A woman. (english poetry)

a woman1

a woman2

To my Grandmother; I’d wish to make something better for her, one day. But I’ve always been enchanted with her choice to stay, despite everything, she stays in her home, and intends to die there and nowhere else. That is a beauty I cannot yet capture.

But one day, Avó, one day.

She wasn’t taught to read nor write, so I know my greatest communication isn’t adequate for her. But, growing up by her side, I knew to communicate differently; with truly firm hugs, and the trémule of one’s voice, the pulse of a touch — all truly worth saying, dispenses words, as it lives above, purely in the senses.

She will never read my poems, but she knew them before anyone did. She knew them, even those I do not yet know.

JOHNNY

 

⌉|⌈ – Ethan’s Petal Dance

And now, the moment. Such a moment is unique. It is, of course, brief and temporal, as moments are, ephemeral, as moments are, elapsed, as moments are, in the next moment, and yet it is decisive, and yet it is filled with eternity. Such a moment must have a special name, let us call it: the plenitude of Time.


— Søren Kierkegaard, in his Philosophical Crumbs (Translated by M.G. Piety in his Oxford World’s Classics edition, with its translation retouched by me, based on my Portuguese [Relógio D’Água, with translation by José Miranda Justo] copy of the same work)

Platforms such as these are not only mediums to project our works, but also, to withstand our passions; those which, static or volatile, orderly or lost, ripple across our sighting of our world as a rainstorm-at-sea. At sea, most likely, is how most of us experience reality, along with some sensible doubts and senseless certainties; but this perdition is — as it has been — a moment of eternal recuperation. One must operate, as one does, and further still, navigate reality, while holding grip of a road which isn’t there, of a route too-faded (much like your forest-dark, E.), and a race against phantom figures of truth and non-truth. The question, then, is the thread which is pulled to unravel eternity; for a question, in itself, may be eternal, and any semblance of answer — for its own rigour — cannot be so. Søren found his eternal answer in God, insofar as it sufficed in a philosophical landscape hand-made by Plato and drawn out into existentialism, but it may not be, for many of us; and many more, still, search for that knowledge. 

Platforms such as these present me the utmost pleasure of observance upon the journeys of many, as many observe my own; but hollow words have a metal taste. Many bright minds — some much superior to my own — go critically undiscovered along the swamps of what is continuously produced.

“I hold a conversation, bound in leather,

  and, though it speaks not to me,

  I pretend.” 

– Ethan, untitled poem, found here. 

Once rooted, one comes to understand that: if the ground was any wider than the inches our feet inhabit; or the lines of the horizon, any wider than our plan of sight, one would succumb to the eternity of each moment; almost slouched into a state of paralytic indolence that echoes itself as it elapses. To resist such crushing motions, is to firmly reduce — like only a human-mind can — and slowly carve out the reduction, bit by bit, to a frequency dictated by our preparedness to sculpt, and knowledge that such small crumbs may be taken without collapsing our structures. 

Alas, I’m not a philosopher, but merely a child in this world, with a pen of permanent ink and a hair that parts at will (my sincerest plight). I take advantage of my confusion, and make poems that encapsulate that very same eternity of each moment — to varying degrees of success — but always wary, might the ritual itself ever become obitual, which it surely will, and I surely won’t stop. 

“Man must now bear his own meaning, for the world will no longer accept the projection. We have blasted apart its mythic strength with our knowledge, burned the bridges between other and self, so we carry that self without the gods.”

– Ethan, in “Transcendence as a lived possibility rather than a metaphysical truth”, found here.

A person accepting enough of such demand aforementioned, and thus, presented with the abound humility such task carries in itself, is a person whose intellect can be reliable; for, even if faltered, even if insufficient, it shall never be ill-conceived. Humility and, by extent, understanding and interest of what lays unknown, are the primary instruments of our betterment, in whichever garments they might appear dressed in. 

A poet, a philosopher, a store clerk or a sailor — we navigate different seas within the same ocean; but they are all seas, nonetheless, and they are sumptuous in both beauty and terror, rumbling and resounding beneath our platforms, eroding the pylons in which we stand; and, bit by bit, we all sculpt what lays left, and survive for as long as we’re able. But, together, as those very senses of other and self are immolated, we survive longest, brightest, and with a warm heart. 

