Part hermit, part monk, Mr Honk—
courtesy of Mr Wallace—
wondered at what subordinate clause
his sentence would abruptly end,
even if he was not quite sure
whether he was writing a field report
or an epigraph.
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Mr Honk has been born out of necessity,
as no one knew how to pronounce his real name
or if he even had one; after all, he often struck people
as a rather peculiar figure—an elderly bairn
who always wanted to write long and amicable letters
but didn’t foresee that he would become the sole addressee.
But he came to terms with that just as he did with the fact
that some books were taking him longer, though he never knew
if it was the extent, the typeface and kerning,
or simply the purport.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The left-handed fascinate me—
I call them the mirror folk—
but I’m still not sure if their otherness is real
or just perceived, like my reflection
blurred by gauche epigraphs
and recherché humility.
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I bit a tomato—
courtesy of the Columbian exchange—
as if it were a Belle de Boskoop
while staring at the map of the patch across the pond,
wondering what shaped the Usonian Goldilocks syndrome,
because when you split a hair, you reveal its structure;
when you spin it, you can make it look prettier,
but you will never go beyond cosmetics.
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I live by the river yet never walk its banks.
Not that they’d miss me particularly—
after all, I would just be another pair of soles
trampling on their peace between the tides.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Baking bread is all about temperature—
set it too low and you’ll end up with a dry brick,
but too high and the crust will burn,
leaving the dough uncooked inside.
But you’ve got to be at least thermo-literate
to land a baker’s job, and that’s a fact, not an opinion—
you still remember what that is, don’t you?
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It was such a fine idea—while it lasted—
that even though it barely outlived the remex
dipped in oak gall ink to etch the signatures,
we go on perpetuating it ad infinitum—
like turkeys drawn by ‘something borrowed,
something blue’.
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I recently came across two rather peculiar terms: mythic history and fictive history. Although I’m not a historian myself, if I were, I’d feel somewhat uncomfortable, to say the least. After all, the word history comes from the Ancient Greek term ἵστωρ (histōr), meaning ‘learnt, wise man’—not from φήμη (phḗmē), that is, ‘prophetic voice, oracle, rumour’. What’s next—deterministic poetry?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My little shabby B-and-B
only ever had one guest: me,
and despite the everlasting muss,
it wasn’t all that inconvenient—
at least I got used to the ins
and outs of its constitution.
Now imagine having a lodger
for a full nine months—
is that what they call
shared management?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 