all the trinkets of the day
The faintly sordid
yet strangely enticing
scent of an alewife
wafting over the soggy alphabet
pasta in a shallow basin,
the paperback Memoirs
of a Woman of Pleasure on the side,
and a plain handkerchief
freshly stained with shame—
a rite of passage of sorts,
but mostly a prelude
to hassle.
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Is life unisex, like an indie band
you vaguely remember from a film
watched with the girl next door—
the quiet one, painting swimming pools
full of sea wasps and talking
about second choices, whom you admired
for her freckles and occasional mischief,
and who was mostly indifferent,
though casually cruel—your only
intended girlfriend?
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A rainy, cold Saturday in April.
On days like these I wear two cardigans—
English and Polish (a mother tongue
I have forsaken after two decades here),
worn the same way, they could work
if given another twenty years or so—
like freckles for Julianne Moore—
but it just so happens that I misplaced
my fountain pen somewhere along the way—
the typewritten letters simply don’t cut it.
But I might invest in personalised stationery
eventually.
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What does it mean to be a grown man?
Is it enough to simply recognise that
while certain dispositions require a front row,
not every inclination is repulsive?
Or perhaps the awareness that only a few
passport photos remain to be taken?
I guess toning down the theatrics might work.
Having a way with words doesn’t hurt either—
certainly if I’m to embrace vulnerability.
Then why all I can think of are the weather idioms?
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I like homely actors.
They are so expressive
that they quickly grow on you—
the Brits certainly fill the bill—
the lot populating Mayburys,
Jarmans or Leighs,
still resisting the Tinseltown
sandpaper.
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What is the unit of distance
in the vertical continuity of argument
that invokes Godwin’s Law?
And why is it so contagious to think
in propositions rather than absolutions?
(Lest you get the impression I’m longing
for sanbenitos and auto-da-fés.)
I have no answer,
except one more vulgar syllogism
following The Knickerbocker’s poultry.
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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?
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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?
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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
hidden pilcrow 