From the relatively short amount of people that have taken the time to explore my body of poetics, to whom I’m eternally thankful, one common theme among them seems recurrent. This small text is only meant to clarify certain subjacent elements of my writing, rather than explaining the poetics in full (something I could not do even if I wanted to).
The first element is the name of the blog, Caliath, often confused with a pseudonym I use for writing, although not at all meant to be seen that way.
Ever since my somewhat muddy beginnings writing, both in English and Portuguese, I would name all my notebooks Caliath (they all still exist, to this day, 16 of them), which means all of the poetry here is found in written form on Caliath XVI. There isn’t a clear reason to why I decided upon that name for them, I don’t even remember reflecting on what I should call them before actually naming them, and ever since, Caliath has been the name I generally give to all my poetry – good, bad or outright nonsensical, they all find common ground in a single aspect, which brings me to my second clarification:
There are four volumes of Caliath that I’ve disowned, the first four, to be precise. Now all compiled into one “poetry to burn under the sea”, they are all poems that I atribute to myself and my personal life and emotions, in contrast to all following Caliath volumes (5 and up), where I’m given to verse above a manufactured world. This has been highly valuable, since it allows me to experiment freely, feel the work to an augmented degree, and fully manipulate the subjects of my poetry without compromising it’s honesty. This manufactured world, or how I like to call it – wasteland, works in a similar way to a fictional universe, but with a bitter existencial-philosophical cultivated touch.
Although I claim to take inspiration from Ultra-Romance for my english poetry, a lot of it is soaked in a type of poetic existentialism very much my own, whereas the beauty of a certain question is elevated beyond it’s initial version, and then destroyed and broken apart by a rather senseless feeling of inadequacy. This general inadequacy is present throughout all my creations, from being inadequate or unequipped to love, to write, to understand or even to allow full emotion to course my words, and that same feeling waters my most candid and vulnerable poetics, for as long as I feel inadequate and reject my own creations, they take such a unique form in that rejection.
Regardless, that was a mess, hopefully it was a bit clear,