Ethan is, to my view, one of the brightest minds I’ve had the pleasure of encountering, one whose words rumble and resound nearly as loudly as those seas, but with the gentility of a placid pond. It is a sight — a truly unique sight — to encounter someone with such a refined intellect, and yet, so sincerely enthusiastic about humanity; It isn’t innocence, nor frailty, nor hope. It is, in my humblest view, the sign of a Man seeing the path, the route, and the race, as ornate windows to reformation, rather than infinite reflections. He holds much potential, among the most I’ve seen, and it would be a true loss if he was to be swept by turbulence. At times, all I’ve needed was someone to share my passions with, and you, my readers, have done me a service for which I shall live in perpetual gratitude. Would you be so kind as to check his oeuvre, as surely more is to come (fingers-crossed for poems), and perhaps it might be as solacing to you, as it is to me. 

You can find him at Rooted Contradiction, and by all means, please do. 

As my time-slots widen, not only am I spending more time preparing the Cantos, as I’m able to check many different blogs and works. And, with permission, I might make more of these posts, not only to begin repaying my debt of gratitude, but also for this passion we live in each moment, which is so dearly ours, and collects us all so tenderly together. 

Thank you much! 

JOHNNY

⌉|⌈ – 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

⌉|⌈ – Arboretum

                Days are colder. Men stroll with long coats and laden heads, guarded from the rain, women grip their catatonic hearts, gazing into their reflections on the sultry train windows. I don’t remember the last time I cried. I’d swear I’ve seen sunlight in the past few weeks, but such memory escapes me. The Summer that just evaded is now another distant shard, and somehow, I remember my nineteenth Summer with more clarity, than I do that which just passed. 

                 Kids are still as radiant as heat itself, seasons aren’t seasons to them, but simply a permeable haze that hovers through; it doesn’t weigh on them, little weighs on them, little weighed on me when I was a child. I remember when I ceased being a child, the very day, down to the very second. I was thirteen, marked by a shortness that would take its time to grow, and a coal-black hair coated with gel and pumped up, like a porcupine, which would become my nickname throughout those years (Ouriço, in popular Portuguese). It was the fifteenth of May, I know the date as I know my palm, as it was the day to visit the Arboretum with my class of petulant boys. The morning extended, as my stomach rattled with excitement, almost an effusion that I’ve ever rarely felt since. Eargerness, perhaps, in contrast with present-day anxiety, with the only distinctive factor being that of willingness to do, rather than drainage by the thought. The rains of May were barely settling, but enough for the condensation to fill the in-betweens of the bus-glasses, creating this pendular effect, water bouncing and mixing with more drops, and drops fusing, dancing, consuming other drops and tracing more paths, akin to the roots of a tree. The clouds transitioned like foreign passengers, and for small minutes, they would eat the Sun, and then spit it back up, so it could warm entire lands, entire fronts and hands and wrists. 

           We had arrived. The rattling became ever-so rattling, the heart pumped with pleasure, almost sensuous pleasure before such semantics plagued the mind, before innocence was as violent a word as banality now is. Before I knew to grip my heart and pray for it to lay serene, I would just let it beat, beat away, because there was brightness in each beat. There is still brightness in its beat, just, perhaps, a little faded and distant. 

               The Botanical Garden didn’t have a built entrance, but instead, a series of gates with discarded vases and abandoned plants. We were meant to simply go in and enjoy, as the paths of cobblestone warped like varying horizons — to a mind of a child, of course. I’ve gone back to visit the lilies each year since, and now, they are merely cobblestone paths with no true sense to their design, they merely happened to be there, as most paths, without much additional logic than to go from here to there. Still, I do recall my youthful magics trying to enchant those paths to last, or rather, begging them to last. They didn’t last. 

