Category: poetry

Here are my poems in English and Polish.

watercolour with a view of the city centre in the middle of the day

In transit

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Lately, I have developed a peculiar fascination with symmetry,
like when I read a digital clock and the hour equals the number of minutes
or the time turns into a palindrome. It’s not like I impart any significance
to all those random congruences; I simply find them visually appealing.
But would that imply my divine affinity? Frankly, I find it enough
that I’m already nothing but a non-zero sum of the realised and possible in transit
between pre- and post-individual selves, endlessly rehearsing
the mouthful-ridden opening soliloquy on symptoms mistaken for causes.
There is no need for additional exaltation.

watercolour of a woman who sits huddled and cries

A hand with a handkerchief

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

It is not about breakfast—or any other meal for that matter—eaten in solitude.
It’s not even about the freezing-cold bed you have to jump into after taking a hot shower.
The problem is in all those little glimpses of unexpected brightness you have no one to share with,
like when you exchange a curious glance with a mellow fox during an evening walk,
or when you make flatbread that smells of exotic spaces you recall your granny used to use,
or when you manage to sneak an ancient Greek profanity into an innocent-looking poem.
Weeping after all this without a hand with a handkerchief—that’s loneliness.

watercolour of a chair falling apart when a man sat on it

Much ado about the chair

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Let’s say I asked you to pick a chair. Without giving it much thought,
you would most likely sit down on one or another, assuming that chairs
are simply things to sit on, wouldn’t you? But this somewhat abstract term
doesn’t say anything about whether it is a sturdy or frail chair, and if the latter,
it would collapse with your very attempt at sitting. And here lies the tragedy
of learning: If you ignored the sage’s máthēma passed in the abyss of his poíēma,
then to avoid any future páthēma, you have to bruise your órrhos, my rhêma.

watercolour showing the contours of a man with a boy where the boy is trying to turn the man from the current path

Tuned to listen

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Perhaps Doggerel or Motherese is a way of touching
that special spot in his brain to make him listen.
More often than not, he was mummy’s boy at one point,
so even if only subconsciously, he must remember
that sweet, soft tone and the melodious singsong rhythm
delivering words hard to ignore. Unless, of course, he wasn’t,
and the whole exercise would simply infuriate him
as a deliberate attempt at infantilizing his manhood.
After all, he had spent most of his life grooming himself
to be the next king of the jungle. You can’t turn a lion
back into a puppy. The thing is, he is neither one nor the other,
but just another soul lost and confused in the world of falling,
ill-defined roles.

watercolor portrait of a child

The ways of homo dialecticus

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Yet eager—childhood has no bailiwick. This comes with time,
imprinted with a trace of ash. Even after all these years,
every now and then I find myself rubbing my forehead involuntarily.
It is actually baffling that we believe in the ways of homo dialecticus
when, in the same breath, we embrace all those erstwhile rituals.
I guess, in spite of all the advancements, we don’t really differ that much
from our ancient—or primaeval, for that matter—forebears.
That is probably why I can read Menander or Sappho
as if they were my next-door neighbours.

watercolour portrait of a middle-aged man

Getting the impossible

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Being you, if I met myself, the first thing I would notice
about me was how unsure of myself I am at my age.

I know well that this is not a face from a film poster
that is staring at me in the mirror, not to mention all the great minds
of whom even the shadow is beyond my reach. Perhaps I could at least shave
more often, but only if you insist. I guess it’s never too late
to learn something new,

like your language, but out of sheer convenience,
I would rather stick to the lingua franca, knowing that an accent
always reveals my origin. And maybe I will finally get your obsession
with Virginie Lebeau and François de Paule,
although you are probably just a little snobbish.

Being myself, if I met you, the first thing I would notice
about me was that I had finally lost it, as you can’t be real,

can you?

a woman is looking at a tree opposite her window on a rainy day

Seizing the moment

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

…and out of the blue, a heavy rain came,
turning the streets into rivers—a harbinger of the coming autumn
already touching the leaves—now dripping with water—of a nearby tree
with the first signs of yellowing; a stream from a broken gutter
rumbles against the windowsill; even the school yard across the street
is filled with patter instead of the typical lunchtime hustle and bustle;
and only the spider residing in the crack of the window frame,
ignorant of it, busily improves its web,
seizing the moment…

demonic looking characters swarming around a big button with a thumbs up symbol

The wicked button society

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

If you keep your writing in the sock drawer, readers don’t matter.
Perhaps you write for your own eternal pleasure or are too shy
to show your stanzas to the public. Whatever the reason, one thing
is for sure: you haven’t yet been exposed to the silver coin of likes.
But once you step out into the world and taste someone’s hand
pressing that wicked button, everything changes.
No problem if it’s a genuine poetry lover without baggage of their own.
If not, more often than not, you are expected to reciprocate the gesture,
and if you don’t, they are soon gone for ever. Then you know,
they are not readers—they are addiction partners.