I Don’t Know

 

Wislawa Szymborska’s line—“Poets, if they’re genuine, must always keep repeating, ‘I don’t know’”—echoes the humility at the heart of both poetry and wisdom. She wasn’t celebrating ignorance. She was holding open the door to curiosity, to honesty, to reverence for life’s deep mysteries.

Born in Bnin, Poland, in 1923, Szymborska lived through Nazi occupation, Soviet censorship, and the reconstruction of a nation that carried wounds no words could fully mend. But she tried anyway. Not with grand declarations, but with quiet awe. She wrote poems about onions, cats, clouds, and beetles—not to make small things big, but to show how everything ordinary, under the right light, becomes astonishing.

During the German occupation, universities in Poland were banned. Still, Szymborska traveled each day by train to attend underground classes. Students met in secret, risking arrest for the simple act of learning. Picture her there: a young woman clutching banned books, reading by candlelight in cold basements. Her education was never handed to her—it was earned, line by line, under threat.

After the war, she published her first poem in 1945. In those early years, she supported the Communist Party. Her early writing echoed its ideals. But as time passed, her conscience stirred. She later called those poems mistakes, and distanced herself from state rhetoric. The change wasn’t dramatic—it was deliberate. Quiet. But it marked the beginning of a different kind of writing, where every line questioned rather than declared.

For decades, Szymborska worked at Życie Literackie, a literary magazine in Kraków. She edited, reviewed, and encouraged young writers. She avoided publicity. When the Nobel Committee awarded her the Prize in 1996, she was stunned. Friends said she almost didn’t go. But she did—standing on a stage in Stockholm, speaking softly about how little we truly understand.

Her personal life, too, was marked by quiet brilliance. She exchanged letters for more than 40 years with Kornel Filipowicz, a fellow writer. Their correspondence—later collected in Letters: 1955–1996—reveals a relationship built on shared curiosity, wit, and deep affection. She once sent him a handmade postcard that read simply, “Everything’s possible, even the impossible.” It’s hard to imagine a better summary of her worldview.

Szymborska’s poems have been translated into more than 40 languages. She didn’t shout, but the world listened. In collections like View with a Grain of Sand and Here, she wrote about atoms, time, and mortality—but always with a wink, never with a scowl. Her writing reminded readers to be more curious than certain. During the Cold War, that was a radical stance.

In one poem, she wrote about a cat left behind after its owner’s death. In another, she asked if the beetle sealed in amber was aware of its fate. In both, she nudged readers toward empathy. Not with a sermon, but with a soft elbow to the ribs. She made readers laugh, then left them thinking long after.

Her influence stretched far beyond Poland. Students, scientists, artists—people from every walk of life—found meaning in her work. She made room for contradiction. She held paradox with grace. She believed that doubt could be fertile ground.

Writers often feel pressure to know. To sound authoritative. Szymborska refused. Her poems breathe because they never felt finished. They invited participation, not applause. She taught that writing needn’t explain everything. It only needs to notice more, feel deeply, and speak plainly.

Her greatest gift wasn’t her command of language, though she had it. It was her willingness to sit with mystery—to say “I don’t know” without shame. In doing so, she gave readers permission to ask, wonder, and marvel.

And maybe that’s the lesson for writers today: Let the poem breathe. Let the question linger. Let the not knowing be enough.

Read Wislawa Szymborska. Begin with View with a Grain of Sand or Here. Watch her Nobel lecture. Read “Possibilities.” Then sit with your notebook or keyboard and write—not to impress, not to declare—but to notice.

You don’t need all the answers. You just need to care enough to ask the right questions.

And if Szymborska’s work has taught us anything, it’s this: The world doesn’t need louder writers. It needs truer ones. Writers who whisper, “I don’t know,” and then write anyway.

Author Masterminds helps writers who don’t know how. Author Masterminds is a community of authors who recognize how stories shape minds, shift perspectives, and change the world. Authors dedicated not to blend in, but to stand out. If you’re serious about writing, refining your craft, and reaching readers who genuinely connect with your words, this is where you belong.

Go here: https://bit.ly/4k6lvg1 if you’d like to learn more about Author Masterminds.

Because the right words, in the right hands, at the right time, can change everything.

Author Masterminds—Where Purpose, Power, Passion, and Partnership Produce Possibilities.

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