The beach of my choosing was Rocha, which was besprent with caverns, alcoves and grottos, some due to decades of construction atop the promontories inevitably causing fall-ins, others were formations of erosion that, so careful was the fashion of their forms, one would be tempted to believe that the sea sculpted them in its ownContinue reading “(Droplet) a basket of sun, a wicker of fear.”
There’s also my grandmother’s garden, published a while back, if you like looking at flowers. Thank you,João-Maria.
I recently joined a Portuguese e-publication where I must compose a poem weekly, and my self-proposed theme was to translate paintings that I favoured throughout my life, which, knowing myself, is a monumental task. I’m not a visual creator in the slightest, but am instead wholesomely auditive; I suffered of poor eyesight from early age,Continue reading “on Gauguin”
Shame never stays dead for long. Thank you, João-Maria.
Little exists in record regarding Telémaco Augusto Santana. From some spotted newspaper publications regarding his work, to some handful of poultry donations made to the parish he inhabited, his name seems almost like a dent in an ancient structure; part of a gestalt of ages, another function of the uniformity of time. A texture, almost,Continue reading “maundering relics #2”
Before the world spun suddenly into this crucible of fear and solitude we identify today, I had plans of collecting forgotten relics of the Portuguese written arts. Lisbon is thronged with “alfarrabistas“, stores with the unique purpose of selling rare and used books, many of them bought in bulk from personal libraries found by folksContinue reading “maundering relics #1”
The house slopes down from the holt, pieces of wenge sorted among lithe vertical panes, casting licks of sun upon the floors. The back-porch hung above the echo of a stream; it no longer ran even a hair of water. Standing purposefully near a dammed lake, during early mornings, one couldn’t detect the house fromContinue reading “(Droplet) vesaas.”
No matter how many times finish in failure, I never stop trying to write sensualistic poems. I’m not cut for sensualism, that much is clear, but oh, I truly wish I was. Thank you for reading,João-Maria.
(I’m going to start publishing some “humbler” poems I have stored and continually write; although I’m quite demanding of, if not the quality of the poetics themselves, at least the attempted quality of the posts, as well as their parsimony, I realise that I’ve become quite obsessive with it, which ebbs against me rather thanContinue reading “there’s a kingdom of voices”
These days, to write feels almost strange, almost selfish. Torrents of flurries of anxieties ignite the nerves, and one feels leeched before the first phrase forms. Solitude outcasts the voices — depersonalises — and what once was an interaction of linings, echoes of a singular voice with many textures, seems now like a procession ofContinue reading “katabasis”
We become inured to the tragedies of our miracles. I see now a Europe leeched dry of its fortitude; Lisbon is empty, and it seems that I plash about inside indifferent space. It feels colder, now, but only because it feels the same. The old gypsy moth flaps its thin veil of dust just theContinue reading “(Droplet) jupiter, the loneliest planet.”
Children picking up our bonesWill never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grapes Made sharp air sharper by their smell These had a being, breathing frost; And least will guess that with our bones We left much more, left what still is The look of things, left whatContinue reading “(Droplet) no peace at all.”
I’ve had this conception since my childhood that we all contain some degree of emotional surrealism within us, some inner set of strings that attempts to disorganise our systems back into their sensorial forms, and, to me, such a tugging between inhabiting orders far too complexified to easily seep into us and listening to ourContinue reading “the whole spring (english poetry)”
It’s a very simple poem, likely one of the simplest I’ve posted recently, but it’s a good practice to have some levity once in a while, some balance. My eyes tend to get tired of the denser colours. Thank you for reading,João-Maria.
Approach, there are voices, a finished star. We select a stick and twist the algae, what does it contain now? At once, everything, all colour and light any eye is to receive; stringy life in vertical lifelessness, and there are systems as hyaline as emotions, finished stars, beginning stars, some are turtles and some, smallContinue reading “(Droplet) the diminishing of writing.”
I spent a good deal of December avoiding the written arts entirely; there was this sentiment of emotional threshold, a sensation that the stacks of words I was creating were cindery distillations of ire or sadness. The purge I necessitated to convalesce informed my Art, but I thought it should be contrary, that my ArtContinue reading “to taste of salt (english poetry)”
If anyone has been reading me for over a year, you might have detected that the structure of this poem draws much from my older English compositions, such as Emerald Cage and Low Poetics. I wanted to design something that returned to that a bit, and simultaneously, I wanted to write as if I wasContinue reading “mum is a leopard (english poetry)”
I don’t always know how to write poetry; well, I do know how it is meant to be written, I just can’t say I know how to write it. Every time I write a poem, it feels like I’m learning to write poetry all over, and over, and over, stretching longitudinally like a row ofContinue reading “emperor julian’s bandana (english poetry)”
FALSE STATUE Only in false gold have my eyes shimmered;I’m a sphynx without mystery at sight.The sadness of things that never happeneddescend in my soul as a veiled light. In my pain, craving swords are broken,illuminated arrows blend with dark.The shades flowing from me are torn apart,as with yesterday, to me, today is forsaken. IContinue reading “I translated some poems from Iberian authors”
I tend to write too much. Recently, I’ve perscrutated some of my older documents, hundreds of pages of unfinished poems and texts, unnamed corpses with maggots glowing with auroral colours, some contained beautiful ideas done poorly, others were armed with beautiful constructions enveloping poor ideas, and I only gained a real sense of how muchContinue reading “(Droplet) making life, or not quite that.”