There are many orbs and sceptres,
but none can rival a doppelstöckiges Schüleretui
sent by Grandma from West Germany
for her poor little Kaziu in communist Poland
that made his classmates gasp in awe.
Perhaps that is why I remain unconcerned
about the latest iWhatever.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I went to Poundland the other day,
full of contraptions made in China,
and a thought struck me: if back in the day
a one-pound coin—called a sovereign—
had found its way into Tommy More’s pocket,
could he have bought a Ming celadon for mammy,
not just a hex key set for himself?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There is none but one certainty,
expressed by the simple ‘I am’—
everything else, like the nine extra floors,
contemplated with that achromatic I of mine,
is a possibility; though if I pretended
to be anything but a curmudgeon on a rainy day,
delighted that the gentle patter of raindrops
on the leaves of the tree outside my window
replaced the song of Malebolge rising
from the school yard across the street at lunch,
I would be lying.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Yet eager—childhood has no bailiwick. This comes with time,
imprinted with a trace of ash. Even after all these years,
every now and then I find myself rubbing my forehead involuntarily.
It is actually baffling that we believe in the ways of homo dialecticus
when, in the same breath, we embrace all those erstwhile rituals.
I guess, in spite of all the advancements, we don’t really differ that much
from our ancient—or primaeval, for that matter—forebears.
That is probably why I can read Menander or Sappho
as if they were my next-door neighbours.
