There are few instances of expression more lambent than looking at George Inness’s “Roman Campagna” while listening to Henryk Górecki’s plangent “Wislo Moja, Wislo Szara“, since, to me, both works transubstantiate the tortuous aspects of time into a pleasant, warm resignation; they remind me that so much of war is only heat. It’s partially unknownContinue reading “on Inness”
// turifumy is the divination by smoke; // umbromancy is the divination by shade; // metagnomy is the divination by magic. If you’re a spiritual person, I very much envy you. I’ve had a conturbed relationship with spirituality ever since I was a child, and even my poetry, at least normally, shelters itself from meddlingContinue reading “hipomenos and his inner god”
I don’t talk much about poetry (the theme) anymore, and I’ve always found it difficulty answering questions such as “what is poetry to you?” and “what is your relationship with poetry?”, (not that I get deluges of questions, I certainly do not). Some days ago, I was reading about Albert Tarantola, and I thought, whyContinue reading “poetry”
Father scuffled with the taste of saltpetre still sticking unstintingly to his tongue, and the lustre of a candle which, already nearly drowned by its own wax, sobbed intermittently, enervating his eyes. Here, an horizon. There, an horizon; tessellating the sides of a glass as the canary-green flood subsided, in altisonant tongues of water slappingContinue reading “on Van Gogh”
(made in a for-fun manner; some lovecraftian mytho-poetics are great for the snap of spring; it’s not enriched with deeper meanings, or at least, not purposefully so. It’s just some unbridled imagery!) Thank you,João-Maria.
This is wholly unintelligible and I do apologise, but I’m at a point in which trying to curate a thought ends up harming more than helping when it comes to composing. I don’t know what path to take besides continuing writing and hoping the problem sorts itself out before long. Thank you (and sorry) forContinue reading “inhabit”
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.