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.
For the first installment of my “Overrated Famous Poems” series, I picked a poem I hate by a poet I love. I will begin the second by specifying that this is manifestly not the case this time: I don’t just hate “One Art,” but the poetry of Elizabeth Bishop generally.
If you are someone who is currently alive and bothering to read a blog about poetry (both of which can safely be assumed), this probably shocks you. When I was in graduate school, Bishop’s name was one of those most often mentioned when my classmates listed their favorite poets. I had no idea why this was then, and I still don’t.
My anathematic distaste for Bishop was thrown into relief by my admiration for Robert Lowell, a poet of the same generation often mentioned in the same breath, as critics have seen fit to arrange the two in a rivalry. Fifty years ago people said Lowell was better than Bishop. Thirty years ago people said they were equally good. Now everyone says Bishop is awesome and Lowell sucks and that people only ever said Lowell was better because he was a man.
Guess what? They were right the first time: Lowell really was better.
And not because he was a man. I love tons of 20th-century women poets. Sylvia Plath was better than Bishop. Anne Sexton was better than Bishop. You know what? Fuck you, Edna St. Vincent Millay was better than Bishop. You heard me. Want me to say it again? Edna St. Vincent Millay was better than Elizabeth Bishop.
My formula for this is not incredibly scientific. It was devised by the greatest female writer of all time in any language or genre, Emily Dickinson. Mistress Dickinson (and I call her that because she was a dominatrix, not a Puritan) said that a poem should “take the top of your head off.” In modern parlance, that means “kick ass.” And that is what Dickinson poems did. Every single Emily Dickinson poem puts its foot so far up your ass that you can feel the little square heel of a 19th-century bottine digging into the bottom of your heart.
You know how many Elizabeth Bishop poems put their foot up your ass? None. You know how many Elizabeth Bishop poems put so much as one toe up your ass, even after warming you up for a long time and looking deep into your eyes and making a big speech about trust? None.
It was the anarchic, vampiric, dirty pretty things Sexton and Plath who were Dickinson’s midcentury heirs. Bishop’s meticulously itemized bestiary has little to do with the Amherst Amazon’s First Robin, and far less to do with her Narrow Fellow. People just say Bishop is better because she was ugly, and academics don’t like teaching poems by hot women about fucking, because normal people actually like poems like that so it doesn’t feel smart enough.
I am not saying Elizabeth Bishop was not talented. I understand why her poems are virtuoso affairs, and why they are good examples of all the stuff they are good examples of. I am saying they are boring. I am saying Elizabeth Bishop used her considerable talent to write boring poems. Being extremely talented doesn’t mean you can’t be boring. Billy Joel is extremely talented too. I realize that most living poets prefer Bishop to the other 20th-century poets I have named so far. And hey, that reminds me: most living poets? ALSO BORING.
But to the poem. The first stanza of “One Art” is fine. I even like it. The first line is not a great line in and of itself, but seems strongly like it could be if the rest of the poem can cash the check it writes. And the following couplet is even better. There’s an attractive pain to the things that “seem filled with the intent / to be lost,” and I love the trick of using the meter to accentuate the passivity (grammatically speaking and otherwise) of that be. We’re off to a great start.
Unfortunately, the poem then hops the first moose to WTF-Land and never waves bye-bye. I could see how the keys in the second stanza could work as a sort of warm-up, a suspense builder. Losing keys is frustrating, and the “hour badly spent” could mimic the frustration of waiting for the poem to really get going. If it ever did. But it doesn’t. It’s not suspense if nothing happens next.
“Places, and names, and where it was you meant / to travel.” Seriously? Are you going to tell us, or…? This stanza accomplishes nothing. In any poem—and this goes double for a poem in this demanding a form—every stanza needs to be doing as much work as the others, and this one does nothing. Except for getting us to the next stanza.
…Which also does nothing. Well, it does succeed in getting me pissed off at this bitch complaining about having had too many goddamn houses when I don’t even have a bed, but this is not the poem’s intent. Then the next stanza specifies that the houses were in cities, which in turn were on continents, as if this were not already implied.
This poem has six stanzas, and three of them are completely useless.
You know how sometimes you realize you have some famous poem basically memorized even though you have never deliberately memorized it? But with some other famous poems, even if you have read them just as many times, there are always parts you forget, unless you have expressly taken pains to sit down and memorize the poem? Let me guess: with “One Art,” you remember the beginning and the end but always totally space on the middle, even though you have seen the poem a thousand times and probably even taught it. Well, now you know why: it’s because the middle sucks.
To be fair, “One Art” is a villanelle, and good villanelles are nearly impossible to write. How impossible? The form has been around for centuries, and still there are only like four villanelles. You could say that “One Art” is the second-best villanelle in English. But the first best is “Do Not Go Gentle” by Dylan Thomas, so this is kind of like saying that the second-best song to mention Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band after “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” is “Rocket” by Def Leppard.
The two poems are structurally similar beyond that, in that they both adopt similar strategies of overcoming the form (which is not to say that Bishop simply cribbed Thomas’s). The rub with a villanelle is how to make the end feel satisfying when the reader has seen the last two lines three times each by that point. Both “Do Not Go Gentle” and “One Art” introduce an addressee at the buzzer—a “you” in the first line of the last stanza—in Thomas’s case, his dying father, and in Bishop’s, a lost lover. In both cases, the reader turns out to have been eavesdropping on a private conversation that up ’til then had seemed like a public lecture on a theme. Dying fathers and lost lovers are both affecting, and we care about both endings.
But how much did we care before the end? Thomas’s middle is about various disparate categories of people joined in their final moments by the realization that they had wasted their lives. Bishop’s middle is about how she moved a lot. That’s it. Go read the poem again. The whole middle is just about how she fucking moved a lot. I mean, I know moving is a pain, but it’s not like Bishop even moved because she had to. She moved because she felt like it. And she was rich, so she didn’t even have to carry her boxes of books herself. What is the big deal?
And the parenthetical “(Write it!)” in the last line is the single cheesiest thing ever to appear in a poem that was not originally published on LiveJournal.
The things I dislike about “One Art” are hardly exhaustive of the things I dislike about Elizabeth Bishop’s work generally. Perhaps foremost among these is the fact that, for all the talk of her “precision,” Bishop is an abysmal rhymer. Go look back over her greatest hits, and you will be hard-pressed to deny that fully half the rhymes in any given poem are cringeworthy. Not all the worst offenders rhyme, of course. There is that sestina about hanging out in the kitchen with your grandmother, which I sincerely wish I had also had the opportunity to make fun of. Oh wait, I just did, merely by virtue of mentioning the fact that it is a sestina about hanging out in the kitchen with your grandmother. For fuck’s sake.