(Droplet) vesaas.

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.”

there’s a kingdom of voices

(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”

katabasis

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”

(Droplet) jupiter, the loneliest planet.

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.”

(Droplet) no peace at all.

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.”

the whole spring (english poetry)

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)”

smoky balances (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.

(Droplet) the diminishing of writing.

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.”

to taste of salt (english poetry)

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)”

mum is a leopard (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)”

emperor julian’s bandana (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)”

Happy Together (1997)

In spirit of support for Hong Kong’s recent and on-going social struggle, I decided to review one Cantonese work that had the vastest artistic influence over myself and my own creative method, and that work is, without an inkling of doubt, Wong Kar Wai’s Happy Together, made in 1997. This film proved to be theContinue reading “Happy Together (1997)”

I translated some poems from Iberian authors

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”

(Droplet) making life, or not quite that.

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.”

catkins (english|portuguese poetry)

CATKINS AMENTILHOS Again, not quite as potent as I would have it; writing compositions over days (or, at times, weeks) allows for a more refined method of writing, but some assaulting sensations end up becoming elements of works where they don’t necessarily belong, which makes the process muddy. Sieving said sensations, percolating them, becomes aContinue reading “catkins (english|portuguese poetry)”

(Droplet) the waves of creation.

«‘But Bernard goes on talking. Up they bubble — images. “Like a camel,” . . . “a vulture.” The camel is a vulture; the vulture a camel; for Bernard is a dangling wire, loose, but seductive. Yes, for when he talks, when he makes his foolish comparisons, a lightness comes over one. One floats, too,Continue reading “(Droplet) the waves of creation.”

seven poems of Japanese aesthetics (english poetry)

I’m always on the prowl for ambient sounds apt for concentration, quest which led me to some of the most endeared songs of my library. Recently, I came across Ensō, by Fort Nowhere, followed by my procurement of what Ensō meant, the discovery of that Japanese spiritual practice, along with Japanese aesthetics, which I exploredContinue reading “seven poems of Japanese aesthetics (english poetry)”

paladin, 17 (english poetry)

Writing poems has, slowly, become a ritualistic exercise of hindering the velocity of my mind-dialectic, give it a shape, try to understand what it is I’m trying to reach. I rarely ever reach it. Various elements go missing, and I end up scouring a wreckage more-so than exploring an inner architecture. That is the thing,Continue reading “paladin, 17 (english poetry)”

unfading Suzanne.

With some obliquitous regularity, any graphomaniac, any dilettante under the school of words, is bound to think about which space within that school lies vacant for occupancy; what position can we inhabit in order to be visible — not just to others — but also visible to ourselves. When I think of WordPress and howContinue reading “unfading Suzanne.”