(translation) antónio ramos rosa I

António Ramos Rosa was born in 1924 along the southern coast of Portugal, the Algarve. I went there often as a child, even wrote some prose about it once. It is an inspiring place, but that inspiration reached Ramos Rosa with different streaks, different impressions. He is still regarded by many as a poet’s poet:Continue reading “(translation) antónio ramos rosa I”

fiama hasse pais brandão I (translation)

Portuguese literature lacks no female contributions; in fact, to every great female portuguese author, I can name an equally grand male counterpart, and this pairing game can go on for as long as there is a memory capable of absorbing that many names. None stands out, to me, as glowingly as Fiama. Born in 1938Continue reading “fiama hasse pais brandão I (translation)”

(mysterium) – (poetry)

Strung together strangely from a restricted form, (mysterium) is to be part of three independent but thematically linked compositions illumed by the mystical phrase “Mysterium, tremendum et fascinans“, though I believe no unique part is to be distinguished by its focus, rather, to be analysed conically, which was a welcomed formal challenge. Echoes of antediluvianContinue reading “(mysterium) – (poetry)”

28, of February (poetry)

I’ve been reading a lot. I try to quarrel with the stillness, though I’m prescient to its victory. My day, languid as a drop, was spent strolling through very empty treks and phantom-fields, as if one inhabited a painting, or was, by some violent concatenation or sortilege, the last living element of a preserved landscape,Continue reading “28, of February (poetry)”

three madrigals (poetry)

Inspired by a coalescence of Alice Oswald’s Severed Head Floating Downriver (and truly all of Falling Awake), John Ashbery‘s Three Madrigals, Herberto Helder‘s Servidões and Rilke‘s Death.Mostly an exercise in form, or trials of mathematising form. In fact, only the last of the madrigals has my formal signature. I have been finding it hard toContinue reading “three madrigals (poetry)”

fragments III

There is some glory left in the fragmentary: it requires entirety and demands plenitude. Unlike the poem, which exists only in the fullness of itself, the fragmentary cannot overspill nor wound in outburst. It is a slow, percolated humiliation. It is not the Art of the Perpetual, but a manner of deconstructing the frigidity ofContinue reading “fragments III”