What does it mean to be a grown man?
Is it enough to simply recognise that
while certain dispositions require a front row,
not every inclination is repulsive?
Or perhaps the awareness that only a few
passport photos remain to be taken?
I guess toning down the theatrics might work.
Having a way with words doesn’t hurt either—
certainly if I’m to embrace vulnerability.
Then why all I can think of are the weather idioms?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A coward, a lazy and selfish one—a man
(doesn’t sound particularly bad in earnest,
a little wry, perhaps)—a flat noun, striving
to define the gap between ‘me’ and ‘mine’,
yet barely passing by the em dash, like the man
of every Raphaelite and Ogilvy, only dozing off
in old age, never quite striking the right chord.
And I’m still not sure if that’s hubris or abjection.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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
I have always believed that boredom is a symptom of the laziness of the mind, for brilliant minds are self-sufficient, as seen in the case of Richard Feynman, who remained lucid, mentally active, and undisturbed even by the absence of sensory input in John C. Lilly’s isolation tank. And although I’m far from that level of acumen myself, I’ve often quipped that I’m never bored because I share my time with a very intelligent person—myself. Besides, I tend to keep books close at hand. (And speaking of books and great minds, I’ve long found it fascinating when intellectuals claim that a particular book changed their life—only to then have a flash of insight: nothing like that has ever happened to me, so either I’m not easily impressed, or I’m simply too dim to grasp what I read.)
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Raised in a facetious milieu—
like a delayed palindrome with an imposing façade
yet very gentle and kind—
Mr Honk decided to be cheerful for a change
and wash radishes for breakfast
without the usual wry contempt
for corporeality,
although he knew it was a whim,
not a Nicomachean attempt.
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
The frail constitution of conscience,
the assumed brevity of spirit,
and the calculated immodesty of mind,
all curtained with a green palette—
courtesy of a linden bathed in sunlight—
is a simple recipe for disaster
or a poem.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
If someone I know
that they live in my time zone
reads my latest poem at two in the morning
(likes have a timestamp, profiles geolocation),
I can’t help but worry if they are okay.
Maybe they’re suffering from insomnia
or a broken heart, or they’re trying to forget
the pain in a hospital bed,
or they just grabbed their phone
on the way to the bathroom,
but whatever it is, I
am worried.
How selfish of me.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I brought home a used copy of T.S. Eliot’s collected works and cried
like Peter Kien on his wedding night—there was something tragic
about the torn and stained dust jacket and the dirty edges, as if Faber
and Faber had printed a hewer’s handbook—only to catch a glimpse
of a snob in the mirror.
hidden pilcrow 