Veszíts el valamit naponta!

 

One Art
– 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.
 
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.

                Good morning everyone. It’s so wonderful to see you again. I didn’t know I could come back, so this is very happy. I have wanted to come back all the time, and my family too, so I told Fulbright, Give me money to come back, and I’ll teach some poetry at the school in Barcs. And Fulbright said, And what else? And I said, And I will also teach some writing exercises. And Fulbright said, And what else? And, I said, maybe my students will write poems for the Hungarian students? And Fulbright said, And what else? And, I said, maybe the Hungarian students will write poems to the American students. And Fulbright said, And what else? And so I said some other things. I don’t know what I said. I just wanted to come back and see you all and here I am. I am very happy to be back at Dráva Völgye.
                Today we will look at a poem by a very famous American poet, Elizabeth Bishop. It is called, “One Art,” and it’s about losing things. You know this word, losing? So let’s just see. What are some things you can lose. Yes, you can lose your mind. Yes, you can lose your life too. Whoa, this is very dark! You can lose your money—yes, I think it’s better than losing your mind, no? And what else? Yes, you can lose a boyfriend; it’s not so great. Which is worse—to lose your money or to lose your boyfriend? Yes, maybe so, and then you lose your mind! What else? Your clothes? Really? How do you do that? Maybe you’re looking for another boyfriend.
                So: You can lose money and you can lose your life. You can lose your mind and also lose your boyfriend. Anything else? Your keys! Yes, you can just lose your keys, and she, she’s losing her life! It’s better to be you, maybe. Okay, it’s a good list. You can lose many things: your keys, your clothes!, even your mind. You can also lose a game, yes? So it’s a different kind of losing, maybe. The opposite of losing a game is… Yes, winning a game. And the opposite of losing your keys is maybe finding your keys, so the meaning of the word “losing” is very big, but it’s never a very happy thing to lose something, yes? Ah, losing weight! It’s true: that’s a happy thing to lose, maybe. And then we shouldn’t find the weight again, I hope!
                So, we are about to read the poem by Elizabeth Bishop. We’ll read it four times—twice in Hungarian and twice in English, and hopefully after that we can think about what it means.
                So who will read this in Hungarian? I think it’s you. Wait! Slow slow slow! It’s a poem. We want to hear how the words come together. Okay: now. Thank you. And now? Someone in English. Yes, thank you. Before you start, there’s a word in the end, “gesture.” See that? It’s j—j—gesture, yes? Gesture. Okay: now. Wait, say this part too! This is important. Thank you. Now you’ve heard this poem once in Hungarian and once in English, and what maybe is the message? Yes, you can lose many things; and what happens if you do? That’s it. It’s not a disaster! You can lose something, and you will be okay, you will be just fine. So, who will read the Hungarian the second time? A boy, maybe. It’s you. Yes, you. You can do this. In Hungarian. And as we read this poem a second time, think: what do you notice? What is she losing? What are the sounds? Is anything said more than one time? So let’s see what we notice. Ready? Very nicely done. Thank you. And the last? Who will read this a final time, in English? Thank you.
                So now you’ll need a pen or pencil. You’re going to write, right there on the poem. You’ll take some notes. You have the Hungarian in front of you, and you have the English that maybe you don’t understand yet. I would like you to look, and try to figure out some of the English from the Hungarian words you have next to them, and write yourself some notes. I see, for example, this word “megtanulhatsz,” and I don’t know it, but I know tanul, and so I think, Maybe this word means “to master,” to learn something very well. Is this true? Okay, so then I write a note to myself on the Hungarian: to master. Yes? One problem. Maybe you know, a poem is not a book. And to translate a poem, it’s not the same thing as to translate a book. If you translate a poem, and the languages are very different, like Hungarian and English are very different, you must choose: am I going to translate the words so the words are the same, or am I going to try to keep the rhyme—you know what is rhyme?—Ah yes, of course, rím! And rhythm, what’s this? Ritmus. So, to translate a poem, I must choose: Do I keep the words or do I keep the rím and ritmus and change some of the words? So, you can try to figure out the words from the Hungarian, but it won’t be perfect, yes? But try. Take notes on words you can figure out, circle words you can’t and after you can ask me. And maybe see: what else do you notice. Okay? Take seven minutes. Take notes on what you can figure out and write down questions for me.
