There is none but one certainty,
expressed by the simple ‘I am’—
everything else, like the nine extra floors,
contemplated with that achromatic I of mine,
is a possibility; though if I pretended
to be anything but a curmudgeon on a rainy day,
delighted that the gentle patter of raindrops
on the leaves of the tree outside my window
replaced the song of Malebolge rising
from the school yard across the street at lunch,
I would be lying.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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.
If what they say—that nothing is free—is true,
then I have already paid for the antediluvian spelling
that knocked the tome to the floor with the sound
of raindrops on the tree leaves befriending my window.
The plan was to read it aloud, but you’re still afraid
to get on the bus and come here all by yourself,
without an arm to cling to. Perhaps I expected too much.
But I’ll be ready when you are. For now, you could leave
your room, maybe even go to the bus stop, and check
the timetable for Thanatos’ twin.
Is being remembered really that important, you ask,
and yet the very fact that you wrote it down for others to read
belies its premise—and how long has it been since I lost
my innocent eyes that knew no doubt
whether to pursue the preoccupied with iambic metres
scattered across the yesterdays of enlightened fools
diving barefoot into the grass of the night lea?
You once told me that the intrepid look straight
and master all the right words, unlike us, the fickle.
We are a peculiar breed, creatures of timid vocabulary
who prefer an accidental graze, an answer cut off halfway,
and a picture taken with a wink. And we hardly ever cry,
but when we do, it’s probably because we missed the rain,
as if it all came down to the umbrella stuck in the rack.
In the river of yellow umbrellas,
the rain swims with frantic crawls,
as if plotting wet shoulders were barely enough.
But even if the sky forgives the reflection
and the wind forgets the manner,
once they learn that forever has a pretty short shelf life,
they will realise all that’s left is to count
the grains of sand stolen from an hourglass
and be cautious.
For Stacey
A sudden rain washed the life out of a tree outside my window and stopped as soon as it started
mocking the rainbow. Separated by thick glass, I thought that even if I had no inclination to spit
from a height into the dirty current in the street, unable to reflect any of the ephemeral colours,
I would go rafting to mourn the will-o’-the-wisp and all my fallen brethren, weakened by a lack
of viands, only to discover that a spoonful of breadcrumbs from a percipient baker can nourish
better than a whole cake.
Window-shopping on Sunday afternoon was like adjectives attached to a noun when you say,
“This is beautiful,” so I could respond, “Nonsense, you are beautiful; this is just expensive.”
Then you hummed Come Away with Me, but the last time I touched your toes, they were cold,
and the bus left empty as you never wrote me that song. Only the rain has never let me down.
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