While learning the full Windsor
and solitude, I wondered why
life couldn’t simply arrive
pre-lived—so that I could skip
straight to the end,
circumventing the daily exercise
in genre attribution, like me—
fastidious, yet incomplete.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I have a plan
with unlimited calls and texts
(which is the standard nowadays),
and yet, faced with a profusion of means,
everyone’s will seems to lag behind,
as the only call I answered
over the last few months was a reminder
about my dentist appointment.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
— Robert Burns
What if my life is as poetic
as IgA autoantibodies against transglutaminase
that wreak havoc on my body
every time I reach for a slice of haggis
with my Sunday neeps and tatties?
I guess I’ll stick with the French
ragout.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Being a poet pays nothing—that’s probably why I also write prudent stories
in TypeScript and Java—and I wrote my very first stanza out of love anyway,
but she just laughed at me—the girl, I mean, not love, as love has no feelings
and will leave you at the first wink of a passing globetrotter so you can learn
some legal jargon and that no one fancies a homebody in this brave new world
of dating algorithms. But I guess I could always become a magician—it worked
for Mrs. Münchgstettner—if it weren’t for my stage fright and the conviction
that nothing the world had to offer I couldn’t find in the free verse and ragtime
reclined on my sofa.
