(Droplet) – al berto

the days without anyone
impish notes scrawled quickly
crumpled in our fingers

the honeysuckle was beautiful
rising through the night of forsaken residence

exact stones scented dusts
fireflies napping in the flexibility of clay
sands covered of insects bones and teeth
and the river hauling weary nights

luminous inflorescence acid moons crumbling
fissures of earth coastline cities birds
fragile paths in open flight
during the tremendous lucidity of dreaming

I’m left with halls of glass
where I drown the calcined remains of body
I open the door leading to my visage
descend the mossy steps of the yard
cross the masonry garden where I lived
the entire time before I hurried
“Days Without Anyone” – Al Berto

Landlocked mid poetic subject and poet, mid experience and body, mid reality and the act of writing, lies an indubitable reflective surface lightly swiveling as the halo of a flame.
Mário Lugarinho illustrated Al Bertobetween the poetic and the experimented, installed as a bridge — the mirror itself, recurrent metaphor in his oeuvre. Between poetry and experience, the subject, incontestable mediator between the real and the written and establishing between them the flagrant coincidence.” In a sensory blossoming of ontological experience, Al Berto carries the brutalism of existence as one does scars in one’s own body, exhibiting those elements of suffering with timid thrusts while words cannibalise their own element of sincerity. The body, in his poems, rises as a monolith of subjectivity laved in the hemorrhage of experience; it is cumbrous with sensuality, hatred, speech, infancy, shards of things-in-themselves in a scenery of mournful abandonment:

I sleep
within a disheveled body
fear encroaches the somber hall
I find a water scintillating in plaster
a scar of mossy crystals opens
porous to my touch, indicating
there shall be no forgetting or breeze
to clean the immemorial time of this home

of this simulated sleep, it left but bitter iodine
the waxed woods covered in dust
dried herbs in rain sheafs of rosemary,
jonquils, snapdragons, campions, clover
yet no escape has been restarted
my infancy remains sad where I abandoned it
nearly does not live
yet I still hear it breathing within me.

now all is different
I restart life from the emptiness
of dark days in silence
in-between skin and a beam of magnificent veins
I feel the bird of age dragging its wings

where it develops a calm lunar flight

I enumerate objects thoroughly, classifying them
by sizes and textures, by functions
I want to leave everything tidy when madness comes
from the sharpened extremity of my winged body
and my face is intruded by a shard of wing

so shall life collapse unto a sheet of paper
where verse by verse
I illuminate and wear myself out.


“Vigílias” – Al Berto

The stark provocation of image — which binds itself both cruel and ethereal in a procession of memory — is not merely symbol, but a counterpoint to denotation; the wound is palpable, as each verse widens its longitude with unstinting force where the absence of breath is not merely a quality of form but a proxy to restlessness. A frondsome garden is thus woven and hydrated in white obscurity: reality is held in a crystalline distance, writing cannot approximate it, regardless of eloquence, of thought, of philosophies, we lie in open sight and sketch an estimated geography, and, from time-to-time, an embodiment of placid light befalls our lips and we are disfigured by castrated toponymies; our place in the universal lie unfurls. Al Berto carries out his death in poem successively, both the wanting of his death and the pestilent, modern malaise of the death of wanting, inherited from a legacy of weighted dichotomies and promises–too long has the poet promised, too epic was the oneiric journey of poetics, too arduous the return. Thus, his poetry is a summon for a corpse, the buoyant corpse of his infantile yearn, the mossy corpse of his lyrical dreams, the winged corpse of his light, yet merely a corpse: the gallows of his life plaintively whistle within, and in reality lies a frigid inheritance of death. Our body, lush with herbs and snapdragons and rosemary positioned as a reflective vessel of both, a world of unbearable cruelty made of particles and waves of synthesized beauty.
There is, yet, an ethereal release from anguish in his mirror of corpses that, even if still anguished, serves to lighten the breath:

I write to you feeling all of this
and in an instance of lucidity I could be the river
the goats shrouding the tinkle of sleigh-bells in the silver crystals of a photograph
I could rise as the chestnut-tree of those tales whispered by a fire
and wander, trembling with the birds
or accompany the sulfuric butterfly revealed by humid lips
I could mimic that shepherd
or mistake myself for the dream of a city which little by little bites its own immobility

I inhabit this world of water by error
I’m required radio-graphic images of bones
unfocused faces
hands on bodies printed in paper and mirrors
notice
I have nothing else
if not this note stained with fine arils of pomegranate I sent today
notice
how a heart of paper is yellowed by the forgetfulness of loving you.


