An art

Well... I was thinking about some things and this poem we read in class when talking about Elisabeth Bishop came to my mind. I find it beautiful, straight to the point as I like (strange isn't it? I think people who are into poetry usually enjoy some beating around the bush and all that "verborragia") and I find the poem sad but at the same time... comforting. I don't know if it's supposed to be. Sometimes I have to be careful in order not to lose some things but some things do really look as if they wanted to be lost. And I let go easily.

ONE ART
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.

P.S. (= edited): I would never know just by reading the poem she is talking about Brazil (indirectly) and about a woman (not a man). Thank you, Ildiko, I loved "meeting" Elisabeth Bishop. Loved the play.