Uneasy Romance with Mayhem (english poetry)

Uneasy1Uneasy2


Anyone attentive to my poetics will realise they have been quite volatile lately, becoming more robust and curated, and perhaps a bit more modernistic. Most of these, I wouldn’t truly call poems, but rather, short essays on sound. This one specifically attempts to melodiously replicate the abrupt awareness that waves with common anxiety.

I work hard to hone my ability to compose, and that also involves a lot of experimenting, along with poems that pave such progress. Right now, my topmost priority is to fabricate sound that can also be transmissible of emotion, a luxury I previously reserved to the verbal content of the composition.

This specific poem uses isolated sound shifts to pause realisation: (sinks!, sinks… sinks —) similarly to an “Oh!, Oh…” commonly used in general communication. Consonant repetition and syllabic cadence are also utilised to a more subtle degree. (also, some lousy enjambement in the second stanza, but I couldn’t fix it properly)

I’m hopeful that you don’t mind my silly experiments, and may continue this poetic quest with me. It can be a bit saturating, but necessary, nonetheless.


JOHNNY

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⌉|⌈ – Irrigation, friends.


        Leaned against the customary elm tree, some would take aim at nouvelle psychologies, others would echo life-bound lessons at the bottom of a plastic beer cup. If elation existed on summary, little else would be needed to describe the happiness blooming from friendship. I’d spent my few years of breath on fighting prejudice and carving a spot in the landscapes, as to measure the weight of my sins with that of my embraces.

              Little was expected, less was requested, and the ley-lines of kinship were bursting with movements: an arm around my shoulders, a hug so firm it freezes my flesh, turning a moment into a brass statue made to be outwardly admired. I had understood the height and worth of my words, I learned to love my speech and to gaze at the walk as a path worth replicating. I have known silence, I have known solitude; and how pallid, chalky visions they seem to have become. The lines of simplicity are aligned with themes of highest complexity, and the unrest is only natural when we serve the lordship of inner exploration; a while back, I’d coin myself as a poet of the simple and sincere, but I’m none of the sort. Life is as complex as it is simple, and the figments in between are the colours of its palette, poetry is just the chrome I use to coat the rust of days. Not much is simple about those days.

              In the Portuguese island of Madeira, levadas carry waters from the highest elevation to the southern plateaus, effectively reproducing veins. To create these channels, colonists had to burn the island for months due to its thick rainforest, essentially taking what they would then give back.
There is a certain parallel to all of this, there is a reason why levadas come to mind while I hug some of my dearest friends. A paradigm that unfolds itself on living parataxis, through disconnected clauses that present themselves as an older slide-show, burning ever-so-slightly in the heat of their projector. There is pain is non-return; there is despair in frugality; there is missing and there is saudade; a method of regret over tears that we couldn’t help but shed, a process of reclaiming days where we lived poetry just by staying in bed.

              I strike at Time and it inevitably strikes back. I bathe in the hypocrisy of blaming Time for its callous nature, rather than acknowledging my blunder as a human wired to thrive on disfunction. I see all, and during some shadowy nights, I could have declared that we all did. We all see where it hurts, what it takes, and how it must. We all live, breathe, evolve and suffocate beneath that same dust. And perhaps I carry little more than awareness that the hug was gaining momentum over those days of isolation, from the topmost of those pallid visions to the plateaus of my heart, smoothly hauling what it is to be human until that moment of touch, of irrigation, of a thrist so repressed, it pinnacles as it blooms into that sincerity and simplicity, into that hug that simply transmits: I need you, and I didn’t know I needed you, because I’m faulty and inadequate, but now I know that I need you. That is all I know, and all I need to know.

             Some of my friends are poets, and undoubtedly, they will be better than I could ever. Holding them in these fragile arms, along with the belief that briefly, I could inspire them, is all the greatness I think I will ever need.


JOHNNY

Sundials of Bakrit (english poetry)

Going through a bit of an ideological crisis, hence the erratic nature of my compositions. I promise to do better as I regain my normal self, but for now, I can think of really great themes and then execute them only partially. It’s this sort of memory blockage, I suppose.

sundials 3


JOHNNY

P.S: I wrote this while listening to Max Richter’s “The Blue Notebooks“, a beautiful collection of contemporary classical compositions inspired by Kafka‘s work. I will do these musical mentions more often, I enjoy sharing what I love, maybe you can love it as I do.

⌉|⌈ – Today, and any other day.


 

Life wavers between confusions for me. I’ve tried soft and hard to maintain distant from emotions in this platform, not out of purity or privacy, but because I’m a very difficult transmitter. There are little truths to me, but one is that of terrorising conveyance, that of emotion as a motor of erosion. I’m a guy that — for better or for worse— was built out of isolation, out of solitude. My strive to read, to write, to view and rejoice, is no less than a reach for company beyond that creeping confusion. If, for lifetimes, I could learn and apply literary knowledge, I could perhaps understand the stem of my misery. But it seems to have deepened instead.

At nineteen, I received the diagnosis of dysthymia, which is a condemning illness for any sane mind. To believe that my continuity in this world would be paved with sadness, inexplicable sadness, original sadness. It is woven into me, it composes me. What I’ve found in books, I’ve since deconstructed. I can understand the higher concepts of ancient philosophy, I can oppose them or agree to them. I can understand the glare and appeal of modern Art, I can destroy it or breathe it. The dooming realisation is just, why? Why must I write poetry and not live it? Why have I built such high towers of mind, but no ladders to exit?

My conception of these worlds— if there is such a thing — is all but the one I’ve been given. I shall live perpetually in confusion, and so shall all of us. There isn’t much haunting me in that regard. But… the separation, the ridges and crevasses erupting between my distance to ground, that cruel sensation of loneliness that is no less than overwhelming. I’m not alone in this world, but rather, I’m just lonely. I don’t know why. I can’t see why, and I cannot escape it. I’m often washed away by this sensation, inasmuch as there isn’t any bigger plague in my young life. I don’t want to be lonely, and I would trade every inch of my leeching knowledge if it meant stripping this conceptual isolation.
Living purely in the mind is a false creation. From poetry to prose, paint to oil, reel to motion, all but a distraction conjured out of that necessity to exit. I write this because I must, otherwise, I wouldn’t endure. And as the gap widens, reality keeps requesting more and more fuel, more of you, more of me and all of us. It consumes our mind and its realms, it eats our flesh and throws us into a void of penance. The gap widens—the isolation grows—and I start deflating the forecasts, forced to lose a hope that I never had, pulled from realms I never got to fully taste. I’ve since missed the mark on so much, almost as if I wasn’t designed to exist, but rather, to self-sabotage to a point where it becomes its own Art, its own craft and disposition. The more exasperated I become, the wider the gap, and Cascans descent into silence becomes my own, Johnnys poems become my path, and my essence and integral identity in this world seems to be dust, fainting into space, warping with static colours. Reality, now, seems not too keen on my consumption, but rather, on my ability to consume myself. The act of simply being, today and any other day, seems to simply… not be enough.


João Maria