With every line a liability—
and Ea von Allesch out of reach—
I can’t leave my expectations
at the mercy of the em dash.
And while I can always hang a thousand words
celebrating the forlornly sought-after mortality
of Death itself
on the wall,
there’s no need to be overly dramatic—
everyone deserves a postmortem, after all,
even the slightly hysterical.
Isn’t that what a pied-à-terre is for?
Perhaps.
Unless you make it your living
room.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I’m trying to recall when
a caress turned into a doss—
a simple muscle memory feat—
only to dissipate like an ache
after double paracetamol
and the cold shoulder.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
When you find yourself vis-à-vis with the routine
horrors-turned-tattle, a walk down St Fittick’s might help,
even if the beheaded watcher’s house no longer guards
the graves from resurrectionists and unsolicited graffiti,
and you face either the leper squint or the rusting corpse
of a tanker abandoned in Nigg Bay. ‘But will it help?’
And how should I know? I’m only the poet.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A creature of the word—
doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?
Who would have thought that we’d turn
into creatures of paper?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My French is only slightly better than my Latin,
I’m afraid, which means—though I’m perfectly capable
of informing a passer-by on the Rue Saint-Jacques
that je ne parle pas français—I can’t indulge in
Mélange Adultère de Tout, unfortunately.
Besides, I’d rather see Longhaven Cliffs
than your cenotaph.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I woke up this morning feeling like it was Sunday, only to realise that it was just Tuesday. At least it wasn’t Monday, one might say—or was it? But here’s the rub—the seven-day week is complete nonsense. It turns out the Babylonians are to blame, specifically King Sargon I of Akkad. The story in Genesis of God resting on the seventh day reinforced this even more, although, for example, the Egyptians had a ten-day week and the Romans originally settled for eight days (nundinal). But when you think about it, the only truly universal measurements of time are the time of day, that is, day and night, and the years because the seasons repeat. Even the seasons themselves are more of a regional fair. While areas in the mid-latitudes experience spring, summer, autumn, and winter, other regions have different seasonal patterns, like a wet (monsoon) season and a dry season near the equator. So I decided to completely abandon the idea of a week and the names of days associated with it and use only two—Myday and Theirday. Unfortunately, the latter prevails.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Of all the creatures big and small, there are two that I actually quite like—magpies and slipper animalcules. The former for the good neighbourly relations we have, the latter because of a poem—but I suspect you may not know Andrzej Bursa—that once gave me the unique opportunity to say ‘motherfucker’ out loud in class without any undesirable consequences. The thrills of youth—where have you gone?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Being alive by proxy—
subject to semantic bleaching—
is the one particular burden that is mine
and mine alone, yet
since I mostly read old men
with long beards and moustaches,
I don’t feel particularly overwhelmed.
That is, until I’m singed by the flare
of tone contagion, which leaves no choice
but to close the book and get out
in the real world.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 