A Poetic Thought for the Weekend

My lovely friend who feeds me poetry and tea on wednesdays and fridays brought me this poem from one of my favorite poets.

First Love

They say
the first love's most important.
That's very romantic,
but not my experience.

Something was and wasn't there between us,
something went on and went away.
My hands never tremble
when I stumble on silly keepsakes
and a sheaf of letters tied with string-
not even ribbon.

Our only meeting after years:
the conversation of two chairs at a chilly table.

Other loves
still breathe deep inside me.
This one's too short of breath even to sigh.

Yet, just exactly as it is,
it does what the others still can't manage:
not even seen in dreams,
it introduces me to death.

-Wislawa Szymborska
( translated from the Polish, by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)

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