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.
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I would love
to write love poems
again.
There’s just no point in trying
when in the bittersweet
it’s only me
and aspartame.
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If I so desperately yearn for human connection, where does that constant trepidation come from every time I have to meet an actual living human being? Why do people seem to be so much more captivating in their refined, textual form? Is it because books don’t exhibit annoying habits or have foul breath, or is it all down to my own shortcomings that I try to hide?
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Have you ever heard of a library without books? I haven’t—at least until now—but apparently such a thing actually exists. And while I could understand the appeal to some extent, it seems to me that it is something akin to a vegan steak—edible, perhaps somewhat filling, yet still lacking a few essentials. Maybe it’s a hint of nostalgia, but I still remember when, as a youngster, I would go to the local library, stand between the shelves and, with my eyes closed, randomly pull out a book. You can’t imagine how many treasures I discovered that way. Besides, my objection most likely comes from the fact that it seems like another step towards eliminating the traditional book, because although their electronic replacements have their advantages, they are still far from surpassing the paper ones. Take the 1969 Faber and Faber edition of The Complete Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot in your hand (which I happen to have on my desk right now), and you will understand.
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Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)
I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.
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My late Sunday breakfast-turned-lunch
consisted of a piece of flatbread with peanut butter
and that overlong commercial for a jeweller from Fifth Avenue
showing what happens when you get your cat wet.
The only thing missing was a coupe of milk
and my decorator.
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I like the sun in full bloom
to have a cloud cover
with only occasional breaks,
as it is less intimidating that way—
at least on Sundays.
I probably should have gone
to the beach
like I used to,
but I spent the late morning in an armchair
by the window,
reading
and snacking on almonds instead,
and now I’m playing
with a word processor.
Why is it that I’d rather write a verse
than live it?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
It puts me in a rather peculiar position when—rather than, considering my age, courting a preposterous dowager—I yearn for the creamy scent of a perfectly ripe banana, the inconsequential beauty of unwitting lasciviousness—even if one exhibits something as mundanely inappropriate as picking one’s nose, so it is impossible not to call one a perfect scandal—a sun-drenched firmament of tiny freckles, and more. I can’t wait to see how ridiculous I will be in ten years when I’m sixty.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
After spending the greater part of my adult life in Scotland, I’m starting to wonder who I really am, because—technically a Pole—not only am I not visiting the old country, but I have even stopped using my mother tongue, since there aren’t very many opportunities for it, and English has now become not only my spoken and written language, but I even think in it. To be frank, I no longer know or care what happens in Poland, and if it were not for the passport I have to renew every ten years, I doubt I would pay more attention to the place than I do to the Solomon Islands. However, I can’t really call myself Scottish, or British for that matter, as I have never really applied for citizenship, mainly because I would have to swear allegiance to the current monarch and his heirs and successors, a thought that burns my republican soul like hellfire. So, I live my little life as an emigrant—a state of mind akin to that of a poor distant relative living in a spare room—if I may allow myself such an analogy—a household member, but not quite family.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 