I wish I were a poet.

I started this post three times. I tried funny.  A weird, self-aware type that had to tell you it was humor because I’m not really that funny.  It felt good to write, but it came out all wrong—bitter, achy, sardonic.

I tried sad. I thought it would work because it’s what I really am.  I wanted beautiful sad, poignant sad.  I wanted you all to think deep thoughts and feel deep feelings. But it ended up belonging in a DIY zine you’d expect from a basement dwelling friend with a half-finished philosophy degree and an ironic sweater four sizes too big.

I tried angry.  That really didn’t work because I’m not angry.  It was weird.  Go figure.

So I wish I were a poet.  They can always get it right.  The thing about a poem is that is doesn’t have to be just one thing.  If I were a poet, I could write you something that was funny and sad and angry all at the same time.  It’d be great because you wouldn’t get sick of me cracking jokes or making you feel feelings or ranting and raving.  And it’s okay for things in a poem to be vague or mysterious.  Dancing-around-the-subject prose can sound forced and self-conscious and leaves me unsatisfied, but a poem can do a shadowy subject justice.

So I wish I were a poet.  Alas, I am not.  I’ll just have to borrow.

One Art by 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, 

I’m skeptical already, Elizabeth.  I hate losing things.  I try really hard to stay organized because there is nothing more frustrating than losing an important scrap of paper or a sweater.  And because this is a poem, I have a feeling you’re going to talk about losing more than just insignificant objects.  But carry on.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Yep, there we go.  You know I don’t like losing time, either.  But you’ve clearly got a message here.  Like maybe it’s not so bad to lose things?  That can’t be true.

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 beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master. 

Practice losing?  That makes it seem like a good thing.  Losing names and places and plans seems significant and distressing, but you want me not to worry about it?  Now I’m just getting depressed.  Teach me your ways. I want to lose, too.

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. 

Oh.  Maybe you’re asking me to practice losing little things so that the big things hurt less.  You’re trying to play this off like it doesn’t matter, but I’m starting to think otherwise.

— 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!) a disaster. 

Damn.  I hear you now.  It’s really not that easy, is it?  That was a great poem because I thought you were going one way, but you turned it around at the end there.  Wish I could do that.

We can keep trying to convince ourselves, can’t we?  We can force ourselves to ‘Write it!”, but in the end that gesture we love is gone and it sucks.  Glibly floating through life trying not to miss things might work for lost keys and watches and houses, but when we try to lose a person, it all breaks down.

So I wish I were a poet.  Maybe I’d know what to say.

Abby Zwart

Abby Zwart (’13) teaches high school English in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spends her free time making lists of books she should read, cooking, and managing the post calvin.