all the trinkets of the day
An old man throwing a tantrum
in the middle of a hedge maze
simply because it wasn’t the unicursal
walking path he had hoped for—
how peculiar, but the matter remains:
is this a tag question or an emphatic period?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Every time I pass the red pillar box,
a peculiar fettle comes over me
(I wonder what went wrong; after all,
I’ve never been to Camden Town
or Botchergate in Carlisle)—
I’d like a cup of tea. The thing is,
I only drink herbal infusions—
not very British, if I may say so.
Who would have thought I’d break
over Earl Grey?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I have no particular thoughts
on logic, which is logical
since I’m not a scholar—not a smidgen
of salonnière upbringing either—
yet the wainscot brothel in my study
lacks no Montague, or Boole, or Frege.
Ultimately, I could only devote myself
to discovering how many gods died
in a demitasse of mocha.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A coward, a lazy and selfish one—a man
(doesn’t sound particularly bad in earnest,
a little wry, perhaps)—a flat noun, striving
to define the gap between ‘me’ and ‘mine’,
yet barely passing by the em dash, like the man
of every Raphaelite and Ogilvy, only dozing off
in old age, never quite striking the right chord.
And I’m still not sure if that’s hubris or abjection.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
How many todays is yesterday worth?
Why is ‘fortnight’ thriving
while ‘sennight’ didn’t survive
the linguistic winter?
What is the personal
pronoun that’s feared the most?
Are all the questions
that wear the shallow flesh
just an orison offered at dawn?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Captured on Polaroid shots,
we’re reselling green-screened déjà vus,
just to keep an old promise, ever afraid
that in the end we would have nothing
to say.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I’ve seen Roundhay Garden Scene
and the trailers that followed.
Now I have settled on observing the restless
natives humming follies
to the tune of Que Será, Será
at the bend of the L-shaped room
where they cook, fuck and study—me, the humble,
squeaking floor panel.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
He who has neither the courage to die nor the heart to live, who will neither resist nor fly, what can we do with him?
Essays, Michel de Montaigne
No one is born because they want to, yet
the unlettered pen pals teach you to believe
that a second-hand appreciation leaves nothing
but a bad aftertaste—an old man’s grudge
like the scent of snow or the answer
to the question ‘What’s north
of the North Pole?’
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
When did I become an amanuensis
of my own? If only I were a Boomer,
I’d have charged a few shillings per page
back in the day—now it’s all self-
procrastination for a bowl of noodles.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 