I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster

This poem is one of my favorite life-mantras. We've all had that moment when we realize, immediately after walking out the door, that our keys are still inside. For just those times, I've been trying to memorize this poem--and others--so I can recall these words when I'm uncontrollably flustered and can't seem to accept that shit happens.

I also like how this poem turns at the beginning of the last stanza. Losing is one thing when we're talking about a watch, or even a house. But we let people go, too, and often with a cold nonchalance better left to keys. Why is it that with lost objects we feel as if the world is crashing down around us, but with people, we just let them go?

Finally, there's Bishop's interjection in the last line. Sometimes I'm not sure I like it, but it has to be there; it makes the poem. Writing really is the salvation.

Posting this poem seemed especially fitting now, when I am in constant flux--always staying, going, leaving, losing.

One Art

--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.