Category: poetry

Here are my poems in English and Polish.

If only I had known

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

As I talk to a man of tough words
across the two centuries standing between us,
I try to recall the youngster who has grown
into myself over the past three decades.

I wish I could have told him that there was nothing
inherently wrong with being the protagonist
in his own drama, even if it’s not particularly well staged
and the audience is composed solely of critics.

But in truth, I doubt I would be able to say anything
that he wouldn’t have figured out himself eventually.
After all, I may be more well-read, but I’m still just as clueless,
only disillusioned—though that comes with time.

The milk of human kindness

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Why does the removal of the appendix seem mostly inconsequential,
leaving nothing but a small scar on my belly and a pat on the shoulder
—well done, you—while a simple orchiectomy leaves me branded
as a eunuch? In an overpopulated world, why are we still so obsessed
with procreation? Blaming the selfish gene seems a bit pathetic, doesn’t it?
After all, it was only going to take another hundred years of fine writing
and hard thinking to cure us of prejudice, and that was said two centuries ago
about our feelings for spiders—the milk of human kindness was the phrase,
if memory serves—when here we are talking about our brethren.
The problem is that it’s hard to expect milk from breasts made of marble
or silicone gel.

My love is as a fever

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There is nothing better than romantic love
if you make a living selling tickets to Paris and Venice
or intend to do some fine coin on Audrey Hepburn films.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Think of the more sinister players,
like the diamond cartel feeding us with the myth of the symbol of love
—the engagement ring. Or have you ever contemplated the absurdity
of Valentine’s Day? After all, th’ uncertain sickly appetite needs nothing
of the sort. Elderflowers and an Epsom salt bath are Granny’s best
remedies for fever.

Life goes on regardless

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski4 Comments

Why is it that when I see a young seagull rolling down a roof,
I have this urge to write about a young seagull rolling down a roof,
even though I don’t care about a young seagull rolling down a roof?
But before I could find a good reason—any reason—after a brief
tussle in the gutter, the young seagull flew away crying, unscathed
and unaware.

A fig leaf

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I spent this morning reading my own poetry,
which I haven’t done in a long time,
and I found it not bad—not bad at all.
In fact, it’s quite good, if I do say so myself.
Yet hardly anyone knows it, and what’s more,
I’ve wasted any chance to get it published
by simply posting it in that petty cubbyhole called the Web,
or so the experts in the field say.

The above may sound somewhat conceited,
but—though it comes at a price, as there are no free meals
in this corner greasy spoon—isn’t being bold a poet’s birthright?
If I didn’t know any better, I’d be inclined to believe
that every artist is actually a bit of a smug,
condescending arsehole doomed to sainthood
—a fig leaf covering up everyone else’s free pass
to continue business as usual.

Ten miles

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As a long-time purchaser of scarce volumes
by authors gone in the meridian of their glory
and a humble juggler of words myself,
I certainly can appreciate a good book,
but recently I’ve noticed that in order to read,
I have to cycle ten miles; otherwise, I fall
asleep after a mere paragraph or two.

A simple explanation could be boredom,
but who in their right mind would blame the text
when it comes to their favourite titles?
The first signs of ageing are also a possibility,
although I had hoped it would be at least
another decade or so before my autumn came.
Whatever it is, ten miles doesn’t sound so morbid.

Creatures of refined taste

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We are peculiar creatures, acting in bizarre ways.
For instance, no one minds when I casually talk
about my lunch or brushing teeth at least twice a day,
but even the mere mention of things like excretion
or masturbation makes everyone uneasy, to say the least.

Or another trivial example: we swallow about two pints
of saliva per day, but try to spit some into a glass
and then drink it without a gag reflex. I’m quite sure
even just thinking about it sends a shiver down your spine.

Of course, you could say that it is simply a matter of rising
above the level of beasts, let alone the refined taste
and sophistication we so readily attribute to ourselves
as a species exclusively. The thing is, we can play gods
all we want, but a monkey in a tuxedo is still a monkey.

The cursed currency of today’s newspaper

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Why is there me rather than not,
as if the slipper animalcule were not enough,
even if only recalled from the bygone, coarse syllogisms
of my birthplace, to allude to an obscure pen warrior,
known perhaps to a few highbrows in the Slavic literature department here and there?
Obscurity is actually what everyone should aim for, by the way.
But that’s just me, I guess. After all, fame seems to be the currency
that buys the much-desired immortality
of tomorrow’s bog roll.

Time

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What is the future, if not an incoming bygone,
or the present, if not an ongoing hereafter,
or the past, if not the nonce—just erstwhile?
When you think about it, our perception of time
is no better than of the squawking of a magpie.
No wonder we populate scrapbooks with eidola,
as if every departure comes in an untimely fashion.