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.
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Mr Honk detested subtitles—
he always felt that the author either needed an excuse
for not coming up with a better title in the first place
or treated the readers like a bunch of halfwits,
which was mostly unrequited, since they had paid the charge,
tax included, and could only complain after having to deal
with his mental excursions—
yet Yethindra Vityala’s caught him
by surprise.
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Once upon a time, as a young journalist in post-communist Poland, I regarded the BBC as the golden standard of journalistic independence and professionalism. So you can imagine my disappointment when, after emigrating to the UK and making Scotland my new home, I realised that nothing could be further from the truth—the emperor-is-naked moment being the 2014 Scottish independence referendum. For that reason, among others, I don’t have a telly, and I don’t need a TV licence. And yet that wretched body keeps nagging me over and over again to buy one. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever do that, so stop distracting me from reading Lytton Strachey by the window. Actually, here is a thought: why not invent a licence for the window view? But know that—though for some reason I am eagerly awaiting the linden tree to bloom, as if the scent of the blossoms could exorcise the exhaust fumes—I’d rather draw the curtains than pay you a penny. Of course, you could always make bookshelves taxable by length or, better yet, charge a word fee, though in that case, I’m not so concerned: I don’t talk much, and my writing is usually concise.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There is nothing like father-son bonding
over car washing on Saturday afternoon—
even if rendered futile by the torrential rain—
on the long list of childhood gaieties we’ll try
to forget for the rest of our lives.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
With every line a liability—
and Ea von Allesch out of reach—
I can’t leave my expectations
at the mercy of the em dash.
And while I can always hang a thousand words
celebrating the forlornly sought-after mortality
of Death itself
on the wall,
there’s no need to be overly dramatic—
everyone deserves a postmortem, after all,
even the slightly hysterical.
Isn’t that what a pied-à-terre is for?
Perhaps.
Unless you make it your living
room.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.
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My late Sunday breakfast-turned-lunch
consisted of a piece of flatbread with peanut butter
and that overlong commercial for a jeweller from Fifth Avenue
showing what happens when you get your cat wet.
The only thing missing was a coupe of milk
and my decorator.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
It puts me in a rather peculiar position when—rather than, considering my age, courting a preposterous dowager—I yearn for the creamy scent of a perfectly ripe banana, the inconsequential beauty of unwitting lasciviousness—even if one exhibits something as mundanely inappropriate as picking one’s nose, so it is impossible not to call one a perfect scandal—a sun-drenched firmament of tiny freckles, and more. I can’t wait to see how ridiculous I will be in ten years when I’m sixty.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My resentments act as bookmarks
to the feminist writers occupying my bookshelves,
inappropriately labelled ‘the fair sex dome’,
but forgive me my inadequacy of thought—
I’m of the rugged gender.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 