noise, peace (english poetry)

Y’all, I’ve been reading too much American poetry, so I’m going through this mixed phase of modernism and romanticism, I hope something good comes out of this because its certainly weird for me to write like this. Disclaimer: bulletless doesn’t seem to be a real word, but I don’t get why, so I’m gonna use it anyway. Disclaimer 2: I’ve since revised the second part of the poem, so if you’re reading for a second time, you may find it different than the original. If you seek the original, you can find it here. JOHNNY

CRAZED PLAYHOUSE (english poetry)

I couple days ago, I thought to myself, what a wonderful world! And I wanted to write a decently happy composition to demonstrate that. Then it ended up like this, and I’m perpetually confused. I have a verse in portuguese that states “I’ve never written a single happy lyric / Perpetuated by silence of the other side.”, seems like I was clairvoyant of my own future there. Not-so-fun-fact: it was heavily inspired by my night-outs in Lisbon, that in almost seven years, never produced a single long-lasting bond. People are solitaires nowadays. JOHNNY

Why poetry, still?

My letter response a while back, where a dear friend asked me why poetry sounds deeply saddening to him. This was my theory (although I have more theories now, I still stick to this one most times):   Since the elder days of lyrical production, poetry has taken shape of shoulders carrying the shadows of human declaration. From a singular first word of verse to the last sound of its adored stanza, it has been used to spawn nights of joyous dreams, dawns of draping silks, and as a hand moves to slide away those curtains woven of melody: a window, leading to giant sights of exposition, hills of galloping horses hauling our pains, our wounds, whatever we deem worthy to exist in that composition, because it too shall stand to compose us. That is the level of communication all artistic movements tend to bleed out, those small shreds of emotion that plea for capture, and beg ever-so softly to

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Vanity by Florbela Espanca

Recently, I came across the endlessly talented Tadzio and his blog of English translations of Italian poems. A little apprehensive at first, I decided to give a shot of my own at translating some of my most adored portuguese compositions. Florbela is the poet I credit with my interest in composing, so it would be fair to say that any verse of mine you might have liked, is due to her incredible humility and fine-crafted lyricism. Very devalued in life, she now stands as the most important female poet of the portuguese poetic pantheon, one whose influence reaches far and wide within our culture. And its portuguese, original version: Disclaimer: I’m not a professional or academic of this subject, this translation is merely an attempt at a very arduous and respected Art, that of translating poetry, and I have no intentions of devaluing it with my impish attempts. Second Disclaimer: I did severely alter the verse that mentions “saudade”. There

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Veribus, my attempt at social platforms.

For a while, I’ve been scouring for ways to convey which poets have influenced me the most, who I hold highly as I navigate the gears of my own production. Certain verses, stanzas, poems, move me to a level I cannot fully explain, and those feelings are what I work so hard to translate within my own poetry, often with failure, but always with tenacity. One platform I’ve never given much thought to, although pleasantly succinct at times, presented itself as a nice medium to share these small shards of brilliance, and that is Twitter. I’m not sure how it will fully work yet, but if this is something you are generally interested in, I will be attempting to post at least one exhibit a day of these poetic capitulations, with the sole purpose of their inspiration and diffusion, if possible, at the following address – VERIBUS. I’ve created it as a project of hobbyist nature and I do not

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Today was a specially hard day, I carried pain with me. And sometimes, days are sad, and I don’t know why. I vaulted this composition a while ago, when I wrote it, I deemed it not good enough for sharing. Now, despite not being any better, it looks more heartfelt than ever. JOHNNY

SATURNO (english poetry)

I’m including numbered lines in case anyone wants to comment on a verse without having to copy it, since these are images. I’ve never realised until now how hard I was making it for you. That aside, this is another one of those decompressing compositions, but I quite like this one, it makes sense to me. JOHNNY

HUIS-CLOS EN MER (english poetry)

I’ve been writing a very long parabole poem called “BAICHENG’S PRIME EHRU”, aside from being time consuming, it’s also very draining, so I’ve written lighter and simpler compositions in the meantime so I can decompress. Hope you like it as well, a little bit of lightness can be good. JOHNNY

CATATUMBO (english poetry)

Partially a product of Poetic Lab #1, but it would be more adequate to say it displays power in imagery more so than power in layered time-frames. Regardless, I have much to grow and learn, so soon enough, I hope to develop the ability to control these better. JOHNNY

Poetry Lab #1

  FIRST, A QUEST. The image above, if carefully examined, displays three differently animated levels distinguishable by their relation to velocity and, by consequence, Time. This animation device has been used to display certain feelings in a much clearer way: her face is animated carefully and slowly, every frame is fluid, to inspire serenity and placidness. Her hair is animated frantically, with frames leaping between animation with little fluidity, alluding to a chaotic exterior and high intensity movement. The background, although blurred, also happens at a time different from the other two layers, presenting a both static and simultaneously – moving – backdrop. This allows for a certain displacement through the fluidity of our space, allowing Art to perforate the emotional human sensors without replicating at all what those sensors are used to, by thematic association. Our world feels much like that of the animation, it constantly moves, yet we cannot fully absorb all it’s evolutions and changes, in turn,

