Temporarily at a loss for words, I occupy the space
somewhere between a triangular circle and a winged lion,
weary of constantly mulling over salient interrogations,
like, ‘Can you get rid of eczema in two months
when you’ve been cultivating it for over forty years?’
(Of course you can’t; you even botched your divorce,
and you’d only spent half that time with your ex).
Is that why I like peeping
at magpies?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My humble neighbours have recently started exercising
their vocal cords, only I’ve never ordered Wordsworth’s The Daffodils
to be recited in magpieese on my bedroom windowsill
at five in the morning.
However, it did get me thinking: what if the answer really is forty-two—
although I’m still not a cricket fan—but it was ordered by magpies, not mice,
and I’m stuck amongst shadows, alone, in this panopticon
full of sophisticated probability engines?
But why do I feel
like one ancient Greek is mocking another again?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Of all the creatures big and small, there are two that I actually quite like—magpies and slipper animalcules. The former for the good neighbourly relations we have, the latter because of a poem—but I suspect you may not know Andrzej Bursa—that once gave me the unique opportunity to say ‘motherfucker’ out loud in class without any undesirable consequences. The thrills of youth—where have you gone?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Every now and then I spy on my neighbours—
a humble family of magpies—and I’ve always been struck
by how busy they are with their lives, but perhaps it’s easier
when you face your end after a measly few years.
With a lifespan like that, who would waste time
on meta-existence?
