Captured on Polaroid shots,
we’re reselling green-screened déjà vus,
just to keep an old promise, ever afraid
that in the end we would have nothing
to say.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Category: poetry
The humble
I’ve seen Roundhay Garden Scene
and the trailers that followed.
Now I have settled on observing the restless
natives humming follies
to the tune of Que Será, Será
at the bend of the L-shaped room
where they cook, fuck and study—me, the humble,
squeaking floor panel.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
No one is born
He who has neither the courage to die nor the heart to live, who will neither resist nor fly, what can we do with him?
Essays, Michel de Montaigne
No one is born because they want to, yet
the unlettered pen pals teach you to believe
that a second-hand appreciation leaves nothing
but a bad aftertaste—an old man’s grudge
like the scent of snow or the answer
to the question ‘What’s north
of the North Pole?’
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Self-service
When did I become an amanuensis
of my own? If only I were a Boomer,
I’d have charged a few shillings per page
back in the day—now it’s all self-
procrastination for a bowl of noodles.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Out of practice
I think I have fallen out of practice;
I’m just not sure what I’ve fallen out of practice at.
It might have something to do with having expectations—
whether high or low is of little importance—or happy endings
for the audience’s sake.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
In fluent silence
I have a cheesecake promised
five hundred miles away from here.
It’s not even a blown kiss—a jest, perhaps,
with sunglasses on (that’s London, after all),
or a prolegomenon to a fable
in fluent silence.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A love letter
I guess I’m no longer looking for anything—
anything in particular, at least
(subject to the occasional surprise).
Perhaps that’s why I have settled on films
with Miss Kendrick—somewhere along the way,
I left behind a pile of first-edition hardbacks,
and my collection of Ikea nutcrackers fell victim
to the financial proceedings—the final stage
of love.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
If it happens
Sudoku and reheated dinners—
all these bizarre contortions
known as daily dances
that amount to nothing
more than endurance training
for the obviated Olympics,
where yesterday’s blood and sweat
become tomorrow’s Nativity play.
But if life only happens
on stage, on a silver screen,
in the thicket of typeset pages,
I will gladly remain
a pilcrow.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Window shopping with the familiar stranger
Like a stranger
who shows you a little kindness,
the chess master of Täby strolls with you
amongst the mannen
in a tournament where every game
is one too many,
and the only name allowed
is Cartaphilus.
But as you walk
through the granite burg—
never sure
if the next cross street you turn onto
is a boulevard or a cul-de-sac,
yet feeling compelled to step forward,
even when in zugzwang—
you realise you’ve missed
the difference between a shop window
and a mirror.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 