I like rainy days, when the gentle patter of raindrops on the leaves of the tree outside my window replaces the song of Malebolge rising from the school yard across the street at lunch break. Does that make me a curmudgeon?
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Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.
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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
If I so desperately yearn for human connection, where does that constant trepidation come from every time I have to meet an actual living human being? Why do people seem to be so much more captivating in their refined, textual form? Is it because books don’t exhibit annoying habits or have foul breath, or is it all down to my own shortcomings that I try to hide?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I like the sun in full bloom
to have a cloud cover
with only occasional breaks,
as it is less intimidating that way—
at least on Sundays.
I probably should have gone
to the beach
like I used to,
but I spent the late morning in an armchair
by the window,
reading
and snacking on almonds instead,
and now I’m playing
with a word processor.
Why is it that I’d rather write a verse
than live it?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
From the shaded seclusion of a park bench, I pondered the wind’s indifference to flannels running between the wickets, almost equal to the blasé of the strollers sauntering along the paths around the lawn. This nonchalance stayed with me on the way back home, when I briefly kept up with the kayaking foursomes training on the Dee while listening to the song of wrens as they tried to be heard over the traffic. I guess, even if the nature of love has been hidden from me, there is still something to fill the void.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My resentments act as bookmarks
to the feminist writers occupying my bookshelves,
inappropriately labelled ‘the fair sex dome’,
but forgive me my inadequacy of thought—
I’m of the rugged gender.
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Have you ever heard of Le Bauriver? You must have, if at any point you’ve discovered that you are the vampire of your own heart and that if you believe that you were in hell, then indeed you were there, only to proclaim: I am the Empire at the end of the decadence. But even if it passed you by, the unholy trinity of modernité was part of my state-sanctioned curriculum of adolescence. Hmm. Le Bauriver—an asylum turned a classroom.
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I don’t like weddings;
I much prefer funerals, if anything.
But I guess that’s the result of being born—
everyone carries at least one curse
in the end. That’s mine.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 