My poetry written in English
My little shabby B-and-B
only ever had one guest: me,
and despite the everlasting muss,
it wasn’t all that inconvenient—
at least I got used to the ins
and outs of its constitution.
Now imagine having a lodger
for a full nine months—
is that what they call
shared management?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
What was the last thing you remember
before you died? I was signing my book,
but I can’t recall if it was as MacCallus
or Modzelewski. It doesn’t matter—
they’re both equally ridiculous—
just like signing a book
I never published.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Some words sit better with a blackboard,
like a line delivered offhand by an old stager,
even if tinged with a hint of limestone scent
and prolonged storage, but you could have tried
slightly more sophisticated writing implements
for the sudden ‘I’m leaving’.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A French and an American student
meet on a train to Vienna and fall in love
sounds oddly familiar, like a pitch
for a romcom scribbled on a napkin
in one of Tinseltown’s shabby bars
that somehow turned into an epic trilogy,
and your only regret is that you were
neither the scribbler nor the lover,
but at least you’re holding on to something
real.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Whether it’s a fountain
in the land of the Macrobians,
the Pool of Bethesda, mind uploading
or an occasional botox injection,
it’s hard to shake the feeling
that the eternal youth of our dreams
borders somewhat on everlasting
infancy.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
If one were to compare a human to a computer,
the body would be the hardware and the mind the software,
but what about the soul—the mythware? (Like a unicorn
that was added to the user manual because marketing thought
there should be magic under the hood.)
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The soul’s place is in the narthex,
getting tipsy on the fumes of incense and holy water,
but it sobers up quickly when faced with the dilemma
of whether to watch Det sjunde inseglet
or Freulein Masseuse.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I am a jerk,
an arsehole,
a chauvinistic pig,
but I’m supposed to be—
I am a man, after all,
just another
testosterone junkie,
and I’m okay with that
as long as no one
calls out my pussy
as inadequate.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
No one reads poetry
on Friday night
or at all—even poets
prefer pub quizzes and a pint
to poring over Shelley.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 