Tag: everyday life

The crumpled butt

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

In the mornings I sit by the window and read—partially to draw inspiration but mainly to kill time between dates on my future tombstone—but at the same time observe the little world outside, and today I noticed a rather baffling scene. A car stopped by the kerb, and after some erratic movement inside, a middle-aged woman emerged out of it, smoking. She walked aimlessly around the vehicle, her entire focus on the cigarette, but once she finished smoking, she returned to the car and went on her merry way, leaving the crumpled cigarette butt behind. How peculiar.

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A memorable morning

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

As a humble word toiler, I never appreciate
the celestial knocker-upper waking me up earlier than usual,
yet today I lifted my eyelids in a somewhat brighter mood—
a spiritual shift or a simple fluke, I wonder.

There was nothing surprising in what came after:
the negligent ablutions, the changing of garments, a dash of yoga
after meditation on the throne, and the light breakfast preparation
to get the energy to read the young Bloomsberries.

There was also a pot of goulash that I had prepared
the previous evening and left to cool overnight so I could portion it
into heat-resistant glass containers and put in the freezer as dinners
for the whole week because I really hate cooking.

[then the hand on the keyboard froze for a while]

I’ve been able to give only a personal account
of the events that transpired that fine morning, but nonetheless
they will prove themselves worthy of the annals, if only for this
rather tottery verse, with one caveat, though—

I must ascend to the pantheon.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

The last meal

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Abandoned in no man’s land
between the living room and the kitchenette,
I read ‘Portrait of a Lady’ aloud
to the mealy-mouthed hum
of the microwave heating fish
and vegetables for my solitary dinner,
only to realise that it no longer mattered much
who I was before breakfast if no one was there
to tell me how to get through the supper.

Peeping at my neighbours

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

In the comfort of our solitude,
there are no history books,
only diaries,
with no one to satisfy,
no difference to make,

so perhaps I should contract
some fashionable disease
as an excuse to stay in my room
and spend the remaining time
peeping at the next-door neighbours
from behind the curtain—
a family of magpies
going about their business.

After all, I’m mortal, like them,
and that’s the only hope.

Orange vests

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kind of / sexy, all muscle & moves & luminous glow
‘Night Garbage’, Amy Shearn

Lilies are too morbid, apples too biblical—
am I drowning in literary obsession?

When I look out the window at orange vests
painting a disabled parking bay on the street,
I have to admit they might seem sexy,

but to be sure, I’d have to see
the garbagemen in Brooklyn first.

At dawn

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Unlike family evenings or passionate nights,
early mornings have rather poor patronage,
even if toned down with a cantrip of cuppa
spiked with a generous spoonful of saccharin
served by the saucy, pedantic wretch of ours
brazenly peeping through the open curtain.

I knew it was a fool’s play inventing words
that are not real, like ‘forever’ and ‘enough’,
but I never imagined you would actually burn
the dictionary—though I suppose that’s expected
when you consort with an arsonist—and leave
the kitchen table to grow somewhat too ample

for one measly setting at dawn.

A prudent parent

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I had an unexpected visitor this morning. My next-door neighbour—
a magpie who had built a nest in the tree outside my living room window—
perched on the windowsill and watched me for a moment but soon returned
to its humble dwelling. I guess Vrikshasana wasn’t all that captivating,
and I looked completely harmless in the early spring sunlight—
a scarecrow behind the double glazing.

Free sake for now

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I wonder if the magpies building a nest in the tree outside my window
would care about Lenin’s invention,

or if the seagulls crying on the roof of the church across the street
would be fond of hashtagging their vaginas,

because if I were a woman,
I would probably feel offended today;

but since I’m not, I’d rather wait a few days
for free sake and a glorious view of youbutsu.

Perhaps one day we’ll finally find peace
beyond our genitals.

The day I forget how to spell my name

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The day I forget how to spell my name will be like a violin playing
a violinist—somewhat unexpected, but not overly dramatic, calm even,
except, I guess, it’s better to embrace the little drama of the present
with backaches and cooking dinner for one while listening to Lisa’s song
played in a loop and leave the whole spelling affair as it comes
to a letter cutter.