Author: Maciej Modzelewski

Sometimes hope is just not enough.

Spiritual maladies

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

In the scorch of August, sitting naked in a garden chair
dragged into my airy living room, I read Carlyle’s notes
on the froth-eddies and sand-banks of the Mechanical Age
he was born into and wonder whether a simple urban hermit
from the Age of Imagination like myself should still repeat
after him that our spiritual maladies are but of Opinion.
Although we may be fettered by chains of our own forging,
which we ourselves could also rend asunder, the sheer number
of those who have fallen victim to their corrupting weight
hardly makes the latter plausible. But what would I know
beyond my sweaty, naked body?

Collateral damage

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

It starts with skipping the shower on the odd occasion.
After a while, showering every other day becomes a habit.
Then you realise that washing the whole body once a week
was actually good enough for your forefathers, but since you
are not religious, you end up settling for doing it fortnightly.
You even come up with quite an elaborate explanation
—something about environmental awareness and the like.
But, I guess, personal hygiene is not the worst casualty
of the lockdown-induced remote work, online shopping,
and heartbreak.

There’s no way this is the fever

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

So, here I am—one moment I’m soaking wet
under the sun hidden behind the dark clouds
that just so happened to have decided to sweat cats and dogs all day long,
listening to old men, older than me, who sing
about past loves and how regrets are part of life,
trying to reach the long-forgotten tranquillity
of a bookworm—and the next thing I know, your eyes are wide open
and your girlish face is lit up with impish glee
because of something I said.

There’s no way this is the fever from that old sonnet,
because like chickenpox or measles, once we had it,
we were supposed to gain lifelong immunity—or so I thought—and yet,
all the symptoms suggest otherwise, which makes me wonder
if there is any point in agonising over the physician
leaving me to my own devices if nothing ever changes
regardless of whether I follow his prescriptions or not.
After all, I’m about to be called an old man myself,
old enough to sing my own songs.

Englishwoman in New York

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski9 Comments

Have you ever heard of an Englishman in New York? I have
met a perfectly extraordinary Englishwoman in New York
—a girl, really—named Carrie Pilby, and she was a character
of fiction, nevertheless as real as any of the women in my life
nowadays. Now I have a good excuse not to meet anyone else
until the next cosy film night on the sofa.

Black and white

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Why are black-and-white pictures called black-and-white pictures
when there is so much colour in them—so much unadulterated life?
At least the gown and tuxedo look better in them, and the wrinkles
become refined, as do the tears. And the trifling details fade away,
like the ones we hoped to capture in them.

A miracle

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

If I told you that life is a miracle
of a chore—and a tedious one,
to be frank—would you rather believe me
or put your trust in all those who preach
that it is an actual miracle in its own right?
For if the latter, what a pathetic miracle is it
that has compelled us to say that drama is life
with the dull bits cut out? Isn’t that right, Alfred?
After all, two measly hours don’t compare
to the decades we have to endure. Yet, I recognise
that there is a miracle in life—that despite everything,
we still somehow manage to pull it off.

If only I had known

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

As I talk to a man of tough words
across the two centuries standing between us,
I try to recall the youngster who has grown
into myself over the past three decades.

I wish I could have told him that there was nothing
inherently wrong with being the protagonist
in his own drama, even if it’s not particularly well staged
and the audience is composed solely of critics.

But in truth, I doubt I would be able to say anything
that he wouldn’t have figured out himself eventually.
After all, I may be more well-read, but I’m still just as clueless,
only disillusioned—though that comes with time.

The milk of human kindness

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Why does the removal of the appendix seem mostly inconsequential,
leaving nothing but a small scar on my belly and a pat on the shoulder
—well done, you—while a simple orchiectomy leaves me branded
as a eunuch? In an overpopulated world, why are we still so obsessed
with procreation? Blaming the selfish gene seems a bit pathetic, doesn’t it?
After all, it was only going to take another hundred years of fine writing
and hard thinking to cure us of prejudice, and that was said two centuries ago
about our feelings for spiders—the milk of human kindness was the phrase,
if memory serves—when here we are talking about our brethren.
The problem is that it’s hard to expect milk from breasts made of marble
or silicone gel.

My love is as a fever

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

There is nothing better than romantic love
if you make a living selling tickets to Paris and Venice
or intend to do some fine coin on Audrey Hepburn films.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Think of the more sinister players,
like the diamond cartel feeding us with the myth of the symbol of love
—the engagement ring. Or have you ever contemplated the absurdity
of Valentine’s Day? After all, th’ uncertain sickly appetite needs nothing
of the sort. Elderflowers and an Epsom salt bath are Granny’s best
remedies for fever.