Without Lifting A Finger

A few words from Milosz on Staff (from Milosz's The History of Polish Literature ): He had the good fortune to have been always accepted, sometimes admiringly, sometimes reluctantly. Since his death in 1957, many scholarly treatises on Staff and his work have appeared, but the assessments of his position in the history of Polish poetry vary. In all probability, Staff will be assigned the place of a model humanist, a perfect craftsman, one of the major influences shaping poetry in Poland, but not himself a major poet, unless we consider the great bulk of his output a necessary preparation for a relatively small number of lyrics which figure in every anthology of Polish poetry. And the only other poem I have of Staff's (also, presumably, translated by Milosz): The Bridge I didn't believe, Standing on the bank of a river Which was wide and swift, That I would cross the bridge Plaited from thin, fragile reeds Fastened with bast. I walked delicately as a butterfly

Or madeleine. Coming across the word in another text, I inadvertently "clicked" on it and within a fraction of a second I was at the edge of Leopold Staff's green-covered pond. My only version comes from Milosz's The History of Polish Literature (and, because I find nothing in the text to say otherwise, I assume the translation is by Milosz himself): Duckweed In an old, deserted park I stood at a pond Covered with the thick fur of duckweed. Thinking That the water here had once been transparent And that it ought to be so now. With a dry twig picked up off the ground I began to rake away the green patina And conduct it to the outlet. I was found at this activity By a quiet wise man Whose brow was incised by thought, And he said with a gentle smile Of condescending reproach: "Don't you regret wasting the time? Every moment is a drop of eternity, Life is the twinkling in eternity's eye. There are so many matters of the  utmost imp