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B.O.O.M (english poetry)

B.O.O.M was built without structure or subject integrity. Partly built in Portuguese, it was a poetic concept I dribbled into during my ‘poetic diary’ era, stemming from an old relationship I had for quite a while. We had made a habit of playing ‘BOOM’ (also known as The Devil’s Game, Don’t Screw Me, or The Mexican), near the marine front of the Tagus river, in downtown Lisbon, also called “Ribeira das Naus“. We also shared a very big passion for 60s music, which I referenced plenty ‘o times within the composition itself (“What a beautiful feeling” a line from Crimson and Clover, “Under the Boardwalk” a line from a song with the same name.) The composition also references portuguese writer Eugénio de Campos, another shared passion, with the line “guided by horizons of desolated countries”, a loose adaptation of his verse “um horizonte de cidades bombardeadas” from Palavras Interditas. It attempts to drawn from the general unfair game of expectation

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Have you ever wondered to yourself: ‘Hum, I wish I could have a PDF document with 108 pages of second-rate poetry in my computer, that would solve a lot of problems.’ My oh-my do I have the right solution for you! With another notebook fully stacked with poems, I need to transition to a seventeenth Caliath, and as such, I’ve decided to freeze all compositions and publish them here as a bulk. You may preview them or download the entire document. >CALIATH XVI< Most of the compositions presented above are of lyrical, ultra-romantic nature. They can often seem quite repetitive and basic, as they are the first compositions I’ve built in English. As more time and writing elapses, my poetry evolves, and as of my latest Saturno and The Monadic Compositions, it takes a form much more polished and refined. I hope you do not take these as a full representation of my work. It is as relevant now as

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Tenho para mim. (poesia portuguesa)

Estou feliz de-novo, como tal, a minha poesia está a recuperar. Peço desculpa pela supressão de conectores, estou a tentar usar sonoridades mais brasileiras, sendo que são também mais compactas. Como gosto tanto das duas variantes de Português, pensei, porque escrever só numa? (Cá em Portugal, chamamos Alfaiates ao que no Brasil se dizem aranhas d’água, pequenos insectos que deslizam sobre águas paradas) JOHNNY


A friend nicknamed me Crowbard, because I have dark features and I write lyrical poetry. It’s funny because it’s a pun with crowbar, I’m very happy with this nickname. If you missed Johnny’s classical exacerbated parataxis, ta dah! Although short, it was great writing it, because I too missed parataxis overloads.


I have intentions of using Cadwell to display a very specific emotional voyage, one I’ve been on for quite a while. Although slightly complex, I also believe it’s clear in it’s motives and pure in it’s verse, and I hope it’s sincerity and honesty justifies the loose approach to structure I’m using in it. JOHNNY

THE CADWELL STEPPES (english poetry)

I’ve always been convinced that poetry exists within a physical space of it’s own. At times, I’ve used real world locations to set the tone, I’ve used Caliath as a land of sadness, and within the Monadic series, I’m trying to paint it differently. These spaces are symbolic, they are important, as they are reflective of a heightened version of our world. Over the next few poems, I will expand upon the Cadwell Steppes. JOHNNY


Part of the monad, this one is a bit drawn out. It took me a while to get it to a decent point, I’m not happy with it, it makes me sad. I read it and it’s not beautiful to me, it’s wet and teary, like melting hands… JOHNNY


I find this “composition” (if you can call it that), to be one of my most comical and sweet poems I’ve ever written. It’s not new, at all, in fact it’s made in a style I had when I was roughly eighteen. Sometimes it’s really homy just to go back and write like I used to. (Also, I reached 100 posts and 2000 followers, so I thought appropriate to publish something a bit different) João Maria Azevedo


Maybe one of my most thought out compositions, this one is mostly surreal, in the style of the elder french poets. It drawns purely from existentialism and it can be somewhat complicated to unravel, so if you have any questions, just pop em up. (Disregard the graphic elements, I was trying these out on paper and then tried to replicate them here) JOHNNY


The bulk of my poetry isn’t found in this blog, but in my longer stylised compositions containing the array of symbology and my core ultra-romantic elements. Avenues in France is one of such, perhaps the first of it’s kind published here, and part of my series of monadic poems subdivided in various structures. Tell me if you like these types of heavy poetry, I may publish more (I was planning on publishing surrealism poetry next, like Yangtze or Gran Java) JOHNNY

SCOTTISH WOLF (english poetry)

I was talking to my dear sister early yesterday about how I’m always single, things never seem to quite work. Then I saw a documentary about wolves, and voilá, we have a poem. If anyone ever wondered about my process, there doesn’t seem to really be one, I just take things and write them down, almost like notes, except they rhyme. JOHNNY  

DESTINO (english poetry)

