Of the manners unbecoming a reader,
few could be more malapert
than asking a poet what he meant—
for a poem is not a bearer of revealed truths
but a Rorschach inkblot.
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Tag: poem
Bag of wind
Is it a matter of writing implements that we write more
to say less, or—with the power of large numbers in play—
do we have to face the truth that we have always been
the blabbering sort, only back then largely confined
to a tavern and a church porch?
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Rien que des plumes
With a vague idea of the age of winnocence,
Mr Honk stumbled upon the most delightful insult:
strange creatures with a few feathers
where brains should be—and it only took it a century
to reach his bookshelf.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Dreamers
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, W.B. Yeats
Would unfinished business be better
than no business at all?
I’d say that’s a question whose answer might lie
somewhere in one of Landor’s six volumes
of ‘Imaginary Conversations’
or in a chance exchange in the lobby.
But if you appreciate—
that’s the crucial part—
a glass of water and a self-portrait
by Giuseppe Arcimboldo
and aren’t embarrassed to shed a tear
while watching a film about books
with the future Dr Lecter reading Yeats,
you might already share
the sentiment.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Semantic noise
They said he wasn’t an alcoholic—
just an ordinary drunkard,
as if the distinction much differed
from the one between a lover’s quarrel
and the early morning banter
of seagulls.
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Homo humanus
With the abundance of days,
a true existence is never far
for an honest person—
only twenty years away
or a page
if you’re lucky.
But as a piano teacher is not a pianist—
let alone a composer,
especially if their instrument,
crammed into the corner of the room,
is reduced to a mere flowerpot stand—
a man is only as humane.
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The memory alley
How can I remember my future
when my past has been gravely misspelt—
with all the hasty gerunds
and coarse-grained adjectives
serving no purpose
other than ornament—
and even rain has lost its subsumption
in such an unconceivable milieu,
so that when I entertain the idea
of using the vested Pooterish umbrella,
I always have to consider the wistfulness
of the draught?
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The tourist
I’m not a very interesting specimen,
a hostage to awkward silence
and unforeseen circumstances,
but we don’t invent autobiographies
to live up to them—
this is what guestbooks are for—
and I like the idea of ‘or something’,
and that the most intimate personal detail to reveal
is the taste of blood after biting my tongue.
Also, for someone who doesn’t drink,
I devote a lot of attention to potations
served as a triune chorus of gratitude,
which sounds rather appalling, yet it’s still better
than some unfortunate magnanimity of intention—
the mother of all exhaustion in both,
regardless of whether I prefer to be situated
in Beatrice’s basement or Virgil’s attic.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A white elephant
How selfish one must be—
how inconsiderate—
to impose one’s primal urge
on the next to come
under the pretext of not being able
to ask for consent,
as if our Eden were anything
but an elephant pavilion.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 