My French is only slightly better than my Latin,
I’m afraid, which means—though I’m perfectly capable
of informing a passer-by on the Rue Saint-Jacques
that je ne parle pas français—I can’t indulge in
Mélange Adultère de Tout, unfortunately.
Besides, I’d rather see Longhaven Cliffs
than your cenotaph.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Being alive by proxy—
subject to semantic bleaching—
is the one particular burden that is mine
and mine alone, yet
since I mostly read old men
with long beards and moustaches,
I don’t feel particularly overwhelmed.
That is, until I’m singed by the flare
of tone contagion, which leaves no choice
but to close the book and get out
in the real world.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I would love
to write love poems
again.
There’s just no point in trying
when in the bittersweet
it’s only me
and aspartame.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)
I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My late Sunday breakfast-turned-lunch
consisted of a piece of flatbread with peanut butter
and that overlong commercial for a jeweller from Fifth Avenue
showing what happens when you get your cat wet.
The only thing missing was a coupe of milk
and my decorator.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I like the sun in full bloom
to have a cloud cover
with only occasional breaks,
as it is less intimidating that way—
at least on Sundays.
I probably should have gone
to the beach
like I used to,
but I spent the late morning in an armchair
by the window,
reading
and snacking on almonds instead,
and now I’m playing
with a word processor.
Why is it that I’d rather write a verse
than live it?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My resentments act as bookmarks
to the feminist writers occupying my bookshelves,
inappropriately labelled ‘the fair sex dome’,
but forgive me my inadequacy of thought—
I’m of the rugged gender.
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I curse the day I tasted bridal bread and salt.
I curse the day I met the future posy thrower.
I curse the day I let the dissolution slip through my fingers.
I curse the day I woke up in a stretcher.
I curse the day I was born,
most of all.
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En réalité le satanisme a gagné. Satan s’est fait ingénu. Le mal se connaissant était moins affreux et plus près de la guérison que le mal s’ignorant. G. Sand inférieure à de Sade.
Notes sur «Les liaisons dangereuses», Charles Baudelaire
My neighbour leads a life of studious regularity
and doesn’t mind if George Sand is inferior to de Sade,
as long as he can perch on the scroll finial of the church across the street
to catch his breath between feedings of his chicks.
If only I were a magpie.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 