Tag: humor

The half-century mark

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

It puts me in a rather peculiar position when—rather than, considering my age, courting a preposterous dowager—I yearn for the creamy scent of a perfectly ripe banana, the inconsequential beauty of unwitting lasciviousness—even if one exhibits something as mundanely inappropriate as picking one’s nose, so it is impossible not to call one a perfect scandal—a sun-drenched firmament of tiny freckles, and more. I can’t wait to see how ridiculous I will be in ten years when I’m sixty.

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I am who I am

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski5 Comments

Each and every one of us likes to think that we are unique in our special way, but at the end of the day, there is always a Darwin or a Wallace who will find a pigeonhole for us in the taxonomy. If I had to characterise myself, it might be something like this:

  • Domain: Vocabulia (the users of words as opposed to Pugnia, who would rather use their fists)
  • Kingdom: Eloquentia (the effective users of language as opposed to Prolizi, that is, word wasters)
  • Phylum: Creatores (rather self-explanatory, as is the opposition: Interpretes)
  • Class: Scriptores (basically, writers vs. Oratores, that is, speakers)
  • Order: Poetae (poets, obviously, with Prosatores, prose writers, standing on the other side of the fence)
  • Family: Matutinae (who write in the morning, unlike Noctilucidae, who prefer the darkness of the night)
  • Tribe: Puristae (pure like the glass of water on their desk vs. Stimulantes, who can’t write a line without at least a sniff of coffee and cigarettes)
  • Genus: Hedonici (writing for eternal pleasure as opposed to Pecuniarii Pii, who write for money, but only from a pious source)
  • Species: Poeta Purus Hedonicus (I’d like to believe it’ll be me while I keep the copy of Stanley and Danko under my bed)

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Selfish genes

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I find green on blue rather disturbing, especially in their radiant, sun-drenched shades, which sounds a good deal sillier now, when I said it out loud. It’s like thinking you’ve married a woman and then, the day after the fair, realising that she’s a mother first and foremost and that she’ll turn you into a walking wallet once you’ve done your marital duty. But that’s evolution for you. Genes don’t give a tinker’s curse about your dreams and aspirations—their one goal is to replicate. If only there were a way to give them the middle finger once and for all.

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Requiescat

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You know you are old
when your late-in-life children become adults
and you no longer draw the curtains
like the swords your forefathers drew
in all the new—for them, at least—lands.
Now you can simply find some well-deserved rest
in the inherited armchair
or tomb.

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The vows

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Dear Strachey, while sharing, at least in spirit, some of the paraphernalia of cultivation—you had Baudelaire; I have T.S. Eliot—if only I had known you then and shared your outlook on marriage to begin with, and if my admiration for your intellectual finesse had passed beyond the tantamount to witnessing polyorchidism under an ultrasound examination, I might not have stepped into that sanctimonious staple just to regret it dearly afterwards. But I met you late in my aimless peregrinations, so everything turned out the way it did, and all that remains is to share one piece of wisdom—don’t trust vows without a prenup.

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The horizons

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‘Travelling is a fraud,’ said Lytton Strachey, and all I can say to that is, ‘What a wonderful sentiment!’ For I would rather cultivate the apathy of prolonged departing in my study than placate the ever-ardent fellow sightseers. But that’s just me, so feel free to elevate your carbon footprint at every opportunity so that we can all enjoy the peak of the Anthropocene. As the French proverb goes, Les voyages forment la jeunesse—and so does your local library.

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An indecent thought

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It started as an innocent jest made by a friend to lighten the mood after my bitter remarks on the shrinking job market and the fact that poetry is all but a hobby. He created a page with information about the next Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom, who in 2029 will replace the current holder of the position, Simon Armitage—apparently it’s supposed to be me. And while I am a poet, my less than modest readership clearly indicates that I’m nowhere near being called a professional, which is surely one of the many requirements of the job. Besides, I’m not even British. And yet…

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Same old same old

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In a closed game I mostly play myself,
navigating through days with hoary household appliances—
which permits only nontactical positional manoeuvring—
just to keep up with a simple chore list.

And then comes the pressure of Zeitnot,
which makes mistakes more likely,
but in the end, does it really matter whether you win or lose?
After all, the dead are impervious to either fame or shame.

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