I don’t like weddings;
I much prefer funerals, if anything.
But I guess that’s the result of being born—
everyone carries at least one curse
in the end. That’s mine.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Category: English poetry
My poetry written in English
When the tables turn
I lost sight of my neighbours
as their nest drowned in the linden leaves—
which is nothing unexpected with spring in full swing—
so for now I have to find some other source of entertainment,
or better yet, draw the curtains
so that I don’t become the target of snoopers:
all those flies bouncing off my window.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The last day of the Inquisition
Faith is a perishable good with a somewhat intimidating scent
of respectability, a late symbol of our exalted humilitude—
as if café au lait wasn’t enough—and it makes me think
of the last day of the Inquisition and of clerks burning old paperwork
and auctioning off no longer needed instruments of torture
to be repurposed as it fits.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A convalescent
My object-free life
sometimes needs something more
tangible yet obtuse, so it wouldn’t hurt
when it touches the fettle
that comes with a myriad of attempts,
like all that prying used to:
‘Where are you off to?’
I guess I still need time.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Same old same old
In a closed game I mostly play myself,
navigating through days with hoary household appliances—
which permits only nontactical positional manoeuvring—
just to keep up with a simple chore list.
And then comes the pressure of Zeitnot,
which makes mistakes more likely,
but in the end, does it really matter whether you win or lose?
After all, the dead are impervious to either fame or shame.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The unit of measure
If life, instead of years, were measured by volumes,
what would mine be like—
reminiscent of À la recherche du temps perdu
or Homo faber. Ein Bericht?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A simple recipe
The frail constitution of conscience,
the assumed brevity of spirit,
and the calculated immodesty of mind,
all curtained with a green palette—
courtesy of a linden bathed in sunlight—
is a simple recipe for disaster
or a poem.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
To redeem us
[…] the point of disagreement is not that I like his body better than he likes mine, but that he likes my mind less than I like his.
Lytton Strachey, from a letter to Leonard Woolf
I don’t believe in unicorns
and beautiful boys entering the picture mid-spring
to redeem love—
or whatever that spree in meadowland is called—
only to turn yet another string of random labels
that our days need to progress
from one misstep to the next.
Besides, I’m not well-adjusted—I wish I were,
or perhaps not; maybe it’s better the way I am—
unlike all the pre-highbrows walking down Charing Cross Road
on rainy Sundays; I’m still struggling with the difference
between pleasing you and joining your tribe.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The ignoble writing implement
Why does the word ‘computer’
not have the noble ring of a ‘fountain pen’?
Even a ‘typewriter’ sounds better
than the name of the Difference Engine’s progeny,
though I could always say that I wrote this verse
on my PC (yuck!) or a desktop.
I wonder if the poet had the same problem
when quills had gone out of use.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 