Too late to invent Modigliani
or write the Les Berceaux,
Mr Honk settled for vignettes
on the inherent insettleabilititude
of a whim: Isn’t that what
the intentionally blank pages
are for?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tag: poem
The nocturnal
As a nocturnal breed,
Mr Honk never fully adapted
to his condition, but even he knew
that the parchment nomads,
like hidden pilcrows,
favour serene moonbaths
under the waned crescent
once all the trinkets of the day
finally run their course
and even the turntable
can’t outshout the chorus
of aspiring seagulls.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The creation
Undecided
between the Metamorphoses,
the Pentateuch, and the Puranas,
Mr Honk pondered the reason
for his existence.
But whether it was divine
indifference, human boredom,
or generative model
hallucinations, he knew
he was nothing but
a by-product.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
An itch
With the linden tree within reach,
if it weren’t for the glass,
Mr Honk appreciated the humility
of sitting by the window,
where he could read in peace,
stretched out on a folding garden chair—
a rather unusual piece of furniture
for a living room—
and even the sun rays, here and there
breaking through the branches,
were not too intrusive,
but he would never have admitted
that he was actually looking forward
to the arrival of July, so that he could fill
the marginalia with linden blossoms
and bumblebees buzzing amongst
the words.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
No pata negra
When destiny is the most you can bear,
personal extinction is not a threat;
it’s an escape route from the horror of choice,
yet just saying that makes it sound trivial,
like a barking dog’s obligations: a scheduled comfort
or love amongst the travellers.
But you don’t have to be upset to be kind,
even if nature does make fun of us
and it feels ridiculous to be hunted
by literary characters we killed—
as if we didn’t care, except we do—
instead of letting them run their course.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A Sunday dilemma
The thunderstorm season, with its usual titillations
and occasional remarks on lost virginity, had begun
with a rumbling on the windowsill and a heavenly groan
that woke him in the morning to a fundamental question:
Can one read the Great Romantics in sweatpants
or the Modernists in a tailcoat? Apparently,
even atheists like Mr Honk have their grave Sunday
dilemmas.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Manhattan calls Esenwein
With a touch of disbelief,
Mr Honk listened
to a Gershwin-in-black-and-white,
a fidgeted-with idiosyncrasy
spiced up with corduroy—
the poor man’s velvet—
on the presenescent
intellectual’s back.
So there it was: incident,
emotion, crisis, suspense, climax,
dénouement, and conclusion,
all in the first four minutes.
No wonder the rest of the film
turned soporific.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Feast
Like the dandelions and linden flowers,
Mr Honk was used to being seated below the salt;
in fact, he preferred the less exposed accommodation—
though still in the vicinity of the sangfroid suavity of people
of intellect, individuals of all genders and none—
where he could freely nibble the refined exchange
of Latin binomials between Equus monocerus
and Musca domestica.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
An unalloyed inhumorous invention
What does it mean to have a sense of humour
in a world where even the freckled can’t tell jokes
about freckles? Like a conjurer’s missing hat,
internalising ‘the great stone face’ in recall
might just be the silent answer,
even if apocryphal.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 