In 1976 — a year hardened by a big exodus within European confines, Alina, then eighteen years of age, left Tallin, Estonia, for a more promising life in England. Shipping in embrace with her father, she left only her mother, who was left in solitude. Arvo Pärt, by then a long-time friend of the family, syphoned from his years of composing and wove one of the most influential and sumptuous works of musical minimalism — Für Alina, the emblem of his tintinnabuli stylistic approach. Music, unlike any other basilar-Art, envelops and takes command of a singular sense perception, and opposite to what modernistic music-videos would have you believe, Music itself pylons above little else than sound. Any aesthetic extension is dismissible to the gestalt of a piece. If a composition cannot support itself, a music-video has no worth, and shan’t amend the issue, since it is not constituent to the Art at-hand. There is, however, a very important semblance of
Another (Sinelos) composition, as they are all I can write start-to-finish, these days. Roughly 1,300 men died building the Palace of Mafra, at the Time, a Convent and not a Palace. I thought it would be interesting to write something about it, as we do not know who they were, but we do know what they died for. A brief disclaimer: this poem does not quest to heat-seek why people believe, but rather, how they rationalised those beliefs, and how they served (and still serve) as firm utilities to dismiss very human emotions. Constructions, either metaphysical (Absolutes) or physical (A Convent), are not worthier arbiters of our lives than we are. If you disagree, that is great! Let me know, as my thoughts may be (and probably are) incomplete, and I might come to agree with a firm argument. To live, is to learn. JOHNNY
Initially devised with two parts (I – Lethimos Camerata and II – Moratorium), I’ve decided to make Moratorium the first part of Canto III, as not to over-saturate this already emotionally-heavy composition. This one, although deserving of a better construction, was very hard to compose, hence the time it took to execute; What may seem simple at first sight, as in, a victim of sexual abuse in Greeces old customs of pederasty claiming his own control over such enacted violence (a storyline I had constructed long-ago, as to inter-connect with many other elements of the story), also holds a necessary and integral part of my own life. How may we cope with what was forcefully taken from us? Well, I do not know, I’m still in a path of surviving myself; but I do know I must validate my own pain, and feel it in its most tangible form — a mass replacing that which has been taken. For
I usually stray from posting the Sinelos (Surrealist) variant of my poetry. It is messy, highly mutated and usually a product of my Silence exercises. The more distant I become from reality, the higher the abstractions, and messier the perceptions radiating outwards. But now, people who read my works are increasingly more diverse, and I’d hope at least one person connects more heavily with my surreal side, in stead of my melodic, modernistic and lyrical composing methods.
And if not, y’know, I can dwell inside the bliss of trial.
Blessings of Akatosh upon ye!
So, bear with me here; I know it’s not great, but I was mashing my brain against this first Canto without any true necessity. Poems like these require a certain heaviness I cannot fully achieve (just yet), my poetry still draws much from my own levity as a person. That being said, the form is still ridiculously volatile, and I apologise for that. So far, The Shades are mostly lyrical, Cocytus is mostly expositive and Luriam is mostly confessional. I would like to keep it that way, but still need to work on their cohesion and how the styles transition. Regardless, if you have any tips, I’m all ears!
Thank you for reading!
After months of arduously refining my poetics, there are still many subtle fields of necessary detail I’m yet to cover. The major — and hardest — is that is which most revered across our Art. The production of epics, akin to those of Dante’s Divine Comedy, or Homer’s Iliad, requires a level of poetic awareness that transcends mere foreshadowing. To tell an anchoring and complex story through verse, metered or not, is a huge challenge on its own. But I, your Johníssimo, have an innate hunger for my own chaos and misery, so I will try to craft myself an impish epic. Nothing the likes of those aforementioned. If I could write like Dante, I would be the first in living History to do so. My respect for these authors is abound, they are much like guides — maybe even parents — to the way I inspect the elements of my reality, but it
(I work as a carpenter) — today, I was installing a smooth-stone tabletop and noticed that the colour and design of that stone was named “Thebes Black“. It is interesting what the mind can create when it takes a vision by the hand and sprints with it. Shortly after, during my lunchtime, I wrote this composition based on the name of that stone.
