This poem feels like someone gently reminding us that life is made of moments that never return, no matter how much we wish they would. There’s a soft ache in the idea that we arrive unprepared and leave without ever getting a second chance to rehearse. The shift from a name feeling like a rose thrown into the room to becoming almost meaningless the next day captures how unpredictable and fragile our emotions truly are. Szymborska doesn’t judge this inconsistency she treats it with tenderness, as part of being human. The poem invites us to stop clinging to yesterday and to stop fearing tomorrow, because neither can be repeated or controlled. There’s a quiet beauty in accepting that each kiss, each night, each feeling is a one‑time gift. And the final image two people agreeing they are different the way two drops of water are feels deeply intimate. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t require sameness, only presence. In the end, the poem becomes a soft hand on the shoulder, urging us to cherish what happens once, because once is all we ever get.
This is what I think of when someone comments "Not a single orignal experience" under a relatable post. Even a kind look from the same pair of eyes is never the same every time. Yeah, we all experienced it, but we felt it differently.
So lightly done, this wise poem!
This poem feels like someone gently reminding us that life is made of moments that never return, no matter how much we wish they would. There’s a soft ache in the idea that we arrive unprepared and leave without ever getting a second chance to rehearse. The shift from a name feeling like a rose thrown into the room to becoming almost meaningless the next day captures how unpredictable and fragile our emotions truly are. Szymborska doesn’t judge this inconsistency she treats it with tenderness, as part of being human. The poem invites us to stop clinging to yesterday and to stop fearing tomorrow, because neither can be repeated or controlled. There’s a quiet beauty in accepting that each kiss, each night, each feeling is a one‑time gift. And the final image two people agreeing they are different the way two drops of water are feels deeply intimate. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t require sameness, only presence. In the end, the poem becomes a soft hand on the shoulder, urging us to cherish what happens once, because once is all we ever get.
Your comments always enrich my day.
Brilliant Szymborska.
When posting poems in translation, it's important to include the translator! In this case, Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanaugh.
oh! thanks for catching that. we agree! we'll add that in, thanks so much! :)
thank you for sharing! reminds me of another poem by her, adding below— similar but not-quite, just like she says here :)
LIFE WHILE-YOU-WAIT
Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.
I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.
I have to guess on the spot
just what this play’s all about.
Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.
Words and impulses you can’t take back,
stars you’ll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run —
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.
If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).
You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I’ve done.
This is what I think of when someone comments "Not a single orignal experience" under a relatable post. Even a kind look from the same pair of eyes is never the same every time. Yeah, we all experienced it, but we felt it differently.
I love this comment, thank you! Was true a thousand years ago, is true now, will be true a thousand years from now.