I had a wife once;
such an unfortunate slip of judgement,
or perhaps a twist of fate,
since the final years—
not as verbose, but ripe—
have made me a poet
I’ve never been before.
I imagine that’s the feeling
of a butcher on the opening night
of the Delicatessen.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
One’s life, driven by an electricity tariff
and the moody weather that suits one well,
as it provides the perfect excuse to exercise
the principle of energy conservation—
with the exception of an umbrella
that sometimes longs for a shower—
is nothing short of blatant sacrilege
in the world of aggregate demand.
But then what’s the alternative—
scorched earth? We’ve already practised
burning down libraries, remember?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Cary Grant made men seem like a good idea.
Cary Grant: A Class Apart, Graham McCann
You can live one word at a time,
but it takes a sentence to be convincing,
unless you plan to play South by Southeast
with the miraculously reborn Branjelina.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
qui dolorem ipsum, quia dolor sit
De finibus bonorum et malorum, Marcus Tullius Cicero
How can I not pity
the old beggar Cicero
for his most read text
being Lorem ipsum?
But I guess that suffices
for an indifficile reader
content with the life
of a tourist—myself.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Mr Honk never understood
the look of bewilderment on people’s faces
when he whistled Christmas carols
in July, as if he were singing commercials
at a funeral. And it wasn’t that he was trying
to convey some profound message—
he simply enjoyed the cheerful tune,
as only an infidel could.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Of the manners unbecoming a reader,
few could be more malapert
than asking a poet what he meant—
for a poem is not a bearer of revealed truths
but a Rorschach inkblot.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Is it a matter of writing implements that we write more
to say less, or—with the power of large numbers in play—
do we have to face the truth that we have always been
the blabbering sort, only back then largely confined
to a tavern and a church porch?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
With a vague idea of the age of winnocence,
Mr Honk stumbled upon the most delightful insult:
strange creatures with a few feathers
where brains should be—and it only took it a century
to reach his bookshelf.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, W.B. Yeats
Would unfinished business be better
than no business at all?
I’d say that’s a question whose answer might lie
somewhere in one of Landor’s six volumes
of ‘Imaginary Conversations’
or in a chance exchange in the lobby.
But if you appreciate—
that’s the crucial part—
a glass of water and a self-portrait
by Giuseppe Arcimboldo
and aren’t embarrassed to shed a tear
while watching a film about books
with the future Dr Lecter reading Yeats,
you might already share
the sentiment.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 