Summary
The speaker begins by stating baldly, first of all, that losing is an art, and, secondly, that it “isn’t hard to master.” This statement takes up the poem’s first line. Then, to clarify the meaning of this statement, the speaker explains that many objects actually seem as if they’re intended to be lost eventually. Losing things happens all the time, and, moreover, that's the way the world is supposed to work. Therefore, the loss of something—especially if it's one of these objects that is actually intended to get lost—is therefore not a huge deal. As the speaker says, it’s “no disaster.” Loss, this speaker implies, isn't worth getting upset about.
Analysis
Every stanza (or grouped set of lines) in this poem is brief and contained: they’re only three lines each. The first line in the first stanza is end-stopped, meaning that the end of a phrase coincides with the line’s end. Bishop’s choice to have an end-stopped rather than an enjambed first line contributes to a confident, bold tone. This is in spite of the fact that the actual thought being expressed is a rather strange one. What does it mean to refer to losing as an “art,” and to say that it’s an easy art to master? The actual meaning here may be enigmatic, but the confidence with which the speaker conveys the information makes us feel that they, at least, aren’t in the least uncertain. (Since we don’t know the speaker’s gender, when discussing the poem we use “they” as a singular pronoun when referring to the speaker).
The second and third lines, however, back up a little and explain what this first statement actually means. Their language is still somewhat enigmatic—what things are “filled with the intent to be lost?” Can things even have intent? But at least we understand broadly what the speaker means. By “losing,” they seem to be referring to the loss of objects, not to losing in the sense of losing a game or a bet. Furthermore, we can understand that, when the speaker says losing isn’t “hard to master,” they mean that it doesn’t have important or impactful consequences. It’s “no disaster.” However, we should keep a principle of descriptive writing in mind here. When a writer uses a word like “disaster,” even if they’re only using it to say that it isn’t present, that word sticks in the mind of the reader. The word that ends this stanza, and echoes in our minds as we move on to the next one, is “disaster.” Not only that, but the second line’s transition into the third is awkwardly enjambed in the middle of a phrase, as if the speaker is stumbling over themself or rushing to get words out. This gives a feeling of unease, and a sense that the speaker's confidence and sureness might be faltering.
The poem’s meter, meanwhile, creates a rather lulling, singsongy rhythm. Most lines hew close to iambic pentameter, the metrical pattern considered most natural-sounding and prose-like for English poetry. In iambic pentameter, each line of poetry is built from iambs—two-syllable chunks in which the stress is pronounced on the second syllable. “Pentameter” refers to the fact that there are five iambs in each line, creating a total of ten syllables. However, we can already see by the end of the first stanza that Bishop isn’t going to be particularly orthodox about sticking to this meter. The first line has an extra syllable hanging on at the end, and the final line not only has eleven syllables, but also contains a much looser pattern of stresses. Meter isn’t the only formal pattern being established here. By the time we finish this stanza, it’s clear that there will be a rhyme scheme of some sort. The first line ends on the word “master,” and the last on “disaster.” While these words rhyme, the middle line’s final word, “intent,” does not. Therefore, the first stanza is organized according to an ABA rhyme scheme. A few sources of suspense or tension propel readers into the second stanza: first, the unease created by the enjambment and the word “disaster” ringing in our ears, and second, the catchiness of the poem’s rhyme and meter.