               I was, perhaps, one of the few children interested in the plants, and I had taken special interest in their latin names, unsure on why they poked my mind so dearly, like thorns of a Rosaceae. There were poisonous plants, and they appeared especially enticing, as if the vile of their poison was meant for you alone to endure it, and such vile was the toll of contemplating their beautiful displays of colour and form. There were trees, far too many to count, and some unveiled almost in shapes of adults, like the Baobabs and their huge bellies, or the Willows and their disheveled hairs, and Yews whose trunks were deformed enough for a small child to fit between them (and fit, I did). When Time struck for lunch, we all gathered at the core of the Garden, near the window-palace, home of the most delicate little greens. I’d cease the opportunity to escape after the count, and stealthily (a child-level of stealth, as in, everyone can see you, but they aren’t really paying much attention, so you feel like a true-born spymaster) run into the North side of the Gardens. 

                 A little ways past the small pond filled with mallards, there is a muffle of white-lilies, perhaps the most common you could find if you hiked through an oak forest. I remember it all, even the sounds — a recorder, perhaps, is what I am above all. I kneeled by the lilies and leered them through and through, and I could feel them speak to me, although not make up fully what they transmitted, and I recall my heart sinking into my chest like a cold boulder, my eyes widening, and a cry — not a whimper or a wail, not even a lament, a merest cry, a couple tears shed silently and without expression, almost as if half of them fell within, into an invisible, placid pond of emeraldrine mallards. My father had died two years prior, and I’d recall his death, and they spoke of him, but said almost nothing, with each stuttered syllable becoming a spear thrusting into the aerial arms of childhood that cocooned me, until it was completely stripped of me, or I of it, or both. 

                To this day, I do not know why that was, or how it came to be. I’ve felt lonelier since with each passing Summer, and by each, I return to that Garden and whichever lilies it holds, and I look for him. Unsure if I’m searching for my father, or for my child, or both. I believe to still not hold the words to describe what the demand is, and by being a recorder, I’m also bound to be a describer, and each year since I’ve brought the descriptions of all the beauty I can still sight beyond those lillies, my etchings and poems and notes, and I kiss the forehead of that boy still-wandering the gardens, still feeling the chill of the ponds and gazing at latin descriptions. Still smiling into those lilies. I give it all to him, as my words beget new plants for him to see, for him to feel eager about. I give it all to him, so he may know I still live a beauty worth living, and yet, incomparable to his. I don’t know why this is, or how this came to be. But I’m at peace with it. 

JOHNNY

Canto IV – Dead Narcissus (Prostagma)

Canto IV 1Canto IV 2

Psychologists, when encountered by someone highly entranced with the concept of Death, insofar as it creates deep psychological impacts, have come to call it Anguish of Death. Either by intense fear — Thanatophobia, or strong passion — Thanatophilia, Death, as it is modernly conceptualised by medium of the Ancient Greeks, can easily take a large space at the core of human social structures, and even individual human structures. As it is so encompassing, so impending and inexorable, it is easy to crumble under its weight.

My Thanatos, then, draws from that mixture of existence and impermanence. Not a reaper nor a culler, nor an agent of silent or peaceful death, he is, rather, a materialised version of Anguish itself.  Not made to be cruel nor merciful, but instead, just there, and always there, until there is no longer a there.

JOHNNY

Canto III – Moratorium (Prostagma)

Canto III 1Canto III 2

Appendix A 1

Appendix A 2

 

I’ve since changed jobs and the novelty of adaptation is taking its toll. As such, I haven’t been able to write remotely as much as I’d wish. Canto III is a simple introduction into the first arc of the story, as well as ground-work to introduce Thanatos as a regular character (which will happen in the next Canto). This one isn’t all that great, truly, but my energy levels are scathing.

The Appendix is not a required read, but rather, a big edit of one of my many pages of conceptualisation for the story. The Battle of Kytinion was a central catalyst to the story, so its accounts will be many and varied throughout the epic; thus, Thanatos account is facultative; but since I’m currently building his parsonage, I’d figure this was an interesting and fun opportunity to write as he would.

I will post other Appendix throughout the Cantos, as I’m awful at drawing, and showing you nice visuals of these events (that I do have in my mind), is outside my reach. As such, I’m bound to conceptualise through words, and appendixes are the only mediums for that.

