Faith is a perishable good with a somewhat intimidating scent
of respectability, a late symbol of our exalted humilitude—
as if café au lait wasn’t enough—and it makes me think
of the last day of the Inquisition and of clerks burning old paperwork
and auctioning off no longer needed instruments of torture
to be repurposed as it fits.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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…
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The frail constitution of conscience,
the assumed brevity of spirit,
and the calculated immodesty of mind,
all curtained with a green palette—
courtesy of a linden bathed in sunlight—
is a simple recipe for disaster
or a poem.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Why does the word ‘computer’
not have the noble ring of a ‘fountain pen’?
Even a ‘typewriter’ sounds better
than the name of the Difference Engine’s progeny,
though I could always say that I wrote this verse
on my PC (yuck!) or a desktop.
I wonder if the poet had the same problem
when quills had gone out of use.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
my plan is unlimited
calls and texts only my contacts are empty
for now at least that’s what i said all those years ago
when i bought that mobile
remorse
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As a humble word toiler, I never appreciate
the celestial knocker-upper waking me up earlier than usual,
yet today I lifted my eyelids in a somewhat brighter mood—
a spiritual shift or a simple fluke, I wonder.
There was nothing surprising in what came after:
the negligent ablutions, the changing of garments, a dash of yoga
after meditation on the throne, and the light breakfast preparation
to get the energy to read the young Bloomsberries.
There was also a pot of goulash that I had prepared
the previous evening and left to cool overnight so I could portion it
into heat-resistant glass containers and put in the freezer as dinners
for the whole week because I really hate cooking.
[then the hand on the keyboard froze for a while]
I’ve been able to give only a personal account
of the events that transpired that fine morning, but nonetheless
they will prove themselves worthy of the annals, if only for this
rather tottery verse, with one caveat, though—
I must ascend to the pantheon.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
While I linger on the dwarf wall
at the corner of Union Street and Back Wynd,
leaning against a column with an Ionic capital,
I can’t help but detest the posthumous fame
of the man who wrote a book of short verses
with ponderous sentences full of yestermorrow
aspirations that I’m about to compose.
I should live my life to the fullest, or so they say,
and actually living my life did cross my mind for a moment,
but that would require far too much energy,
so I’d rather settle for a cup of peppermint and rooibos brew
and a chapter of ‘Auto da Fé’,
and besides, it would be embarrassing if I failed
to fail.
Which goes better with afternoon tea—
yellowcake or magpie?
Does a barber make the barbed wire
to crown a wooden head after the March equinox?
What’s my pleasure if you’re welcome
is never yours?
And so you explain the intricacies of English
for forty quid an hour, but truth be told,
the naive questions of a rebooted life novice
wouldn’t pique your curiosity enough
to answer the one he really wants to ask:
Oughtn’t you to be in love?
hidden pilcrow 