“Trabalhos do Olhar” – Al Berto

Passion, even in passing, is an effusing stroke, and a world perhaps collapsed is reshaped (albeit perfunctorily) only to support that florescence, as loving is the most human of all Arts,
notice
we have nothing else.

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Pre-Canto & Canto I (english poetry)

Cantos1Cantos2Cantos3Cantos4Cantos5Cantos6


So, bear with me here; I know it’s not great, but I was mashing my brain against this first Canto without any true necessity. Poems like these require a certain heaviness I cannot fully achieve (just yet), my poetry still draws much from my own levity as a person. That being said, the form is still ridiculously volatile, and I apologise for that. So far, The Shades are mostly lyrical, Cocytus is mostly expositive and Luriam is mostly confessional. I would like to keep it that way, but still need to work on their cohesion and how the styles transition. Regardless, if you have any tips, I’m all ears!

Thank you for reading!


JOHNNY

street lights and reeds. (english poetry)

street lights and reeds.


Author’s Notes:

This one is very sloppy structure-wise, but I’m living this thirties fantasy right now and I really felt like writing some stuff related to that, not sure why. But it makes me really happy!

The entire poem has references to Al Bowlly.

Thank you so much for reading,

JOHNNY

dogwood and yarn. (english poetry)

dogwood and yarn 2


Author’s Notes:

The structure of the composition was severely inspired by Jack Leonard’s song “All the Things you Are“, a beautiful song that was a hit during the 1930s in America.

I finally found a practical and pleasing way to put whole compositions into a single image, took me long enough. I’m not very technologically savvy.

This is another free-hander. I haven’t had much time to sit down and actually compose, so I mostly scribble into my notepad throughout the day and I get these results. At least, I hope they aren’t too bad. And thank you for reading, I don’t often thank people who read and do not comment, and it’s not on purpose, I’m just forgetful. Regardless, thank you so much for following the unglamorous journey of a dreamy kid writing poems.


JOHNNY

static limbo. (english poetry)

static limbo


Author’s Notes:

No actual references of any kind were made in this poem. It was mostly free-handed in paper and I did little to no editing when I transcribed it into electronic format. The quality of it is a bit “meh”, but I find it very sincere, and I value sincere poetry above any other kind. I hope you can still connect with it.


JOHNNY

 

Criticism: spider eggs and self-worth.

Following the string of compositions from when I initially started posting, you might sight some of the most primitive and uninspired works of web-poetry around, and along those lines of frozen time, you might even find a generally negative disposition I have towards my work, as well as a strong hostility directed at my own artistic development.
I believe, albeit probably wrong, that any artist of any craft holds little to no love for a product that is finished, because its the process and the journey that must be loved and nurtured, and the final result: an outburst of pain compounded with shame, a linen woven by acid needles that thrust with every line, every paintbrush and every note of a melody. It is natural to hold hatred towards our own creations, not necessarily because they are parts of ourselves we shed into a piece, but because they are willingly given away and lost, they are mirrors within mirrors and whatever they reflect has been traded at the highest cost: the peace we once found in producing them, now inhabits the piece, now… its gone…

And not only is it condensed into the work, it also constitutes an energy that dances around our own, creating a thick mist of unbound chaos, and we rush to perfect it, to alter it and reprise it. It is never done, never complete, it haunts us while it exists, because it could be so much more… and why isn’t it so much more? Why isn’t it the piece that will propel the next century of artists into unrest and endless creativity?

It is necessary to find balance, as with everything. I do not have shame towards my older work, I embrace it, because it allows me to gage how I’ve grown, what I’ve become, it gives me a tangible example of my evolution and the rewards I was able to reap from my effort. But still, I cannot read any of them, or rewrite any of them in any way.
They are foreign to me, the poetic subject has shifted, and my older self that indeed wrote those pieces, has now risen walls of solid isolation and sheltered within them. And the reason I cannot go back to them is relatively simple, as its commonly said – we are our biggest critics – and it serves well to be so, but we mustn’t become our biggest tormentors, striking hot iron into the flesh of our past tenses, attempting to gather enough information that justifies the inaptitude of what we were, and especially, of what we are now.

That is also why I’ve insisted on not trying to become an author at such tender age, not for lack of confidence in my body of work (although that also exists very strongly), but also because that would entail presenting work that would be worth paying for, worth spending time over, worth being read and invested, and my work isn’t there yet, and it won’t be there until every ounce of liquid pride I possess can be applied to such creation, and I understand that this unrealistic concept equals one of chasing geese around a prairie, but it allows me to find peace in my ever-so flawed and inept poems, they are a product of my dedication to a craft that, eventually, might be as shifting and influential to someone, like so many have been to me.

