As I clean my greying beard
clippings out of the sink,
sometimes I imagine stepping onto a punt
to face the old chap Charon—but then what?
At least Greeks had the obolus;
what is my currency—
a donkey jacket and a pair of wellies
turned into a badge of honour?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
i. the renascence
!
,
(!),
…
ii. floruit
, ;
:
, —
—
“ !!! ”.
, [!]
.
iii. humdrum
,
,
,
.
iv. the senescence
…
.
You said life is a full-time job.
Guess what—I’m retired.
Besides, I lack the necessary presence;
always have. After all, what would you expect
from a casual stroller on a treadmill
before mustering one final act
of solidarity?
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I share a bed with a man
of the same name and disposition,
who reads no books
but webtoons, watching
as a janitor with a besom battles
falling leaves in a somewhat crowded school yard
of his bygone youth,
collecting whispers of a tear
unbefitting the dusk heldentenor,
while masking the fact that we might be dead by tomorrow
with the occasional convenience
of myopia.
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What does it mean to be a grown man?
Is it enough to simply recognise that
while certain dispositions require a front row,
not every inclination is repulsive?
Or perhaps the awareness that only a few
passport photos remain to be taken?
I guess toning down the theatrics might work.
Having a way with words doesn’t hurt either—
certainly if I’m to embrace vulnerability.
Then why all I can think of are the weather idioms?
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How many todays is yesterday worth?
Why is ‘fortnight’ thriving
while ‘sennight’ didn’t survive
the linguistic winter?
What is the personal
pronoun that’s feared the most?
Are all the questions
that wear the shallow flesh
just an orison offered at dawn?
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He who has neither the courage to die nor the heart to live, who will neither resist nor fly, what can we do with him?
Essays, Michel de Montaigne
No one is born because they want to, yet
the unlettered pen pals teach you to believe
that a second-hand appreciation leaves nothing
but a bad aftertaste—an old man’s grudge
like the scent of snow or the answer
to the question ‘What’s north
of the North Pole?’
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Like a stranger
who shows you a little kindness,
the chess master of Täby strolls with you
amongst the mannen
in a tournament where every game
is one too many,
and the only name allowed
is Cartaphilus.
But as you walk
through the granite burg—
never sure
if the next cross street you turn onto
is a boulevard or a cul-de-sac,
yet feeling compelled to step forward,
even when in zugzwang—
you realise you’ve missed
the difference between a shop window
and a mirror.
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You said the living should not envy
the dead, and yet here we are, wondering
how many tomorrows today is worth,
trying to find comfort in the torment
or watching Grosse Pointe Blank together
because there’s always time to be
disappointed or ask what life in progress is.
But what if all that were nothing
but splitting hairs, only to realise
there was no hair to split to begin with?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
