⌉|⌈ – Of Worth Onto Self. 

 


             My strides and vigour in poetic refinement, albeit little, have warranted me much trust from a few deambulatory souls (including many from WordPress, I adore you all dearly), whose abound kindness and levity allowed my work to be weightless, and live freely, in whichever form it holds, and whatever path it may pursue. This trust — or perhaps, credence — has led a fair few to the haunting question of worth; “Is my poem good?, Am I a good writer?”

           Assuming a grounded perspective upon the canticles of quality, and furthermore, interest, of course a work can be good, or satisfying, or accomplished; And any, with or without knowledge in the Art, may cast conclusions, and both the question and the following answer are inexorably legitimate. But who does that serve? 

      A scale of worth is, then, given to mires of juxtaposition; A work with higher verisimilitudes to those exalted by literary canons, is one of higher worth; At least, as one is quick to assume. Poetry, akin to any medium of Art, devours itself in non-absolution, and there are little reasons — in my view — that the Artist, too, should be devoured, or grimmer yet, should devour itself. But the recipe is clear, albeit not, and it shades externally as something clear, when internally, the same couldn’t be more false. “Be sincere.”; As I’ve said, many times; But that alone is insufficient to edge anyone into a more rightful direction. Bukowski was a tenderly sincere man, and to a different extent, so was Mallarmé, or Miss Ana from across the street, whose morning smile while stacking bananas is so worthfully poetic as Heródiade. There is nothing good about a poem, and there is nothing evil either; When it is sincere, it merely is and it requests little else; It isn’t as hungry as the immensity of Art, nor must it be crushingly artful. It musn’t be anything, and it can be nothing; Because we can feel anything, and we can feel nothing, and this isn’t good nor bad, it just is, just as it needs to be. Sincerity, to me, does not resist judgement, but flows with it. Much like a poem. 

         One is then tasked with reaching that medium of gentility in which sincerity, by itself, does not overbear the relay; It is a fine sheet of ice, and it will crack and dip, and at times, sink and resurface; But after that line, there is no return, and along those cracks, no repair. This medium is a sinuous, tranquil glade, where words fall into a doze. It is a home to some, and a graveyard to others, and sometimes, both. But it is not a permanent space, as it tolls heavily. You must be the ship that dares back into the turbulent seas of a self-serving reality, and ache. 

           This, too, is a heavy thought; Almost a level of mystical, peppered with surreal; But I, who write poems, venture into that place, as I believe Bukowski might have, or Mallarmé, and certainly Miss Ana, who is likely to visit very often. We all do; Versing, restocking, breathing, existing. One who requires fleeing, insofar as it imagines such escape, is already halfway escaping into just that thought; And that, maybe, might be why imagination is so warmingly sincere, even if surreal, absurd, and aesthetically mystical. 

         To those who’ve known my aesthesis, I’ve often stated that I do not find my poems good, I never have, not once. Why do I keep writing, despite that? Why do most of us? Well, to me, I just sincerely want to. Regardless of worth (of self or others), or even that cast by others; these are all structural to improvement and growth, but not to worth. Thus, being sincere simply means believing your work is, as it must be merely what it is, irregardless of whatever it should perceivably be. This might sound like a gamble on semantics, but in truth, that’s what it is: to deconstruct this noxious seed that something as volatile as Art, can ever hope to be ideally good. That such a rigid concept of worth can co-exist with human entropy, either of self, or others. One, therefore, does not hold worth, since it is what it must be, and shall change — by will or design — to whatever it must, simply because it must. 

         To be frank, my singular hope is that you who reads me, and simultaneously, also writes (like most of you do), fear not for the worth of your sincerity, as perhaps you have before, and are likely to do again. Remember my words, when such malaise sweeps your mind, and they may soothe you. I really hope they do. 


JOHNNY

Published by

João-Maria

A tick clinging to the bristles of a purple boar.

15 thoughts on “⌉|⌈ – Of Worth Onto Self. ”

  1. Well stated. The plethora of opinions can no more be quantified on the same scale than the writes themselves. Nor can immeasurable authors be rightly juxtaposition as to who is more fluent or influencing to the generations yet to follow. I feel, only the artist themselves know when their art has been achieved and delivered by whatever conduit they believe to be the most appropriate.
    Honestly, i’m a novice concerning your works here…for now.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. You are entirely right;
      Concerning my work, it matters not hitherto, but only hereafter.
      If you would be so kind as to accompany me, I will do my best to honour such trust.
      And thank you so much!

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Empathy is imperative, in everything, to anyone. And you’ve shown me much, Jade, as my appreciation for that, too, is beyond my conception of words.
      I hope this is a glimmer of repay. If you got some peace, that is heart-warming enough to me.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. The authentic communication of emotion is the value I strive for in my work. Do those who read my work feel an emotion akin to that I felt while writing it? All the old masters broke new ground, setting their rudder to points unknown in all terms save this one. That is what makes their work great. Thank you for sharing this!

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  3. it is through constantly striving to make our words palatable to ourselves in spite of our own self-awareness of imperfection (inadequacy, ineptitude), that we come across a knife’s-edge moment in which meaning and word-choice coalesce elegantly. it is at this moment that our imperfections reveal themselves as that natural wonder that they are…

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I appreciate your sentiment. I think you’d find many writers have the same thoughts of purpose! We write because we must. For me, it is not only that but also a ministry! Thanks for stopping by and following! Blessings to you!

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  5. I hear you. I do not consider myself a poet so I write what – in my view – is not necessarily poetry but does look like poetry (by virtue of the visible attempt to structure it in verse). I would consider more of short story lover, and this is the craft I’m dying to learn. But even then, I am often – debilitatingly too – apprehensive about my abilities. This is a habit I must kick, because, you see, it doesn’t matter what I think about what I can or can’t do; I must just do because the hunger is their, a raw gaping maw, and if I don’t answer to it I fear I may be consumed from the inside out. And not on my watch.

    Liked by 1 person

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