oil portrait of a thoughtful man with a beard

Journal (My life is my story)

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski3 Comments

As of today, I have decided to stop writing poetry. To tell the truth, I’ve been planning to do this for quite some time now. And no, I am not aping Rimbaud, whose level, by the way, I am not even remotely close to. I simply feel like a fraud with a fig leaf of a quote from Apology, where Socrates said that “not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them.” And even if I manage to write something decent from time to time, most of my literary output is mediocre at best. It’s true that I had my moment when I was still writing in Polish and a series of my poems were published in one of the most important literary magazines in Poland, but this is ancient history now.

I stopped writing in Polish, and what’s more, I even stopped reading in my mother tongue. It was not a whim but a conscious decision to motivate myself to dive deeper into the language and culture of my new homeland instead of closing myself in a ghetto like many of my compatriots in emigration. By the way, I still feel a tinge of embarrassment when I remember the sight of satellite dishes mounted on kitchen walls near the wide open windows in the apartments of Polish emigrants to receive Polish TV because mounting satellite dishes on the outer walls of skyscrapers was prohibited for security reasons. If anything, it was the end of a bloody November, and believe me, that’s not fun on the Scottish coast. I can’t even imagine how cold it must have been in those apartments.

So, instead of waiting for another divine inspiration, I decided to start writing a journal, partly because my attempts at writing novels had failed since they were always nothing but a flash in the pan—I’m working on that—and also because of a lack of ideas for interesting stories. A journal definitely sorts the latter problem out—my life is my story. Moreover, the masterpiece of my favourite writer, Witold Gombrowicz, is his diary, which, by the way, I have in the original and in English translation, and I regularly return to both. So why not follow my master’s example, even if my chances of writing anything worth publishing are rather slim?

portrait of a middle-aged man

And just like that he came

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

I can’t remember the last time I tasted marzipan,
or anything as sweet, for that matter.
Sugar has become one of those guilty pleasures
I can’t afford anymore. I envy the time I could eat
whatever I wanted and as much as I wanted,
and everything burned off without a trace in my waist.
I guess that’s age for you. But it’s not all bad.
There are things that only came with age, like the fact
that the all-consuming greed for new is finally gone.
I’ve learned patience and appreciation for the moment.
And back then, I would never have understood the words
of Professor Falconer. Now I know—I’m a single man too.

a white van parked on the side of a country road with a mountainous landscape in the background

Taxonomy for beginners

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I can’t be a crazy cat lady since I’m a man,
and I don’t have even a single cat, but that’s a minor detail.
Living in the north of Scotland, if anything, excludes me
from the bon chic bon genre.

I could always have become a white-van man
if I had bothered to get my driving licence first.
And, of course, there is always the obvious choice—
a Polish plumber.

A word of advice if you are in a similar dilemma:
whatever label you choose, make sure it’s clear.
People forgive you anything but ambiguity.

A large black cat stares at a man in a suit and top hat practising yoga - oil painting in the style of René Magritte

All the trinkets of my day

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I like that brief pause at the dust jacket flaps
before the serpentine sentences call me
to follow their long stretches and sub-clauses
introduced with all the althoughs, therefores,
and whiles pulled out of the conjunction hat.
I like the cat’s morning yoga for atheist classes
before the obligatory glass of milk-and-water bliss.
I like a furtive one last sniff of the night’s remnants
hidden in my pyjamas before I wrap myself
in the armour of an everyday suit.
And there are a few other trinkets like that,
but the point is, if there is a silver lining to life,
these would be the closest.

A man standing on the bank of a parting river - an oil painting in the style of René Magritte

Like pebbles lying on a riverbank

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

There is no point to life or value
beyond that of a pebble lying on a riverbank.
These could only be created between us, but only just,
since all we do is supply the necessary dose of meaning in life
to keep us going—not the meaning of life itself.
And by the way, let’s leave aside any notion of happiness
or morality as distinct concepts (have there been many lives
as meaningful as Judas’, to look no further than Christian mythology?).
So, asking about the meaning of life is, in itself, meaningless.
And as for meaning in life, just think of the paradox
of future individuals.

A man standing in the middle of a river - an oil painting in the style of René Magritte
Created using AI Bing Image Creator
people busy with their mobile phones, oil painting in the style of Paul Klee

Rhymester, read thyself

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

“You have lost your wits and have gone astray; and, like an unskilled doctor, fallen ill, you lose heart and cannot discover by which remedies to cure your own disease.”
Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound

With mobile phones, we have become accustomed to immediate responses,
so no one wants to wait for anything anymore. Add to that the quality
of our relationships—likely comparable to the nutritional value
of a plastic bowl of instant noodles—and it’s no wonder we are trapped
between the Scylla of solitude and the Charybdis of addiction to dating apps,
ending up lonely one way or another.

Dealing with people sooner or later brings disappointment. I get that.
But we all have our quirks and neglected issues, so maybe it’s time
to stop being harder on others than on yourself.
Give them a chance, and they may pleasantly surprise you,
said the one least likely to read his own words.

oil painting: writer in front of the computer

It’s all about appearance

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Sometimes I have the same dream over and over again,
as if a turntable needle were stuck in the groove of a broken record
that would otherwise be an uneventful night. It wakes me up eventually,
and more often than not, I cannot get back to sleep.

Since tossing and turning makes no more sense than getting out of bed,
I choose the latter, and, trying to avoid the usual squeaky floor concerto,
I walk over to my desk.

To prevent the neighbours’ wrath, I’d rather not touch the typewriter
and settle for my good old friend, the fountain pen—or I would
in the pre-digital era, but sitting in front of a computer screen
doesn’t sound as romantic.

You see, it is all about keeping up the appearance of an artistic vibe.
After all, we are all occasional imposters.

watercolour portrait of mother and daughter

Generations

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Like father, like son, or so they say.
But what if the son has his father’s face
but not his voice anymore? Or a mother
and a daughter, like those I saw once
on the bus while coming back from work.

I was dozing off a bit, but I could still hear
a true Aberdonian teen frantically talking
about some fist-involving drama at school.
But at some point, a mature female voice
with a strong Nigerian accent responded.

Intrigued, I opened my eyes and saw them—
like two peas in a pod, yet different.

oil painting: portrait of a young person with green-blue hair

To be surprised

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I met a girl the other day
at my favourite second-hand film shop, or a boy,
or none of the above. I simply couldn’t tell.
I was baffled, confused, and fascinated.
They look like they’re twenty-ish,
but facial and body features, voice pitch,
unisex clothing style, and hair colour—half blue,
half green—wouldn’t point at any of the two genders
I grew up knowing, although I lean more towards the feminine side.

I know it’s none of my business
and that the world is no longer binary
(it never was; we just swept what we didn’t want
to acknowledge under the rug),
but I can’t stop thinking about them.
It’s like meeting an exotic beauty for the first time
when you can’t take your eyes off her,
even knowing that you look at least idiotic
and maybe even creepy.

If I were half my age, it would probably be a good reason
to ask them out on a date, but in my situation,
I can only marvel at how incredibly beautiful and diverse the world is
and that I am still capable of being surprised by this fact.