Serially Lost from Day 4: Post 2, National Poetry Month: Loss: Master The Art of Losing!

Trying to find poems about loss that are funny…

Found a great one!
Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)

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.

Here is another:
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.

Another one:
Compendium of Lost Objects
Nicole Cooley

Not the butterfly wing, the semiprecious stones,
the shard of mirror,

not the cabinet of curiosities built with secret drawers
to reveal and conceal its contents,

but the batture, the rope swing, the rusted barge
sunk at the water’s edge

or the park’s Live Oaks you walked through
with the forbidden man

or the pink-shuttered house on the streetcar line
where you were married

or the green shock of land off I-10, road leading
you away from home.

Not any of this
but a cot at the Superdome sunk in a dumpster

and lace valances from a Lakeview kitchen where water
rose six feet high inside

and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
in the dirt of a once-yard

and a Blue Roof and a house marked 0 and a

kitchen clock stopped at the time the hurricane hit.

Because, look, none of this fits
in a dark wood cabinet for safekeeping.

This is an installation
for dismantling
—never seen again.

This one by Numi Who is a different twist on loss and everyday objects; she says an apology for leaving abandoning the pencil!
Oh Pencil

Oh pencil,
whereforartthouhavebeentheeelsewhile
while I was away, neglecting you,
leaving you forlorn in the dark recesses of a forgotten drawer?

I have been remiss, a wayward ram
that had strayed from the womb of the flock
and was fleeced – and now,
here I return to you, and ask for your forgiveness –
will you forgive me, Pencil?

I have had my fling or two, or three, or four
and I have realized the error of my ways –
and I have found that it is you I need –
your gentle caresses, your smooth yellow skin
unmatched in firm suppleness,
unreserved in sensual touch,
giving without taking, obeying without demand…

If you will not have me back, I will understand –
and know – my head will never again rise,
my heart will never again soar,
and my mind will forever be shrouded in gloomy overcast –

and yet I would wish you such brightness,
and a perpetually sharp point,
in the grip of a large, thick hand
attached to an even thicker narrowly-focused mind
with a walnut-sized heart
as cold as an arctic floe –
for you know as well as I
that is how dismal and distant
your next best choice will be…

It is true I became enthralled with the gel pen –
its wonderfully tactile fluidness;
and with the highlighter –
able to swash instant rainbows across a page;
and the permanent marker –
indelibly recording my every intention…

but only you, Pencil,
can carry me back in time,
back to my very childhood
when the smell of No. 2 Yellows filled the air,
an air already scented with the soft mounds of pencil shavings
and trails eraser crumblings that belied our trysts,
strewn across the nightly waxed classroom tiled floors
upon which our rendezvous’ were made
and the dreams of ‘us’ lay waiting
for mutual steps and racing hearts…

Let me hold you once again,
that is all I ask,
and if the universe does not return us to our beginnings,
then cast me into oblivion –
for I would not wish to exist without thee
wherehaps I would have sharedeth
a long and loving life of literary essences with you.

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