She moves him ‘round the chess board,
dodging bishops, pawns and rooks.
She coaxes him from square to square
without a second look.

The white knight cannot catch him.
Piece by piece, the foe now yields.
Her king is safe; the game is done.
The queen controls the field.

Nope not better than Poe
try as I may not to mope
I don't even compare....
I might be a bishop but he's
definitely the Pope

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.

From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel.

I have a roommate who is called Bishop S
She likes poems
She makes me read them
I get bored
But she is Bishop S

let me reiterate
that the fish was not just a fish.
it wasn't even about the fish.
if you could see through his scales
the parasitic, plaguing fish
the fishy, foiled, murky eyes
and the five beautiful hooks
hanging in his lip, scarred into his being
you would see yourself
and pain and baggage and acceptance
begging, abandonment, pain, freedom.
facets. scaled facets reflecting in the sunlight.
it was never about the **** fish.

So now the sickening shadows sting
And your kisses are felt in hell.
The bishop sings his shanty
And all the impurities rise.

From the small town comes the Knight
with armor glistening in the sun.
A mighty sword rests at his side,
And a steed of iron he does mount.

Across a valley he meets his bishop
And their quarrell is quelled
By the sickening slice of a thousand
infantile screams cursing the night.

The End.