I was born and raised in communist Poland. United States has been my home for the past 21 years. I live in Colorado with two children, one husband, two dogs and two birds.
I take photos and write poems to remember. Images and words seem more trustworthy than memory. I am awed by the quotidian and how what seems the same is always different.
I owe this philosophy to my beloved Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska who thought a lot about the non repetitive nature of human existence: "Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice."
From Poems New and Collected: 1957-1997 by Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012)
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.