It wasn’t made with full-fledge, hence why it is much shorter that I would ideally make it, but I hope you enjoy it, even if just a bit. (perhaps just the smile of reading how it was inspired by such a mundane thing)
Anyone attentive to my poetics will realise they have been quite volatile lately, becoming more robust and curated, and perhaps a bit more modernistic. Most of these, I wouldn’t truly call poems, but rather, short essays on sound. This one specifically attempts to melodiously replicate the abrupt awareness that waves with common anxiety.
I work hard to hone my ability to compose, and that also involves a lot of experimenting, along with poems that pave such progress. Right now, my topmost priority is to fabricate sound that can also be transmissible of emotion, a luxury I previously reserved to the verbal content of the composition.
This specific poem uses isolated sound shifts to pause realisation: (sinks!, sinks… sinks —) similarly to an “Oh!, Oh…” commonly used in general communication. Consonant repetition and syllabic cadence are also utilised to a more subtle degree. (also, some lousy enjambement in the second stanza, but I couldn’t fix it properly)
I’m hopeful that you don’t mind my silly experiments, and may continue this poetic quest with me. It can be a bit saturating, but necessary, nonetheless.
I’m having a bit of a dry-spell, poetry-wise, so I can only make constructions. This one isn’t very good, but inspiration is failing me. I blame the Pleiades.
Leaned against the customary elm tree, some would take aim at nouvelle psychologies, others would echo life-bound lessons at the bottom of a plastic beer cup. If elation existed on summary, little else would be needed to describe the happiness blooming from friendship. I’d spent my few years of breath on fighting prejudice and carving a spot in the landscapes, as to measure the weight of my sins with that of my embraces. Little was expected, less was requested, and the ley-lines of kinship were bursting with movements: an arm around my shoulders, a hug so firm it freezes my flesh, turning a moment into a brass statue made to be outwardly admired. I had understood the height and worth of my words, I learned to love my speech and to gaze at the walk as a path worth replicating. I have known silence, I have known solitude; and how pallid, chalky visions they seem to have become.
“Sad is what I am — what I will always be, an artist is born in form of a shipwreck, and henceforth, that same sunken soul shall live from scavenging the debris.” Existence is often homogenous with the ebb of an ocean — composed of movements, violent thrusts against the shore, soothing hymns that ascend from the waves, to the tip of a cello’s arc, producing the sharpest sounds whose harmony is replicable only by natural flow. As vast and nightmarish as the ocean can be, so can existence. As exurgent and garish its reflective surface can be, so can life be cloaked with that same brightness, when we collect at a table with dear friends, when we peak in a laughter so sharp, it hits the arc of that cello, producing a sound only the heart can see, an expression only movement can encapsulate, doing so calmly… and tenderly. One thematic I’ve been avoiding for quite a
Four Chestnut Kings When I read poetry, it’s not customary to do it in one sitting, since verse can be overbearing at times, especially when the verse in question is condensed with a large amount of information or emotional overdraws. So, to break that cycle of lyricentric text, I will make a little break and explore the wonders of my culture with you. In the Portuguese province where I grew up and still live, Ribatejo, there used to be a big amount of agriculture. In fact, most of my family still works in that field, working sun to sun along the plantations of Tagus. These men and women who journeyed from far to find work at the river basin, commonly denominated “gaibéus”, worked seasonally in the process of removing weed and debris from the yearly plantations, along with cleaning the non- cultivated fields in order to avoid crop-destroying vermin and wild-fires. Being a descendent of such inspiring figures whose
João Maria Azevedo
Paulo, desculpa-me, fora a primeira Ode que alguma vês terei escrito, por vias disso, não será a melhor que já haveis lido, talvez nem a melhor dedicada a ti. Mas gostei muito de a escrever, porque a escrevo para ti. Quem não conhece o meu querido Paulo, ele vive aqui. João Maria Azevedo, com ajuda de Eugénio de Andrade, na sua tradução da “Ode a Federico Garcia Lorca”, escrita por Pablo Neruda, e com ajuda de Verlaine, na sua “Canção de Outono”, citada na primeira estrofe.