But that is eventually, and meanwhile, I relish in the sensation that any poem I publish today, will be something I cannot read a year from now, and that evolution of the self and its relation to worth, is such a beautiful inner process on its own, one that already compensates any ill-feeling over my own work. I’ve grown and will continue to grow, what else could I ask for?

POETRY LAB #2


FIRST, A QUEST

A little back, I wrote this highly experimental (and primal) composition called MIRROR, in which two subconscious voices would be displayed continuously until they would collapse together and generate this sense of unifying thoughts.
That poem spawned from my fiddling with the concept of multiple voices in poetry. All my compositions are made to be both read and spoken, therefor, all kinds of sound generation are within the bounds of my poetry.

I spent some time wondering about the possibility of poems meant to be read by separate voices, which can be applied to a variety of unique poetic concepts, as well as compounding lyricism with that expression and generate a form of artistic elation of poetry upon dialogue, both internal and external.

MIRROR is not a good example, since its very primitive and faulty in the groundworks of what this exercise proposes. For the ease of division in structural compositions, I will name the first voice “Archeon” and the second voice “Bareon”, A and B for short (I’m not a smart guy). Any number of voices can be used, but in my experiments, more than two can become volatile and overbearing.


SECOND, A THOUGHT

Proceeding to subdivide the purpose of these mechanisms, I’ve found three definitive usages that result in poetic progression:

1. Repetition (no overlay)

a. shining locked within a chest of hope, dimming and reckless,
b. buoying docked at a sea of souls, dim and then… lightless.

2. Interrogation (continuity)

a. eyes shut, where is the flame once consuming and bright?
b. not longer here, just ash, in the shade of innocent white.

3. Exposition (overlay)

a. the scent of olive tree…
b. … that olive tree, rooted in gloom…
a. … is it remembrance, is it pain, is it glee?…
b. … is it doom, is it melancholic empathy?…

(Not actual compositions, just simple demonstrations I etched up in a couple of minutes.)

You might be thinking: well, most of these could be composed with a singular voice. Yes, but their poetic momentum rests on the understanding that two separate voices are communicating an unifying symbol, so that symbol is passed through a lens of duality and then translated back into singularity.
In the case of repetition, giving a sensation of weight applied to certain parts of the conclusion. On the example, words like “locked/docked” and “reckless/lightless” double their weight, by means of stressing their permanence, and allowing their scope to encompass more than just the poetic subject, as in, a descent into a lightless reality tangible by all, inspiring the severity of ones perspective.
In the case of interrogation – the most useful of all – we can halve the stressing of the question and place it upon the answer. That bright flame once respiring consumingly? It is no more, now it has fully devoured, it is ash in its innocent form, fertile and renewing, but still a painful memory. Interrogation allows for the continuity of the poetic narrative, by means of easing the transmission of what is truly meant to be retained and what isn’t supposed to be front-line in the skeleton of the given composition.
Exposition is rather simple, and I would take mostly as a structural aid more than a duality in transmission. It is meant for internal dialogue, and it was the mechanism utilised on MIRROR. It allows for thoughts to unify in two different fronts, giving a sensation of duality when there doesn’t necessarily exist one, often times its just a case of division. Since verses seem to flow into their counterpart voices, it would be a bit too eerie to read it using two separate whole voices, but two separate tones can be utilised rather well. (more on that another day, I’m also producing another Lab with the usage of classical music tempos in poetry, i.e Alegro, Moderato, so on).


THIRD, A COMPOSITION

I’ve been putting off the publishing of this Lab for a while, attempting to etch decent poems that could ally to this minimal theory, but my time has been very scarce and I haven’t been able to compose anything wholesome enough for presentation. I will, therefor, leave you with MIRROR, so you have a general idea of what exposition looks like, and then create the other two during the week, and hopefully publish them as separate posts connecting to this one.
I’m sorry for the apparent laziness, but I promise that I will deliver!

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Not an actual good poem, but hey, its old.


JOHNNY

noise, peace (english poetry)

Y’all, I’ve been reading too much American poetry, so I’m going through this mixed phase of modernism and romanticism, I hope something good comes out of this because its certainly weird for me to write like this.

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Disclaimer: bulletless doesn’t seem to be a real word, but I don’t get why, so I’m gonna use it anyway.

Disclaimer 2: I’ve since revised the second part of the poem, so if you’re reading for a second time, you may find it different than the original. If you seek the original, you can find it here.


JOHNNY