My poetry written in English
My twin brother doesn’t look like me at all.
True, his face, the whole body for that matter, does resemble mine
down to the last detail, yet it would be hard to ignore the crack
running right through the middle of that vile countenance.
But at least his hand is dripping with the same shade of crimson.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
All of a sudden I recalled my first crush, Jun
the Swan, who made my boyish heart skip a beat
every Thursday morning—no other love was as pure
once I had savoured the scent of a body.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As a humble word toiler, I never appreciate
the celestial knocker-upper waking me up earlier than usual,
yet today I lifted my eyelids in a somewhat brighter mood—
a spiritual shift or a simple fluke, I wonder.
There was nothing surprising in what came after:
the negligent ablutions, the changing of garments, a dash of yoga
after meditation on the throne, and the light breakfast preparation
to get the energy to read the young Bloomsberries.
There was also a pot of goulash that I had prepared
the previous evening and left to cool overnight so I could portion it
into heat-resistant glass containers and put in the freezer as dinners
for the whole week because I really hate cooking.
[then the hand on the keyboard froze for a while]
I’ve been able to give only a personal account
of the events that transpired that fine morning, but nonetheless
they will prove themselves worthy of the annals, if only for this
rather tottery verse, with one caveat, though—
I must ascend to the pantheon.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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?
hidden pilcrow 