Tag: Identity

The tourist

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

I’m not a very interesting specimen,
a hostage to awkward silence
and unforeseen circumstances,
but we don’t invent autobiographies
to live up to them—
this is what guestbooks are for—
and I like the idea of ‘or something’,
and that the most intimate personal detail to reveal
is the taste of blood after biting my tongue.
Also, for someone who doesn’t drink,
I devote a lot of attention to potations
served as a triune chorus of gratitude,
which sounds rather appalling, yet it’s still better
than some unfortunate magnanimity of intention—
the mother of all exhaustion in both,
regardless of whether I prefer to be situated
in Beatrice’s basement or Virgil’s attic.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

An unalloyed inhumorous invention

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

What does it mean to have a sense of humour
in a world where even the freckled can’t tell jokes
about freckles? Like a conjurer’s missing hat,
internalising ‘the great stone face’ in recall
might just be the silent answer,
even if apocryphal.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

Mr Nothing’s inheritance

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

An inherited maisonette with a desk
and a somewhat belittled yet elaborate vocabulary
set the stage for Mr Honk to start a new life.

He never met that distant relative,
whose title turned out to be a misreading
of the initials of his first and middle names,
from the time when he refused to use capital letters—
but Mr Honk learnt that only from the headstone:
Meroz R. Nothing, né niczy.

No wonder Mr Nothing had never cried
out for an act of sincerity
and grief.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

A space filler

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

What was the last thing you remember
before you died? I was signing my book,
but I can’t recall if it was as MacCallus
or Modzelewski. It doesn’t matter—
they’re both equally ridiculous—
just like signing a book
I never published.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

Artificially induced

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Being alive by proxy—
subject to semantic bleaching—
is the one particular burden that is mine
and mine alone, yet
since I mostly read old men
with long beards and moustaches,
I don’t feel particularly overwhelmed.
That is, until I’m singed by the flare
of tone contagion, which leaves no choice
but to close the book and get out
in the real world.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

A real writer

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)

I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

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.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

Requiescat

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

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.

More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com