Category: poetry

Here are my poems in English and Polish.

a man in a room full of books stands by the window and reads by the light of the streetlamps

The way we are born

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I know we always assume that parental love is a given,
but have you ever wondered what it would be like to be
the reason your parents have been at each other’s throats
for as long as you can remember, just because the distance
between their wedding anniversary and your birthday
is oddly close? Personally, I feel like I would rather never
have been born than bear such a burden, but it so happened
that I was, and trust me, it rips every bit of light out of you,
to the point that you lock yourself in a room with books
read by street light, standing behind a curtain. This is how
madmen and poets are born.

a clown with his arms raised in a dramatic gesture

An act of happiness

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

How could you not resent happy people when they are so—how to put it—happy
that your teeth hurt? But do not worry; they are not that much different from you.
They are just a tad better thespians. Of course, you can always try hard to change
something, even if only the scenery, hoping that a new scene will make a new act
possible, and the new act will make you a new, hopefully happier person. Perhaps
all you have to do is move elsewhere. The problem is that it is a little like buying
new clothes. They may be fashionable, but you are still naked underneath.

headless man in a suit sitting at a desk with an open book

The obliging neighbour

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

If you turn to big names like Shakespeare, da Vinci, or, Godwin’s law notwithstanding,
Hitler—the ultimate evil—to define a point of reference from which to move the absolute
blandness underlying our tedious yet convenient inadequacy, there is a risk of throwing
yourself at Newton’s flaming laser sword of a sort. But even if you abandon the trenches
to be content with the contemplation of the Bavarian gentians, your obliging neighbour
will get his hands on you eventually.

a blackboard in the lecture hall

Just another day

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

We used to celebrate this day, the seventeenth, and then I cursed it passionately
for a long time. Perhaps now it is what it is supposed to be—just another day
that sometimes reminds me of something, although I am not sure what exactly.
But even if I were a function of memory, the body that bears it is no ordinary
blackboard that has lost its only piece of chalk.

an old man in a hat writes something in a notebook

Writing epitaphs for a man of tedious little insignificance

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

For the future me

As a creature of symbol, bored with the steady pace of every day life, he craved
gestures and milestones marking the progress of his tedious little insignificance
full of wishes of small importance and efforts that did not matter in the slightest.

After many a year, he learned how to pretend so well that he convinced himself
that he was about to be happy. Maybe another step or two, an extra drop of sweat,
or one more bitter bite to swallow—but felicity was there, or so he told himself.

The irony is that in his futile attempt at scoring big once, he actually missed all
the trifles that ultimately each day is made of.

dentist during tooth drilling

The one who gives a damn

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

My dentist told me that I grind my teeth while sleeping,
and I am not entirely sure if I should be upset or relieved.
I know my endless craving for affection has been tiring
for quite some time now, and if you ask me if I am dead
inside, then I may well be, but that one random remark
could make all the difference. You see, I thought I had
to grit my teeth to keep from giving her the satisfaction.
It turned out that, while she enjoys the Riviera, the one
who gives a damn is the quiet man with a handpiece.

fist of a man trying to kill a fly

Substitute hunting

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Armed and determined, I prowl the interiors of my humble dwelling.
My weapon? A tightly folded premium kitchen towel. My prey? A fat,
buzzing housefly. But damn if I don’t feel like a real seasoned hunter.
And everything would be just fine if only I knew where the unsettling
sense of misplaced anger came from.