I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry.

Hear the wise and unpretentious words of Wislawa Szymborska: “I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.” In this saying, the poet reminds us that while poetry is a noble art, it is not an island set apart from the world. It is born of life, fed by it, inseparable from it. To speak endlessly of poetry alone is to forget the soil from which it grows—the conversations, the struggles, the laughter, and the ordinary rhythms of existence. For Szymborska, poetry cannot be detached from life itself, and when life returns to claim its space, poetry bows to its master.

The ancients also held this wisdom. The poet Hesiod sang of gods and heroes, but he also gave verses to farming, to labor, to daily toil. Why? Because they knew that poetry did not float above life—it was the voice of life distilled. Likewise, Szymborska reminds us that poetry is not an endless topic for intellectual circles alone; it must always return to the beating heart of daily existence. If the poet forgets life, poetry itself withers into artifice.

Consider the story of Leo Tolstoy, who wrote with the precision of a master craftsman. Though he created great works of literature, he also declared in his later years that art divorced from life was hollow. He left the salons and lectures of Moscow to walk among peasants, to work the land, to test his words against the living fabric of reality. His example echoes Szymborska’s: that art cannot exist in an endless vacuum of talk—it must yield to life taking over again, for life is the fountain from which art flows.

The origin of Szymborska’s reflection lies in her own humility as a poet. Though she received the Nobel Prize, she resisted the temptation to let poetry become an idol. She saw poetry not as an abstract temple, but as a tool to capture fleeting truths, to give voice to small moments. Her refusal to speak too long about poetry alone was not dismissal—it was reverence. She knew that poetry must always return to its source: to the world of people, of relationships, of experience. Without that return, the well of inspiration runs dry.

This saying also contains a warning: beware the temptation to let art become self-consuming, turning endlessly upon itself. For art that speaks only of art becomes sterile, disconnected from the human heart. Poetry is not meant to be dissected forever under a scholar’s lamp—it is meant to be lived, felt, and allowed to breathe in the marketplace of life. At the hour when words threaten to drift too far into abstraction, Szymborska calls us back: life itself takes over again.

The lesson is clear: let poetry be a companion, not a prison. Speak of it, study it, love it—but never forget that it is the fruit of living. Go to the fields, walk the streets, listen to children, share meals, watch the sky; there lies the matter of poetry. Do not attempt to cut poetry away from the world, for it cannot survive on its own. To speak too long of poetry alone is to sever the root; to return to life is to keep the root alive and strong.

Practical steps follow: when you write, do not lock yourself only in the study of poems. Engage with the world around you. Draw your words from living encounters, not only from books. When you read poetry, let it guide you back into life—notice its echoes in your daily experience, in a gesture, in a fleeting moment, in a silence. And when you gather to speak of poetry, do so with joy, but do not let the talk consume you. Leave room for laughter, for stories, for the very life that sustains the art.

Thus, Szymborska’s words endure: poetry cannot live without life. To dwell too long in poetry alone is to forget that it is the reflection, not the source. At the appointed hour, life itself enters again—fierce, ordinary, extraordinary—and poetry must bow before it. This is not defeat, but renewal, for it is from life that poetry continually draws its fire. Let us then honor poetry not as a realm apart, but as the echo of life itself, returning always to its origin, refreshed and eternal.