An important factor with the generation of a specific poetic style is the constituent factors present externally and internally – in you, and your composition. My fanned influences spawn a great deal of authorships and literary movements, with special weight on Neorealism and Romanticism, but also Idealistic Philosophy and a bit of elder Argumentative Philosophy. To understand the branches that these influences establish on yourself is to understand the nature of your creative output, as we are not only heavily influenced by these injections, but they also constitute somatic markers independent from our sensibilities, in turn forming an artistic ethical compass that we often neglect to unravel. In the face of these elations, and attempting to create a general awareness of my major influences, I’ve analysed extensively what constitutes the major spine of my poetic compositions and divided it into three diverse channelling pillars: METHODOLOGICAL NATURALISM I’ve always been greatly infused by Nature to write a multitude of enchanting imagetics.
Whenever I begin writing poetry, I have a custom of imagining being humbly kissed by diamond creatures of unknown nature, it creates a muscle tension in my torso that allows me to distend Time a bit, and contract words as if they were movements. With prose, I tend to imagine a shadowy figure looking downwards into a calm ocean, above the water, but somehow drowning just with the sight. Writing is an interesting variable to me, and perhaps the most interesting string of that variable is the relationship author-piece. As I call it: aisthesis – note, I use aisthesis instead of perception because this Greek word is often associated with unity, or commonly, synaesthesia. Is it astute to assume an authors subject of work is inherently important to them? Of course, writing takes energy, it siphons any disperse fragments of beauty you can encapsulate in a lifetime, it allows them to be dissected and then transferred into a piece bound
Poetry – like all artistic displays – has a myriad of rules as well as their designations when those rules are not followed, essentially: structural and counter-structural, fluid and stagnant, chaotic and orderly. It is necessary for me to stress that no form of composing elevates over another, and none yields better results among the general readers. The most important element of any form of art, for me, is it’s understandability, how accessible it attempts to be. Portuguese author José Luís Peixoto placed it best in an interview, I will attempt to translate as best I can: “Eu acredito muito na escrita como alguma coisa que se dirige às pessoas, que não exclui ninguém e que procura, justamente, comunicar com todos, por isso, em relação aos seus veículos não coloco limites.” I strongly believe in writing as something directed at people, it does not exclude anyone and seeks, precisely, the communication with all, therefor, I place no boundaries to it’s
A more fitting title would be: “a few points I’ve gathered from writing poetry”, yet, I’ve written in Portuguese since I was about 11 years old, and in English for about three months. If I already had a long way to go in my native language, that is multiplied by some dozens when it comes to English. I believe poetry is a frugal thing, much in the ways of music: a powerhouse of conveying feelings directly that often falls flat on it’s face. I don’t have fingers to count my failed compositions, but I do have an excellent memory about how they failed: MEANING VS. SUBJECT One common trap of composing is to collide the meaning intended for the composition and it’s mechanical subject. The two mustn’t exist hand-in-hand, in fact, it’s preferable that they exist separately. The meaning of a composition is to be left undecided, it’s not mine to hold, and the more I force it’s presence, the more
Some people may know, and some people may not, but I’m full blown Portuguese. Pure bred, no ancestry anywhere else, my hair and eyes are raven-black and my skin is multi-colour. That being said, it is natural that my poetry is heavily influenced by the Pantheon of Portuguese Poets, a very important group of figures in general portuguese culture, and with that, comes a certain stiffness very much our own. Portuguese people are known for their subtle and muffled speech, without melody or variations, and our culture deep-rooted in sadness and an overall sense of abandonment. From that, many common feelings have bloomed in poets like Fernando Pessoa, Cesário Verde, Eugénio de Andrade, Florbela Espanca, Natália Correia, Sá-Carneiro, and many others, installing within their compositions a general sense of chaotic order. Although contradictory, it works well in our favour. Our poetics are strict, direct, respectful of the general laws of lyricism and composition and deep-rooted in the headwaters of emotion.
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