Tag: reflections on life

watercolour of a woman who sits huddled and cries

A hand with a handkerchief

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

It is not about breakfast—or any other meal for that matter—eaten in solitude.
It’s not even about the freezing-cold bed you have to jump into after taking a hot shower.
The problem is in all those little glimpses of unexpected brightness you have no one to share with,
like when you exchange a curious glance with a mellow fox during an evening walk,
or when you make flatbread that smells of exotic spaces you recall your granny used to use,
or when you manage to sneak an ancient Greek profanity into an innocent-looking poem.
Weeping after all this without a hand with a handkerchief—that’s loneliness.

watercolour showing the contours of a man with a boy where the boy is trying to turn the man from the current path

Tuned to listen

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Perhaps Doggerel or Motherese is a way of touching
that special spot in his brain to make him listen.
More often than not, he was mummy’s boy at one point,
so even if only subconsciously, he must remember
that sweet, soft tone and the melodious singsong rhythm
delivering words hard to ignore. Unless, of course, he wasn’t,
and the whole exercise would simply infuriate him
as a deliberate attempt at infantilizing his manhood.
After all, he had spent most of his life grooming himself
to be the next king of the jungle. You can’t turn a lion
back into a puppy. The thing is, he is neither one nor the other,
but just another soul lost and confused in the world of falling,
ill-defined roles.

watercolor portrait of a child

The ways of homo dialecticus

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Yet eager—childhood has no bailiwick. This comes with time,
imprinted with a trace of ash. Even after all these years,
every now and then I find myself rubbing my forehead involuntarily.
It is actually baffling that we believe in the ways of homo dialecticus
when, in the same breath, we embrace all those erstwhile rituals.
I guess, in spite of all the advancements, we don’t really differ that much
from our ancient—or primaeval, for that matter—forebears.
That is probably why I can read Menander or Sappho
as if they were my next-door neighbours.

watercolour portrait of a middle-aged man

Getting the impossible

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Being you, if I met myself, the first thing I would notice
about me was how unsure of myself I am at my age.

I know well that this is not a face from a film poster
that is staring at me in the mirror, not to mention all the great minds
of whom even the shadow is beyond my reach. Perhaps I could at least shave
more often, but only if you insist. I guess it’s never too late
to learn something new,

like your language, but out of sheer convenience,
I would rather stick to the lingua franca, knowing that an accent
always reveals my origin. And maybe I will finally get your obsession
with Virginie Lebeau and François de Paule,
although you are probably just a little snobbish.

Being myself, if I met you, the first thing I would notice
about me was that I had finally lost it, as you can’t be real,

can you?

demonic looking characters swarming around a big button with a thumbs up symbol

The wicked button society

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

If you keep your writing in the sock drawer, readers don’t matter.
Perhaps you write for your own eternal pleasure or are too shy
to show your stanzas to the public. Whatever the reason, one thing
is for sure: you haven’t yet been exposed to the silver coin of likes.
But once you step out into the world and taste someone’s hand
pressing that wicked button, everything changes.
No problem if it’s a genuine poetry lover without baggage of their own.
If not, more often than not, you are expected to reciprocate the gesture,
and if you don’t, they are soon gone for ever. Then you know,
they are not readers—they are addiction partners.

a woman with her eyes closed gives an anatomically accurate heart to a man standing in front of her

I didn’t steal your heart

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

In everything you say, it matters not only what you say
but also where you put the emphasis.
Like this little cutie: I didn’t steal your heart.
I didn’t steal your heart—something else did.
I didn’t steal your heart—it turned out to be just a minor misunderstanding on my part.
I didn’t steal your heart—you can’t steal what isn’t there, can you?
I didn’t steal your heart—Chance is a mighty Pandarus.
I didn’t steal your heart—what I took will remain my sweet secret for ever.

two faces facing each other, one with eyes open, the other with eyes closed

Existence

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

To be is the act of acts,
if the philosopher is to be believed,
but despite the active voice
of the copulative verb,
it nevertheless makes my existence a thing,
if you trust the poet who once said
that feeling and faith speak stronger
than the glass and eye of a sage.
It is fun to watch quarrels between two sides
of the same coin.