write it!) like disaster.
Although it looks like (Write it) like disaster
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
These are not lies.
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
By draft 15 we are finally done with really to be meant, which bothered her all the way through. In almost every draft she plays with that line, crossing parts out, writing words in, trying to discover a way around the word really.
And the word lies is still here. I still won’t lie finally becomes I shan’t have lied in the final draft. I shan’t have lied doesn’t have the tone of, This is all lies, lies. The word shan’t is proper. It’s not a common word but shouldn’t is two syllables, and she needs a one syllable word to keep the line flow. Using shouldn’twouldn’t have been as seamless.
If I hadn’t seen the it’s all lies in the other drafts, I wouldn’t notice the shan’t have lied. She flattens the tone out so much with that word. When I recite this poem to people who don’t know Elizabeth Bishop or the poem One Art, I always stumble on the word shan’t because it’s not a word I use. As soon as I say it, the poem is placed in a time and diction we don’t use anymore, and I see that recognition in people’s eyes.
She uses parenthesis in the final stanza around both a joking voice, a gesture I love and Write it! She’s making these parenthetical expressions to tone down the words even more. Bishop is a master. She wants us to notice this, so she puts it in parenthesis. A phrase is normally put in parenthesis to say its incidental to the reading. But by placing these words in parenthesis in her poem, Bishop gives them emphasis. Once again, she’s emphasizing something by toning it down.
She also finds a place for her exclamation points. It is found elsewhere after the word look, but it ends up in these final lines as well. This poem had been an exclamation point inside her all along.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master:
so many things seem really to be meant 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 (a joking voice, a gesture
I love), these (no lies. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
even losing you (the joking voice, It’s evident
(Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I still won’t lie. It’s evident.
One Art (Final Draft, published 1976)
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.
We lose some of the wonderful things from the first draft, The fine hands, the blue eyes. She tries to put the blue eyes in at one point using the words azureand eyes of small wild aster. She couldn’t come up with a way to do that. She wants to say, losing all these other things in life should have prepared me to lose the woman I love, but it hasn’t.
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