Apologies for the verses in Portuguese, this started out as a poem in my native language, and then morphed into english, so I just scattered around the verses. The translations are as such: “Que se ame a eternidade na beleza de sua verdade…” – May eternity be loved in the beauty of it’s truth. “Que no traço do Tempo, não existem estátuas sorridentes…” – That in the trace of Time, there are no smiling statues. “Até as redes do momento já se apertam nos braços…” – Even the nets of the moment already tighten our arms.                 Johnny

EMERALD CAGE (english poetry)

Wrote it all on one go, hence why it’s so big. I usually crop a lot while I compose. Might not be good, but it’s the first composition where I didn’t truly care about structure, I just went with what felt right at the time, and I’m quite happy with the lightness of that. (Sorry about second publication, I actually forgot the poem on the first go, typical.) JOHNNY

NIHIL (english poetry)

A bit of an abandoned project, I had hopes of transforming a portuguese poem I had into an English form without translation. Due to structure constrains, I wasn’t able to fully converse it, it was supposed to have eight more stanzas (to match the portuguese version with 20 stanzas). Turns out the English language is generally more laconic, and you can convey more using less, in turn breaking the general spine of the poem. This is what was left, hopefully someone can look at it and see something worthwhile. JOHNNY

WOTAN-A-MORTE (english poetry)

I haven’t been publishing much lately. Besides being generally busy, my poetic production lately has seemed a bit twisted. As I struggle inside, usually, so does my poetry, and it warps more and more the worse I get. Regardless, I created this blog for exactly this purpose, to “document” how my work seems to change, evolve, sometimes for the worst. Here is a composition that shows it pretty well:

WINDSWEPT (english poetry)

A bit messy and all-over-the-place, this one is another experimental work. I’m trying this “therapeutic poetry” thing, hence why I haven’t published, I’ve been doing it mostly in Portuguese. This one, however, I liked. It’s not great but I hope you gather something from it. JOHNNY

MELANCOLIA (english poetry)

I believe that there isn’t a single poet in history that hasn’t composed about melancholy, it’s a feeling so natural to artists in general. Or even people, it feels very humane to miss. Of course, being the uncreative Johnny I take such joy in being, I had to compose my own take on melancholy with my specific “drawn out” style I’ve been recently nurturing. Anyways, I hope you see something new in this! JOHNNY

HOSMOSIS (english poetry)

My sexuality has always been a dodgy topic among my art creation. At times, I was uninterested in using it as fodder for poems, at others, I couldn’t find poetic fodder to feed a poem worthy of contemplation. Among a plethora of failed attempts at doing so, I did draw a composition that would eventually become “HOSMOSIS” (quite proud of the title, to be honest here). Being gay was never something I considered integral part of me, until I faced the reality of loving someone in a displayed fashion, as well as the reactions that would prompt. Thankfully, it didn’t only prompt bad reactions, it also prompted this poem, once of the few I can say I genuinely like and feel proud of. Also, officially the 50th english poem published on the blog. Thank you so much for allowing me to continue. With a lot of love, Johnny

LOW POETICS (english poetry)

Long ago, I envisioned two sister books I would eventually finish in English, before I gave up English poetry. The two had interesting concepts in my mind, FUSCUS and EXCELSE, focusing in calming yet existencial poetry, and beautiful yet exaggerated and borderline detached poetry respectively. I do love those concepts, unfortunately I’m not an actual poet, so, who knows, maybe one day I will get to publish them. Here is the first poem of FUSCUS, written 3 years ago, I was 19 (it shows a lot).

CHUVA QUENTE (poesia portuguesa)

Entre os átomos dos livros, a poeira dos dias, a fome de versar tão intensamente que as lágrimas me invadem os olhos, existe um sentimento cuja história da Arte Humana tende em replicar sempre com a mesma tristeza, com o mesmo olhar magoado: o abandono. Os espaços, as pessoas, os animais, os sonhos e romances, todos ganham a fronte inversa aquando abandonados, não há onda maior de sofrimento, não há perda maior para o imponente Tempo, que a de se ser desertado. É disso que nasce esta humilde composição, não tenho outro adjectivo para lhe entregar. Custa um pouco publicar este poema, cuidem bem dele. João Maria. Advertisements

Portugal: hills of sun-painted sadness.

Not everyone has the honour of living in an award-winning country, or better yet, not everyone considers that an honour. I was born in a small parish with 110 inhabitants just outside Lisbon, and my youth was paved with finding small water streams among fabled stretching woodlands, watching my grandfather plant potatoes all the while leaning on our dogs and watching the verdant sunset sink. I look back fondly at those memories, and my circle of social life was restricted by those hundred familiar faces all into my teenage mists. When I was a docile and sensitive boy, one thing was generally known, we were an enclave of the modern world, a tender collapse between edging western development and a deep connection to land, humility, poverty, and pain. In the yet-to-explore sacred and scarlet hills of Portugal, we roamed the sun-lands searching for an oasis that spawned the entire rectangle garden planted sea-side. We quested for a beauty that was

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