From Poetic Sketchbook

Abstract

From Poetic Sketchbook Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska (bio) 40 The wise person is never bored—they say. The stupid one is, often, but suffers from this. But what if one were bored by inclination? I was taught a splendid, voluntary boredom by a small, green frog. Fat with May air and calm, it rested on a raspberry leaf, glossy eyes fixed on a single point. Respiring in full sun. I saw it did so consciously, with deep contentment. Hours passed. It stayed still, in its place. What a surrender of oneself to life! What faith, peace, and trust in a froggy heart! Sit also, just once, in such true peace. Is there no way to sit a moment on this earth, not always leaping here and there? Is it not worth your while to look around? All this is fascinating, after all. Besides, this view is not eternal. It’s rented for a few decades at most. You work. You write. You perfect various machines. You fight. For whom? For that nonchalant king of the future, who’ll sit among these laboriously acquired treasures of yours and, not caring for them, breathe mindfully—just like my frog the color of the oil paint called “Maigrün”—in most wondrous boredom. [End Page 42] 47 The power suddenly went out in the entire house. One had to light a candle; and, it appears, in one moment a fly collided with the flame. She whirrs now with burnt wings, stumbling across the green tablecloth. I watch this with deep sadness. I regret allowing myself this luckless candle. The fly, visibly experiencing a hell of fear and discomfort, rolls continuously onto her back, loses her balance, buzzes, raves. In compassion, I translate myself into her. Weltschmerz runs me through; I furrow my brow and berate nature. She is silent, as usual. An Indian visage, eyes downcast, smile indifferent and drowsy. This is how I always picture her—and as such hate her—in the rare moments I do not admire her. Monster! Cruel one! I whisper into the void. Meanwhile, the fly, lying on her back, convulsively shakes her legs. I help her stand. She calms down. Suddenly, most serenely, most carefully, she starts to clean and smooth her front extremities, with the gesture of a countess donning long ballroom gloves . . . Absorbed in this task, she becomes foreign to me. Give it a rest, I think, with such exertions, such coquetry, especially now! And, suddenly, I see with great relief in my heart, that I don’t always understand everything, that we are very far from truth, me and my mercy—from truth, which is perhaps not so completely tragic . . . [End Page 43] Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska (1891–1945), born in Kraków into an artistic and aristocratic family, was a poet and playwright. She was loosely associated with the Skamander group. Known as the “Polish Sappho,” her love poems are characterized by a novel naturalness and directness. Later she became more concerned with themes of transience, death, and nature. Eventually emigrating to England, she died in Manchester of bone cancer. Copyright © 2019 Middlebury College Publications