Wislawa Szymborska

There are poets who are resigned to not being able to save the world, who barely have enough time to catch up with themselves and the attendant mystery of their fear and being. I suppose Szymborska was one of them. Here is her compatriot Miłosz describing her: 

In Szymborska we are divided not into the flesh and a surviving oeuvre...but into “the flesh and a broken whisper”; poetry is no more than a broken whisper, quickly dying laughter.... When it is not the perfection of a work that is important but expression itself, “a broken whisper,” everything becomes, as it has been called, écriture.... To talk about anything, just to talk, becomes an operation in itself, a means of assuaging fear.

I did not know Szymborska or her work until she died in February.  But what I have read since suggests she caught up with herself, found herself, made herself, educated herself into a full existence.

Here's a piece of evidence translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak:

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

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

One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.