Some remember Turkey for the Ottoman Empire;
others for Recep Tayyip Erdoğan,
the imprisonment, torture and enforced disappearances of Kurds,
the invasion of Cyprus,
the drone strikes on the Tishrin Dam,
and the list just goes on and on.
But I will remember Turkey for the dried apricots
with sulphur dioxide that poisoned me.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As a discreet couch dweller,
keenly collecting calloused complements,
I have long found this protracted writers’ retreat—
or, as others call it, life—a rather daunting experience,
yet a certain sense of entitlement, albeit an off-putting one,
is to be expected in the heights of the Anthropocene,
with all those inflated egos and hopes
born amongst orphans in the making—
of which I am one.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
While I linger on the dwarf wall
at the corner of Union Street and Back Wynd,
leaning against a column with an Ionic capital,
I can’t help but detest the posthumous fame
of the man who wrote a book of short verses
with ponderous sentences full of yestermorrow
aspirations that I’m about to compose.
Sometimes I yearn for days with a gentle flavour,
like Thriday—marking the upcoming long weekend—
or a late birthday eve when I have to count out
a few dozen candles to decorate the cake.
I guess I’m starting to get tired of the daily toddling
from one lamppost to another, consumed by the desire
to bargain, whether it’s relationships in decay
or evening classes in applied thanatology.
I should live my life to the fullest, or so they say,
and actually living my life did cross my mind for a moment,
but that would require far too much energy,
so I’d rather settle for a cup of peppermint and rooibos brew
and a chapter of ‘Auto da Fé’,
and besides, it would be embarrassing if I failed
to fail.
Every now and then I spy on my neighbours—
a humble family of magpies—and I’ve always been struck
by how busy they are with their lives, but perhaps it’s easier
when you face your end after a measly few years.
With a lifespan like that, who would waste time
on meta-existence?
Poets often write about themselves,
yet sometimes they become the theme
driving their vainglorious stanzas,
but mostly there is nothing in their verse
but them.
I can’t stand waffling on
and have always appreciated the brevity of style,
but even for me a simple ‘I love you’ won’t cut it anymore—
I’ve learnt my lesson.
Perhaps next time just say
nothing,
whoever you are.
Wrapped in a blanket,
I pass the morning (it’s noon already?!)
with GLS’s letters and a piece of flatbread
with peanut butter and dried apricots
since peeping at long bygone lives
and inventing odd dishes is the most I can do
while I wait for the final act of misfortune
I brought upon myself when, in a hormonal haze,
I followed tradition and a state-sanctioned
cursed primal urge.
hidden pilcrow 