Here are my poems in English and Polish.
Anger is not the offspring of circumstance;
it is born out of unsolicited existence
in a panopticon, where we are free
to role-play yesterday with a descant dawn—
for the sake of tomorrow that never quite happens
in the realm of phonetic empathy and burnt dinners
triggering the fire alarm in the tenement every other day.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There are words, though distant,
that make me weep;
always;
and despite learning new ones,
short of stage directions—
as if coughing verbiage dyed in royal blue were my destiny—
I’m still unsure if the expression I intend to use
is sufficiently peculiar to pass
the ‘neither nor’ mark.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I have never tasted onigiri
seasoned with furtive tears
nor horumon grilled as a will,
yet with my ageing heart
professionally demolished
by I Want To Eat Your Pancreas,
how can I still be surprised
that in kanji, even whining
might look like a rapture?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Call me sentimental, but I miss door knockers,
Bakelite phones, and oak rocking chairs, let alone
tapping out a stanza on a Remington to the sound
of a valve radio tuned to the BBC Third Programme
in the hope of making a few guineas for another stack
of cloth-bound volumes, forever destined to gather
saudade.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Sometimes I wonder: how should I measure time?
In years, days, minutes, or in steps, perhaps,
since time is all about contiguous expansion,
even if occasionally it slaps my hands to chastise
my deliberate impatience?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I believe in words;
I’m just not a fan.
And I sleep too few hours—
just enough to realise ‘I don’t exist’
is a self-refuting idea that I’ve deserved
after half a century of procrastination
and warm saline gargling—still convinced
that time has tricked me,
leaving me uncomfortable behind
the greatest invention of all:
lined curtains.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
You said life is a full-time job.
Guess what—I’m retired.
Besides, I lack the necessary presence;
always have. After all, what would you expect
from a casual stroller on a treadmill
before mustering one final act
of solidarity?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The docile grieve sotto voce, thrumming
the sorrows in the shade of a lime tree and drystane dyke.
After all, there’s nothing wrong with being a little awkward,
like a former semi-famous adolescent birdwatcher—
never reckless despite youth—now a lean curmudgeon,
collecting lanterns and astrolabes, having realised that
not every message needs to be delivered.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I share a bed with a man
of the same name and disposition,
who reads no books
but webtoons, watching
as a janitor with a besom battles
falling leaves in a somewhat crowded school yard
of his bygone youth,
collecting whispers of a tear
unbefitting the dusk heldentenor,
while masking the fact that we might be dead by tomorrow
with the occasional convenience
of myopia.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