                That’s enough. Let’s see what we have. What questions do you have? Intent? Maybe you know “intention”? It’s what it wants to do. So maybe you lost your keys. It’s okay; they wanted to do this; they wanted to go, so you shouldn’t be upset. Have a nice life, keys! Fluster? It’s like this. Yes! Maybe you know the word frustrated? Or maybe annoyed. So, if you lose your keys, maybe you get a  little upset. But Elizabeth Bishop says, you can accept this; it’s not so bad. You can get a little upset. Accept the fluster, yes? What else? Ah, vaster. It’s a very strange word. You look up at the sky and it’s very big, so big, it’s va-a-a-ast. And the universe, it goes on and on. It’s vast. Almost infinite. Not infinite, but very big. And if I say “vaster,” it’s very strange. It’s infinite, but maybe more infinite. Infinite plus one. Infinite-er. Yes? Okay. And what else. “Shan’t.” It’s a word no one uses anymore, and it’s very complicated here. It’s conditional and it’s future. It’s should and it’s will together. And you see the translation? “Ez áll.” Maybe it’s this: It’s true, yes? Even if I lose you, even then I’ll be okay—this is still true. I didn’t lie when I said I’d be okay. Another? “Realms.” It means kingdoms. Maybe Elizabeth Bishop is a queen! We’ll look later.
                Now, what did you notice about the poem? This is a villanelle. It’s a French poem. And with a villanelle and many poems, there are many rules. It’s very hard to write with so many rules. This is sometimes part of the meaning of the poem. I want to do the right thing, or I want to write the poem the way I’m supposed to, and I try, but sometimes I just can’t. I have too many feelings. And a poem also, there are many rules, but sometimes a poet has too many feelings to follow the rules. So what can you guess about a villanelle from this poem? What maybe are its rules? Előírás, maybe: is it so? So what did you notice? Here are the five verses of three and here are four lines. What do you see in them? Yes, she says “master” many times. Here and here and then here and almost to the end. What else? Yes, this is the rhyme: aba aba aba aba aba abaa. And what else? Yes, disaster. It’s here and here and here and in the very end. This is very interesting, these two words. It’s master and it’s disaster. I’m in control! I am the master! I’m the boss! And this one: Run for your lives! It’s a disaster! So: I’m in control—I’m the boss!—and now, I’m out of control—Run for your lives! What else? You see that? Wow—yes, it’s 10 and sometimes 11. It’s the same rhythm as Shakespeare. It’s called in English iambic pentameter. You know penta, like péntek, the fifth day; and these iambs are like heart beats: ba Bum! ba Bum! ba Bum! ba Bum! ba Bum! The ART of LOSing ISn’t HARD to MAS… ter—oh, it’s another syllable. So maybe, it’s sometimes the master and sometimes disaster—maybe this makes sense, that the rhythm is not so perfect, sometimes 11 syllables, sometimes 10. Do you see anything else that is said over and over? Yes, it’s the whole line! In a perfect villanelle, the first line is repeated just like this, but also the third line too. We have repeated instead “no disaster,” but not the whole line. It’s not a perfect villanelle. The poem is not in control. Run for your lives!
                So now finally we are ready to look at the poem. So: The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Losing something is an art? What kind of art is this? You lose something, it’s not so good, yes? So how is it an art? And what’s this part: So many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. I don’t know if they have this in Hungary, but in America, there is a monster. It’s name is a gremlin. And this is what it does. It goes into your dirty clothes and it steals one sock. Then it makes a hole in the ground and it buries the one sock. So then you wash your clothes and you go to put your socks together and—Where is my other sock? You look where your clothes are drying. It isn’t there. You look in the washing machine. It isn’t there. You look in your dirty clothes; it isn’t there either. It is nowhere! It doesn’t exist. It’s because the gremlin took it, and he put this in a hole in the ground and you will never see the sock again. So I think it’s like this: some things just want to be lost. Or maybe a gremlin took them. But you know what? It’s okay! It’s not a disaster. I learned a phrase yesterday. Is it this? Az élet megy tovább. Life goes on.
                But now what’s this: Lose something every day! Why should you do this? Maybe you should have this on your wall, to remind you! Veszíts naponta! Why is she telling herself this? You should lose something—every day lose something. Yes, perfect! Maybe just this: maybe it’s practicing for a big loss. And maybe it’s good to practice. If you ice skate—do you know ice skating? Maybe korcsolyázni. So, if you ice skate, you must learn to fall; otherwise, Boom!, maybe you break your face! Or your arms come out like this and, Shwhip!, your fingers come off! So it’s good to practice. You don’t want to fall but you can fall better or worse. And you don’t want to lose something, but you can lose better or worse: you can get very upset—Run for your lives!—or not. So, on your wall: Veszíts naponta!
                And the next? Accept the fluster of lost keys, the hour badly spent. Oh I just wasted an hour! I spent an hour listening to a teacher about a poem and now my time is gone! But it’s okay. You lost your keys, but, life goes on. You wasted an hour, but you’re okay. It’s not a disaster.
