The docile grieve sotto voce, thrumming
the sorrows in the shade of a lime tree and drystane dyke.
After all, there’s nothing wrong with being a little awkward,
like a former semi-famous adolescent birdwatcher—
never reckless despite youth—now a lean curmudgeon,
collecting lanterns and astrolabes, having realised that
not every message needs to be delivered.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Captured on Polaroid shots,
we’re reselling green-screened déjà vus,
just to keep an old promise, ever afraid
that in the end we would have nothing
to say.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I have a cheesecake promised
five hundred miles away from here.
It’s not even a blown kiss—a jest, perhaps,
with sunglasses on (that’s London, after all),
or a prolegomenon to a fable
in fluent silence.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
What is it that keeps me attached
to the words? I live and learn
that Nature knows no sorrow—
maybe I shouldn’t either—
and has no use of ‘assuage’.
Perhaps the well-spoken have it easier,
but how would I know? After all, longing
is a wordless song.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Whether it’s a tourniquet or a poultice,
small talk plays its part only if both parties believe
in the magic of innocuous prattle,
even if sometimes you have to destroy
evidence to the contrary—
no wonder an old heathen remains silent.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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
We didn’t invent death,
but we managed to industrialise it;
neither did we invent life,
and yet we pursue an obsession with immortality,
slowly losing the ability to distinguish silence
from the absence of sound.
To think, it all started with sin—our only invention.
hidden pilcrow 