Mr Nothing’s inheritance

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.


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A space filler

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.


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Artificially induced

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.


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A real writer

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

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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Requiescat

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 barren love

Romantic love is the desire for copulation,
embellished with the timid glances of a sonnet,
unless you are a eunuch who settles for lyricism
out of barren necessity.

Is that why I would rather have an empty bed
than empty shelves?


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

Nothing like a strong name

I like the name Paul. There is a strong but warm ring to it, and the way you shape your lips to say it, as if you were about to kiss, sends shivers down my spine. If I had a boyfriend, I’d love it if that was his name. On the other hand, I’ve never liked mine. Every time I say it, I feel like I have a large dumpling in my mouth, and I picture a klutz and a bit of a plodder. Oh well, one cannot have everything in life.


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com