Disclaimer: Canto III holds many references to Max Richter’s oeuvre, including “Catalogue of Afternoons” and “On The Nature of Daylight“. Appendix A contains some references to modern musician Bon Iver, with “Moon-Water” and “Caught in Daylight” being the most prominent. 

Thank you much, for reading me.

JOHNNY

⌉|⌈ – Für Alina

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 aesthetic (by medium of thematic) in Music, laid at the very core of what makes Music, well, Music: giving order to noise and shape to silence — the simplest, most sincere description of the Art. 

Pärt, however, had many trepidations with that unique conception of his craft, and his dark, strikeful soul, compounded with the frigidity and abound lifelessness of the Estonian landscapes, opened those mires of sound that would pend and dip into those chilling waters of silence. He discovered that, perhaps, the soul of a weeping mother, missing and fearing dearly for her child, might connect more with the softness of absent sound than with the cadence and encore of a sole violin.

At roughly seventeen, I first heard this composition being played at a concerto in Lisbon’s suburbs, held in a poorly-lit office room with what felt like six sombering, silent listeners. Maybe such setting allowed me to feel the profound isolation hand-crafted by Arvo, the lingering restlessness of his notes, coalesced with sumps of a silence so-dense, so terribly overwhelming, it becomes a luscious shade that dances around you, and beats at tandem to a shrivelled heart. Alina was gone. Alina left, and with her, she took only her mother’s light, her mother’s life. And how many have done so, since, like Alina has? How many left? Leaving in their wake, the sounds of marching feet, slammed doors, doleful grunts and grievous wounds, followed by a prompt of marginal silence? Silence so long, so withering, it seems to hug you with heat?

Für Alina soothes (and suits) best those who feel abandoned at the margins of a big, haunting desolation, much like Arvo did, much akin to Alina’s mother; but also, the composition itself does not lean only on a negative effect — there is, simultaneously, moments were it lends itself to the release of youth, to the prospect of a more-complete life, a stroll of innocence within the avenues of a reality where such innocence is rewarded, and not condemned nor abused. But all the while, silence is still there, thus, pain is too; no truthfully sincere vision of a positive future may exist in a bubble of suspension, there must be descent, that bubble too must pend and dip into the chilling waters of silence; there is no courage in leaving without fear for what is left behind. Arvo, then, dares not to shy away from his still-silent soul, one that still hurts much, even in the moments when it hurts less. Arvo then upheld the truth of a minimalist — that sadness and serenity cannot be fully translated by adagios and staccatos, that release and catharsis cannot be fully translated by crescendos and da capos, but that Music itself exists only because Silence does, too. This idea, this seed that Silence itself can be a carrier of Art, a medium of emotion far beyond our conventional perception of music, was thought of way before Pärt existed, but he alone mastered the weaving of silence beyond any of his predecessors, acing it with a grace and mastery equal only to the silent landscapes of his Estonian youth. 

I often ponder on this, for Pärt heavily influences my poetry, perhaps more than many poets I admire, and without ever stringing a singular verse; I connect more with his silence, than to the pristine sound of a Shakespearian sonnet; Because I am made of more silence than I am of memories of rosie lips and venetian balconies. Because life is as much a song, as it is a pause. A long, beautiful song, and a longer, sombering pause. 

I will leave you with a fellow Portuguese artist, Joana Gama, playing Für Alina with incredible technique and properness:

JOHNNY

Sola Fide, Semper Fide (english poetry)

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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

Canto II (PROSTAGMA)

Cantos II 1Cantos II 2Cantos II 3

 

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 too long, Lethimos refused to feel, lest he feel the pain which composed him; I, too, ran for too long; I, perhaps not as tragically as Lethimos, must also claim what lays still, rather than exalt what has been taken. I do not know to which level this may apply to you, my dearest reader, but know this: I will not bestow upon you any ill-thoughts or pity, but instead, dare to listen, for our pains, are those which we alone know best.

I love you all, you who reads me, and not lightly, but as sincerely as I can. I still haul much pain, but having that pain translate to beauty in your eyes, is a solace only a firm hug can equal.

Thank you, so much.

JOHNNY