As we navigate an age of velocity and information, it is often easy to befall the entrapment of disengagement with our own simplicity as human beings. The Artist is a figure attributed to emotion, and as such, it holds dominion over such a vast and spectral realm, that the sensation if of infinitude. But although emotions might be infinite in variables, we’re not. We are inherently capped beings with limits and thresholds, those which we can expand and increase with effort and work, but never fully evade them all-together. I’ve talked much about format and content and how they must be weighed simultaneously, but one of the greatest reflection of that is the act of overdraw, where we feel the need and obligation to feel so original, so nouvelle, that we start sacrificing the very foundations of what makes poetry, well, poetry. I also talk much about what poetry is to me (emphasis on to me), but for understanding my
I’ve been back into the dating game for a couple o’ weeks now, and we ask such cruel questions to ourselves when we analyse our worth towards being wanted, or being loved. At least, I do. I feel insufficient, and this composition stems from that. JOHNNY P.S: Kind of a long one, eh? If you made it this far, I would like to point you to the direction of Dead Combo, a portuguese duo of guitar and bass, whose ability to refine feelings into perfect cords has never ceased to impress me. My favourite album of theirs is called “Lusitânia Playboys” and my favourite song, “Like a Drug“.
Going through a bit of an ideological crisis, hence the erratic nature of my compositions. I promise to do better as I regain my normal self, but for now, I can think of really great themes and then execute them only partially. It’s this sort of memory blockage, I suppose. JOHNNY P.S: I wrote this while listening to Max Richter’s “The Blue Notebooks“, a beautiful collection of contemporary classical compositions inspired by Kafka‘s work. I will do these musical mentions more often, I enjoy sharing what I love, maybe you can love it as I do.
I’ve always been fearful about debating the constituents of Modern Poetry. Many things have elapsed between the outer edges of lyricism and the poetic revolution of Modernism and Post-Modernism of the twentieth century, and many more have been extensively debated and explored. The state of poetry requires no true explanation, however, because the same is palpable: declining, withering and un-captivating. Why? That’s a complicated question, even grasping the width of what is being asked seems to be an exhausting task, but many can be tackled individually without being smothered by higher scopes. To me, the production of modern poetry fails on many fronts, and between abstractionism and minimalism (both highly unstable chains of literary generation) one can only agree on a singular vision if only one poem is analysed, anything else would be overly ambitious. Conveniently, over-ambition is my middle name. Spectator Mode One of the most common communication mistakes I see in Modern Poetry is the distance crafted between
A little excelsic composition to decompress. JOHNNY
I’m dipping my toes into confessional poetry. I’m awful at it, but is it quite fun. JOHNNY
When I find myself careworn by poetics, I tend to gravitate towards lighter, less condensed approaches to writing. Prose is, by natural production, my least refined process, but that does not mean I cannot figuratively invent useful forms to shape it up. After all, that’s what Caliath is all about—exploration of the elsewhere. One common struggle I undergo when etching narratives is the old and ever so demising struggle of reaction vs. response, one I’ve been quite puzzled with. Art is the inevitable necessity to communicate by way of emotion, which arrives with reaction, but a well-structured fictional reality must be accompanied by an emboss of response, as to foster a process that bleeds into the reader, allowing them to write the story as much as we do, without giving them full creative control of a world we’ve created. That would be evidently chaotic and a bedding for confusion. As I spent my entire Sunday in hospital aiding my grandfather,
One of the proses found in True-Ultra. Ships That Dare Yet, my skin does not bleed light once cut, my memory is not a sea filled with vessels hauling treasure, and I can’t see past sky-rim. Those ships—I see them set sail and pass, wreck and sink, cast onto fiery cascades, and I see myself in them, drowning and burning. I know how it ends; I’ve seen it before; Comes with day, engraved by ancient lore: They leave, and I stay. I stay in this mental illusion of a small port-village, where the sound of seagulls preludes the daylight, but distant and faintly echoed. Where the windows radiate with the blue-hue of gentle waves, and onlookers are statically sighting the sea, waiting endlessly for a ship that will never arrive, a day that will never come. These days held by the belly, broken and shattered in every street and any corner, are the simplest notes sang by those seagulls. The
