In order to write, it seems, one must lose. Or, art and pain have a story of in-separation. Or, as Byron said several hundred moons before, “The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.”

In my re-reading jaunt, this dear old EB made me smile, curiously.

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

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.

Oh, and look what the cat found rummaging on the Internet:

little hexagons in tiers and tiers
honeycomb rifled by the bears
and left uneaten on the hills
and all the bay windows unconnected
with the bay really, coincidence


P.S. EB, who taught me windrows.