on evolving

on becoming1on becoming 2on becoming 3on becoming 4

I had my hyper-productive cycle, and now, as is visible, my ability to conjure poems is waning a bit. I’m still committed to writing and showcasing, perhaps more than ever, because I feel that exposition helps me not only calibrate my productions, but in having a veritable self-responsibility to creating, even when I’m wringing about.

This composition was, as all of my poems of this new (empyrean) cycle seemingly are, about otherness. It does not have 57 parts, but it’s instead catalogued in a diarial document, the same one where I extracted “poetry without a place”. It is diarial because I did write it very quickly (shy of sixty minutes), and it received very little editing, mostly because I like the urgent, immanent aspect of the last part, and not only is that rawness hard to replicate, it is near-impossible to “align” if the rest of poem is overworked by editing sessions. I was inspired, in regards to the subtle narrative, by a plastic gunboat that I actually did lose in an acequia when I was little, near the farm of the man that raised me, which I lost in the same year as I lost the gunboat.

In regards to image, symbol, and the mental geometry, I was lightly inspired by Heidegger, though I won’t say how! Visually, and especially in the last part of the poem, I drew from a magnificent photography capture by Phil Gomm, named The Scrying Mirror. At the time, I was already enraptured by his project, but what the sentiment exurged within wasn’t quite apparent until I wrote the composition. (thanks, Phil!)

As always, I hope you found something worth the while, I’m never quite sure,
thank you,

Published by


A tick clinging to the bristles of a purple boar.

36 thoughts on “on evolving”

  1. João-Maria, I had tingles all through the poem. Utterly astounding. Loved your explanation at the end also. But really, this poem flowed and flowed, and the word choices were as always, literary, ethereal, and basically out of this world. Thanks for sharing it. 💛

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lia, how it warms me to have you comment. I tried to reduce the literary words a bit on this one, but some descriptions require unavoidable precision. I’m happy you enjoyed it so much, if not just because I’m such an admirer of yours.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. You’re welcome, Joao-Maria – or is it Joao or… and anyway how do I make my keyboard create the ‘moustache’ above your letter ‘a’? The idea that those images slipped into your inspiration somehow is strangely touching. Thank you again for all you supportive, thoughtful and heartening comments. It seems the void is not one after all!

    Liked by 3 people

    1. It’s a tilde, Phil, and I’m not quite sure it can be made with your keyboard. But it’s fine!, let’s just say the a decided to shave.
      You needn’t thank me; beauty justifies a thing, though we do not know whence it emanates. The interactivity of art is important to me, and I’m glad I was able to be inspired by your work. One isn’t always so lucky as to be inspired by such beautiful things.


    2. Hi Phil, on a Mac it’s hold the option key and type N, then after the tilde appears, type the letter which is to go under it (in this case, “a); on Windows it’s more complicated, enable NumLock, then hold the Alt key and type a specific number code depending on the letter to be moustached. Alt+0241 = ñ … Alt+0227 = ã …. etc. Love the comment-convo though. :)))

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Oh, how I wish I was back on a mac, as opposed to this unlovely PC laptop 😦 Thanks for the advice, Lia, though it looks to me (as I am lazy) that the moustache is coming off – which is a shame, because I absolutely LOVE a moustache. I fear my comments are not poetical enough for this literary blog!

        Liked by 3 people

    1. You’re parsimonious with your comments, Basillike, but I always smile, ear-to-ear, at the thought of you reading my poems. I do not envy the mighty authors that never got to read those that read them; it’s an experience as no other.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. You know, I hadn’t thought about that. You are right, it’s a very rewarding experience. I had always thought, though, that if I was to be proclaimed a great author after death, as is often the case with the greats, my ghost would be very angry. Not so much for not basking in the glory, but because if my writing meant anything I would like to know while I am still alive.