                So: practice wth a bigger loss now. Places and names. How do you lose a name? Yes, you forget. Maybe you go to a place and you love this place, and you feel very good friendship with many people, but then a few years later you come back and now: I don’t remember the names! I like the people very much, but which one of you is Vivi and which one of you is Évi? So maybe you forget some names, but it’s okay; it’s not a disaster.
                And the next. I lost my mother’s watch. Maybe the mother is also lost? And this—three loved houses went. How do you lose a house? Where did I put it? Where did my house go? Yes, maybe you move. And it’s not so easy. This is the window and every day I looked out the window and saw the wind in the leaves of my tree. And this is the corner where I sat to read and where the time was all for me. And this is the place where my little brother walked for the first time by himself. And this is the smell that is my family in this house. It’s not so easy to leave a house. But, Elizabeth Bishop says, I did this, and it wasn’t a disaster.
                I lost two cities. How do you lose a city? You move. I lived in Philadelphia, and Boston, and Cleveland. Yes, of course, and Barcs! And it’s not so easy to leave a place like Barcs, not for me. But maybe it’s not a disaster. But what does this mean? Some realms I owned, some kingdoms I owned. Was Elizabeth Bishop a queen maybe? What does this mean, she owned some kingdoms? Yes, I think you are right. It’s her world. This is the world around her and this is how she sees things, it’s her world. It’s her thoughts. And she lost this too.
                So we get bigger and bigger and bigger. She loses a key, but she’s okay. She loses some time, and she’s okay. Maybe she forgets some people, and it’s sad, but she’s okay. And she moves, and it’s still not a disaster; and even her mind changes, maybe she loses her mind, yes? And still, it’s not so terrible, life goes on; maybe she’s a little upset, but it’s not a disaster. And this is the feeling in the poem too, yes? It’s not so hard, it’s not so bad, life is okay, I am the master.
                But now we come to the last verse, and maybe there’s something new here. Take a look.
                Who’s the “you”? Yes, maybe the reader. Yes, maybe the husband, or a lover. Yes, it could be a friend also. I do think it’s one of these and not the others. Look. See that? It’s called a parenthesis. It means you don’t need the information but it’s just extra, yes? That’s why she didn’t even want to read this line, because it’s just extra. But look at what’s here: Even losing you—the joking voice—Oh-wa! Oh, your voice! Oh-wa! And your gesture, the way you touch your face, like this, oh-wa! So what do you think? Is the “you” the reader? Is it you? Is it her? Does Elizabeth Bishop love her voice? No, they just met today! It’s a little early to love like that, yes? So probably the you, it’s a husband or a boyfriend or lover.
                Now, what’s going on? Have they broken up, are they together? What do you think? Yes, probably they have broken up. And how does she feel about this? Yes! Yes! It’s a disaster! The whole poem she says it’s not a disaster, it’s no problem, life goes on, but it looks like she hasn’t gotten over her lover. Do you know this phrase, to get over someone? Yes, so she hasn’t.
                What are the clues in this poem that she hasn’t gotten over him? Oh, I don’t know how to explain “clues.” Does anyone know? Maybe keys. Kulcsok. What are keys to open this, how we know she is upset? Yes! This word disaster. Over and over she says, It’s not a disaster but she could say this without saying such a scary word. Instead, she uses this word, over and over. DISASTER! Disasterdisasterdisaster. What else tells us she hasn’t mastered the loss? Yes, the “I love.” That’s a pretty big clue. And. Take a look. There is something very strange in the last line. Yes! “Write it!” What is that? What is that doing there? Here is a poem about, Don’t worry, you’ll be okay, and then this? Come on, Elizabeth Bishop! GET IT. DOWN. ON. THE. PAPER. NOW. You. Will. Be. Just. Fine!
                So maybe she knows this. In her head, she knows this. Nyilvánvaló. It’s obvious. It’s evident. But her heart, it’s not so sure. Over and over, she says the art of losing isn’t hard to master and then in the last line, well, maybe not too hard, anyway. She still loves him. And losing him feels bigger than anything else. She feels like losing anything else, she would be okay. But in this poem where she sounds so okay, so fine, every “master” is followed by “disaster,” and the real meaning is there, inside the it’s-okay-it’s-okay. We hear the real truth only in the parentheses: I love! I’m lost!
                So you must practice: Veszíts naponta!
                Now, are you ready to write a poem?


A VESZTÉS MŰVÉSZETE (Rakovszky Zsuzsa fordítása)

Veszteni megtanulhatsz, nem nehéz:

oly sok az elveszni áhító tárgy,
elhagyhatod őket, s nincs semmi vész.

Veszíts naponta! Nagy bajnak ne nézz

elkallódott kulcsot, unalmas órát,
veszteni megtanulhatsz, nem nehéz.

Majd légy még nagystílűbb vesztő, s merész:

neveket veszíts, helyeket, ahol rád
öröm várna. Mindebből semmi vész.

Anyám óráját is, sőt - vége, kész,

oda egy híján három szép lakóház.
Veszteni megtanulhatsz, nem nehéz.
 
Elhagytam két szép várost, egy egész
kontinenst, minden országát, folyóját:
hiányzanak, de mégsincs semmi vész.
 
Még rád is (gunyoros hang, drága kéz-
mozdulatok) ez áll. Nyilvánvaló hát:
Veszthetsz nyugodtan bármit, semmi vész.
Ha úgy is érzed (írd le!), túl nehéz.