Today, I e-published my first title and a wave of terror washed over me. I do not feel quite ready for it. I’m an admirer of so many, and I don’t feel worthy of having people purchase my book just yet. It’s just not something I feel okay with, due to my inexperience and general inadequacy. Still, I feel like I’ve created something special in this humble manuscript. Something worth reading, but not necessarily commercialising. As such, I will un-publish the book and open it to reading in this post, in PDF format, free-for-all. I will, however, also provide a donate button bellow, may you decide I’m worthy of such honour and trust (you decide the amount). What I receive will be used for the purposes previously mentioned – maintaining the website and eventually, a groovy poetry-chilling podcast. Thank you, and sorry. True Ultra – The Book
As a lot of content is getting shaved from the book of Selected Poetry, most of my author notes are getting removed and replaced with prose. Hours of wasted work, but no matter, that’s how these things go. I will post some of those I feel worse about deleting, so they won’t dissipate into the void. Sorry for the huge resolution, comes straight from book format. JOHNNY
Salut, I shall take to absent form over the next two weeks, but fear not, it is for a special reason. In order to lighten the strain of maintaining the website, as well as perhaps purchase a microphone in order to start reading my compositions (and other poets’ works, so maybe a podcast) to you, I’ve decided to use my two-week work vacation – no, not to rest – but instead, to produce a manuscript with my best poems, a selection of sorts. Some will be new, some will be edited, and all will be accompanied individually with prose that explains the process of their making, similar prose to the one you see me publish here from time to time. I plan to publish it as an eBook, and although I’m unsure of the amount of pages, they will likely surpass two-hundred, and I intend to make the eBook as cheap as virtually possible. Along with a cover made by
Our planet is suffering a great deal, and I worry. Our little blue-marble deserves better.
Author’s Notes: This one is very sloppy structure-wise, but I’m living this thirties fantasy right now and I really felt like writing some stuff related to that, not sure why. But it makes me really happy! The entire poem has references to Al Bowlly. Thank you so much for reading, JOHNNY
A little while back (I seem to start all my posts with this phrase), I started writing a book of actual fiction, as in, not poetry, called Brass Towers. With less and less time on my hands, and still trying to finish the various projects of poetry I have ongoing, this one got a bit lost, but I still have some hope it might see light of day. Here goes a rough-cut excerpt that I like, considering I don’t have nearly as much experience with prose as I do with poetry: (A reminder, this is a character in the work, and not actually me writing about myself, although… it’s probably both) As I lay my head against the bed-frame, I hope for better days. Some hope for those, others hope for better nights, and along those plaguing and exhausting hours of sleepless thought: we hope. As human misery goes, we hate hoping as much as we require it, since
The most common element throughout my time posting here, a little more than four months now, is most likely my lack of confidence into the craft I’m presenting for you to read. Although having such tender readers as you is a soothing march towards a path of more determined writing, I cannot help but to distill what is perhaps the only good spawn of this plaguing inadequacy: my unending gratitude, the joyous smiles whenever someone comments such warm and embracing notes to my compositions, those to which I give such little worth, those that you see something in, sometimes I’m tearful just thinking of it. Writing since such young age, I’ve only been compelled to share very recently, mostly out of fear and self-preservation, but this journey of sharing has been no less than magical, almost out of a book. I have long ways to go in my abilities and considerations, as well as my Art, which I plan to
