Tag: poem

Calling my name

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

My name means ‘gift of Yahweh,’ which is ironic
considering I don’t believe in deities,
and even more so since I was the sole reason
for my parents’ marriage in the first place,
and it wasn’t a happy one. If I were to guess,
they probably had no idea. But come to think of it,
even if I had a name as solid as Peter,
I would still have to get used to being alone
and learn to live with the pain
gradually spreading throughout my arm.
And while I never liked it, it seems having a name
chosen on a whim wasn’t the worst thing after all.

Seeking unction in the temple of art

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Between window shopping and visiting the ice cream parlour,
I went to an art gallery with my nieces today,
and while walking around, a thought occurred to me: what if art
is not what hangs on the walls, but what hides
the signs of boredom that anoint the faces of those viewing it?

The temptation of agony over something that doesn’t seem to matter

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If only I could believe in a sentence that begins with ‘I’ and ‘myself,’
one that soothes the gripping drama of coffee beans in a howling grinder,
one that covers the silence with ‘One too many mornings’ on the turntable,
one that sums up a man’s life without conveying persuasive language,
one that perhaps this once I myself would dare to resist falling for,
except the forbidden never asks for forgiveness, and that’s the sentence.

Gazing at the moon

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How far have we come from the caves
of Altamira, Lascaux, and Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc
to the pit on Mare Tranquillitatis—or how little?
In a way, it’s ironic that we plan to live in a cave
again, although the moon is no laughing matter,
since we like to think we’ve grown over the millennia,
even if in the end it’s just demographics.

Trifles

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Time measured by worn shirt collars and holes in socks,
or by glyphs drawn haphazardly by seagulls on windows
to be washed away by rain eventually, or by the varying
intensity and amplitude of pain in an arm—is it truly all
but nothing? After all, if I learned anything over time,
it was to appreciate a piece of home-made flatbread
with Moroccan-style hummus and black or green olives,
spiced with Sir Roger’s complaints about nightingales
and strumpets at Spring Garden.

Boredom

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I used to say that I’m never bored
because I share my time with a very interesting person
—myself. But lately, I’ve come to the conclusion
that I’m not that interesting after all.
Could this be why I so envy the bumblebees
bouncing off the linden blossoms outside the window?

Nothing but two dates

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Why cling to life if it’s such a hassle?
You have to take care of all the daily necessities
just to keep your body in shape, let alone your boredom-prone mind.
And then there is everything you crave—and often feel entitled to
as a creature of scripture—and what’s expected of you.
But whether you are Anton de Franckenpoint or Richebourg,
or the triumphant general in his quadriga or the auriga whispering in his ear,
you can count on nothing but two dates and perhaps a commemorative inscription
on your tombstone. Why then?

I doubt my parents asked that question that night, but five decades later,
I’m still looking for the answer.

A man waiting for a train on the platform of a railway station

Shame

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If every sexually transmitted disease is a cause for shame,
why aren’t we ashamed of the deadliest of them all—life?
It has its moments—that’s true—but above all, it is a fight
against the daily dose of monotony. Sooner or later, we fall
for it—that if we learn the alphabet, then the highway code,
and follow the laid-out path, putting on a front, we will find
time to buy a ticket to bliss—only to get on the wrong train.