I think I was 14, when I read Elizabeth bishop's infamous poem - 'One Art' for the first time; after partially hearing it in the movie 'in her shoes'. I remember bawling over it as if the pain from the words were coming from somewhere deep within me. I had just lost a bestfriend due to miscommunication, jealousy,pettiness or simply teenage situationships.
'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.'
My heartbroken teenage self just truly wanted to believe that. That somethings are just found so they could be lost again. I cried over this poem, with a broken heart, an apology I never got, and an apology I never gave.
Years have gone by now and I will be 22 this year. I have grown and grown up. I raised myself to be an intellectual, took the path of the sciences and trying my best to build a life for myself.
But in all the technicalities of my basic existence, competition and speed of the world that we live in, today I found Elizabeth Bishop again.
My eyes trembled upon 'One Art' again.
And this poor heart cried again.
I have lived and loved and lost and loved and lived and lost again. But the world teaches you, trains you to shove it deep within and move on as you have no time, there are other important things you have to work on.
Feelings, the pain, the people? They will come and go along.
As I read through this beautiful poem again,
I thought of my hostel room keys and the notes I lost, the phone numbers I didn't gave and hidden glances across the room and the tea which was always hot. The moments I yearn for but are lost.
Friends I made and the great team we were, the dances, the classroom romances,the laundry days, 12 am, a little something about him and something about her.
Year 2020 and the zoom calls. The new internet era we found and some dear ones we lost.
The things I wanted to do, and places I didn't go. And how 2021 was hardest I had ever known.
My childhood home and the childhood friend. The cities I traveled, lived and left. The plans that never got executed and how we are forgetting each other's names.
But life goes on, the moments I yearn for are getting lost again.
But losing you, as each face flashes in front of my eyes, just pains.
And how each time I master this art of self deception, a part of me gets lost in translation.
As sad is this poem maybe, I surely admire,
how now i read this as a grown up, i know for a fact, the poet and I are both beautiful liars.
annaxmalina
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
dededos
blakekathryn
stormborns