Author’s Notes: The structure of the composition was severely inspired by Jack Leonard’s song “All the Things you Are“, a beautiful song that was a hit during the 1930s in America. I finally found a practical and pleasing way to put whole compositions into a single image, took me long enough. I’m not very technologically savvy. This is another free-hander. I haven’t had much time to sit down and actually compose, so I mostly scribble into my notepad throughout the day and I get these results. At least, I hope they aren’t too bad. And thank you for reading, I don’t often thank people who read and do not comment, and it’s not on purpose, I’m just forgetful. Regardless, thank you so much for following the unglamorous journey of a dreamy kid writing poems. JOHNNY
Author’s Notes: No actual references of any kind were made in this poem. It was mostly free-handed in paper and I did little to no editing when I transcribed it into electronic format. The quality of it is a bit “meh”, but I find it very sincere, and I value sincere poetry above any other kind. I hope you can still connect with it. JOHNNY
Following the string of compositions from when I initially started posting, you might sight some of the most primitive and uninspired works of web-poetry around, and along those lines of frozen time, you might even find a generally negative disposition I have towards my work, as well as a strong hostility directed at my own artistic development. I believe, albeit probably wrong, that any artist of any craft holds little to no love for a product that is finished, because its the process and the journey that must be loved and nurtured, and the final result: an outburst of pain compounded with shame, a linen woven by acid needles that thrust with every line, every paintbrush and every note of a melody. It is natural to hold hatred towards our own creations, not necessarily because they are parts of ourselves we shed into a piece, but because they are willingly given away and lost, they are mirrors within mirrors and
I know the last poem and this one are a bit weird and off-tracks for me. Do not be alarmed, I’m tinkering with new sound constructions for “ofuscus“, the sister structure to “excelse“, but since I’m just starting, it’s mostly an exploration of how variant I can make them sound without sacrificing much of both. These are mostly free-hand practices that allow me to gage and compare. Author’s notes: Line 12 is a reference to the book of the same name, “Heights of Despair”, by Emil Cioran. Highly advise you to seek it if you enjoy some grim phylosophy. Line 1 is a reference to a song, all my compositions have at least one of these, sometimes more. In this case, it is “Odd Look” by french musician Kavinsky. Line 17 might look a bit weird, Child is the symbol, while intrumental pain is the syntax. This is done purposefully, but the Child himself won’t appear just here, that’s why
FIRST, A QUEST A little back, I wrote this highly experimental (and primal) composition called MIRROR, in which two subconscious voices would be displayed continuously until they would collapse together and generate this sense of unifying thoughts. That poem spawned from my fiddling with the concept of multiple voices in poetry. All my compositions are made to be both read and spoken, therefor, all kinds of sound generation are within the bounds of my poetry. I spent some time wondering about the possibility of poems meant to be read by separate voices, which can be applied to a variety of unique poetic concepts, as well as compounding lyricism with that expression and generate a form of artistic elation of poetry upon dialogue, both internal and external. MIRROR is not a good example, since its very primitive and faulty in the groundworks of what this exercise proposes. For the ease of division in structural compositions, I will name the first voice
I’ve always held quarrels against the structural basis of Nihilism. It strives in devouring any worth behind worldly constructs, and does so mercilessly, because the charcoal that fuels it seems made from the cinders of a society in ideological flames. I’m twenty-two, which represents that hopefully, most of my life still awaits me, yet… I, akin to the vastest numbers of my generation, have been raised under cruel forecasts and outright dooming patterns: senseless acts of moral terror spawning almost daily, a scientific community that insists on a very real factor of life being irreversible altered by the selfish and hedonistic acts of humanity towards Nature, tendrils of corruption and interest crawling under the skin of powerful figures, some of which hold nuclear arsenal capable of turning this blue marble we have known to be (so far) the only planet that harbours life, into a wasteland of volcanic winters and centuries of acid fall-out, rendering it just another barren planet
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
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
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