A creature of the word—
doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?
Who would have thought that we’d turn
into creatures of paper?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tag: words
The next time
I can’t stand waffling on
and have always appreciated the brevity of style,
but even for me a simple ‘I love you’ won’t cut it anymore—
I’ve learnt my lesson.
Perhaps next time just say
nothing,
whoever you are.
An occasional act
Full of words with an expiration date,
like ‘forever,’ for example, and untimely goodbyes,
the undelivered mail, piling up on the top of the radiator casing in the hallway,
reminds me every time I pass by that I’ve always dreamed
of a slice of blueberry pie with ice cream,
and yet with my face exposed to the late winter sun
and a square of dark chocolate melting on my tongue,
all I can think about is the death of Seneca as told by Tacitus—a cold reminder
that life, at best, is nothing more than an occasional act
of unrequited kindness.
One word
Whether I close my eyes or the curtains, nothing makes me so bold as to strip
the act of performed nightly routines of their supposed innocence,
and yet here and there I catch a flicker of doubt creeping onto the page,
occasionally jamming the typewriter or spilling out in an inkblot
as if it were the revenge of a worn-out fountain pen I was given when I came of age.
At least the pencil maintains a semblance of decency—which is a little unsettling
since it’s not my favourite writing implement—so I wonder if it might help me
retrieve from the rubble I’ve hoarded over the years the one word I need most.
Perhaps then I will learn what I’ve been looking for so desperately all this time,
even if it’s only enough for a brass plaque on the backrest of a park bench.
Being whimsical in the age of saviours
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.
Journal (To say something profound)
As you desperately try to say something profound, with age, you discover that whatever it is you always wanted to say, someone has already said it, but without your stuttering and with a much better vocabulary. All that remains is to relish the words, pretending not to notice the hint of bitterness in the aftertaste. After all, you are not without a role; you are a diapason that resonates with their sound. Without you, they would disappear into the void.
hidden pilcrow 