        I am glad I can make you smile. Take my parsimony as a sign of true appreciation 🙂

        Liked by 2 people

      2. Oh, and I do, I did not mean it with any sort of discontentment. Just a glance is already a fount of my gratitude.

        And yes, same here; I don’t want to be great, but having a comfortable number of readers that I could interact with, someday, people that e-mail me interested in what I might say, and where I might be going, how nitid is that dream? That’s all I’d ask, if I were to ask for anything at all.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Excellent poem! Impressive too for your 60 minutes writing time. I commend the vivid expression of a memory long ago. I would find it hard pressed to expand on a lost toy with so much clarity of vision/imagination.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you, Suzette.
      I’m absolutely reflected by your puzzlement, actually. Just the other day I was reading a book by Dr. John Wedgwood Clarke, called Landfill: a collection of poems about rubbish. Actual rubbish, as in, things we discard, plastics and bags and wrappers. I’m amazed at that, where does one muster the emotion?
      Then, I realise, everything is a geometry, just as the gunboat is just a symbol for the man that raised me, for losing him, them both, the rubbish is this representation of the endless human greed and corruption; our frigidity, our carelessness, our dreams, our lives. Truly, as Wedgwood Clarke shows, our rubbish can amount to anything. Everything in this world gains the substance we give it, and that’s, truly, the poetry of things, I find.
      Again, thank you for reading me, I adore you.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. (Thanks for the introduction to Phil Gomm’s work).
    You know, João-Maria, I’m never sure if I’m on the right track sometimes, but it was very evocative for me. I kept thinking of Dylan Thomas:

    And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
    In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
    Before the children green and golden
    Follow him out of grace

    I shall return, and I can see how The Scrying Mirror was a point of inspiration.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Isn’t Phil just incredible? It’s of utmost unfairness.
      I think I can’t truly be compared to Dylan, he was much subtler than I. In fact, I find any comparison with a Modernist of utter strangeness, because I’m truly not intelligent enough for modernism; nor do I surrender to that sound, since I find myself mostly at the mercy of my emotions when it comes to composing. I even cry when I write certain poems, like this one or (to taste of salt); poems that draw from my own losses are miserable to me, which weighs even heavier when I feel as if I write them so miserably. It’s all part of passion, I find. It wouldn’t be of any worth otherwise.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the Dylan Thomas comparison – I wasn’t thinking of style/talent/modernism or anything other than the sense of loss which you conveyed beautifully.
        And yes, I often cry when I’m writing and sometimes giggle. Sometimes I bawl my eyes out – I’m talking about something genuinely sad – not a darn murder!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. No, haha, Bruce, I’m not remotely insulted; it’s beyond honouring to be paired with any successful author that isn’t Pound. I just find it so odd because I can never place myself in them; I have such a warped sense of what I write. I’d sooner find myself compared with a fifth-grader writing a haiku than with any veritable artist, which is a designation I still repudiate regarding what I make.
        As Luis Quintais so brilliantly posits, I think of myself as Hannah Arendt refers to Walter Benjamin, a “lyrical thinker”, but, just as Quintais also exposes with similar brilliancy, when one writes poems, when one publishes poems, one is inevitably in the position of being read as a poet.
        I’m well aware that you can create well beyond jocose murders, Bruce, but lets not act as if you write that much about murder; might I remind you of your last post? What was that? Where’s the violence? How dare you? I’m unsubscribing.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. I once wrote a poem about Pound – I think it was a poem somewhere on my blog. I find him pretentious – but most of it I don’t understand so it doesn’t matter.
        “Lyrical thinker” is an apt description for your output..
        It’s funny how a lot of comments go on about murders but really I do only a couple a week. Who do they think they are? Jack the Ripper or some bloodthirsty demon? Sometimes I just want to slit their throats.

        Liked by 1 person

      4. I understand most of what Pound writes and I still find him to be a pretentious douchebag. I’m glad to be a lyrical thinker! Poets, we’re overflowing with them, lyrical thinkers? There are, hum, a few?

        Liked by 1 person

  5. Hi Joao, This poem spoke to me. However, I must confess I haven’t yet figured out your aesthetic. But I’ve been reading your posts and learning about a style different from what I do and try to do. This post for me spoke and sung. Your arrangement of words contained a sense and sentiment that resonated with my sensibilities and I feel that with this literary offering of yours I connected. A long way of saying I like it and formally liked it by internet mechanism. If you take them, blessings— Dave.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. David!, the English language doesn’t have the words for my appreciation.
      You’re an extremely well-read man; if my aesthetic is novel to you, then, while it might still be rough in regards to tune, it means it’s on the track of originality.
      I’m happy that I connected with you, and especially with this work. It means a lot more than I can transmit. Blessings as well, Dave!


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