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I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

Wislawa Szymborska

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Absurd Myself Poem Preference Writing

Bagwalas

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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune’s darlings.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Fortune Inspirational Place Poet Select
Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Cosmos End Space World
Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Action Demand Myself Poor Preparation Reality
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Absurd Myself Poem Preference Writing
Get to know other worlds, if only for comparison.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Comparison Knowledge World
No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Bliss Kiss Past Teaching Time Way
Carry on, then, if only for the moment that it takes a tiny galaxy to blink!
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Blink Carry Funny Galaxy Moments
All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Easy Imperfection Service Small Tolerance
God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Believe Different God Goodness Man Strong
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Arrival Consequence Fact Practice
I’m one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Bone Myself Time
The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Hands Joy Mortal Perseverance Power Revenge Writing
I slide my arm from under the sleeper’s head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Angel Count Head Myself Sleep
Memory at last has what I sought.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Last Memories Myself Thinking
I don’t know the role I’m playing. I only know it’s mine, non-convertible.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Myself Play Role
No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Death Family Love Mythical

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