The second poem contains a translation from the latin Nulla in mundo pax sincera, from Vivaldi, though it isn’t entirely verifiable if he wrote it or just used it in his motet. Either way, that’s where I got it from.Nothing else to report. Happy traditional celebrations and thank you for reading,João-Maria.
Tag Archives: art
universal end (prose)
Part of the series on defamiliarization signed by the pseudonym Nikodem Lanci.
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)”
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”
the tired, the funny (prose)
(transcript) She, for many mornings since some irrecuperable point in time, would sit in her garden, looking; lost. There was exuberance in her eyes as she gazed nothingness with abandon. All of herself was in that act of looking. She would call for Clarita to bring her pen; for days on end she did this.Continue reading “the tired, the funny (prose)”
When a poem can’t quite make it as a poem, and does not become, is not renewed in a clash too pertinent to the veins at which it tugs, well, it becomes a fragment. A fragment is not a poem. A fragment is a non-poem in place of an object in need to be leftContinue reading “fragments II”
warhorses, as they sleep (poetry)
Rhythms can be hard to get out of one’s mind.
muri veteres (english poetry)
Nothing can be understood of tragedy; there is no realisation outside of the tragic. João-Maria.
17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)
Forgetfulness has no worth by itself; it lacks an economy of space. Past our brutal archway of knotweeds and spruces, the pathways opened only to an abandoned garrison. Sucessive instants of nature hued the rubble with that superlative ghost of placeness and immortality, which is so rarely reflected in insomnia. The cabinets had illegible filesContinue reading “17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)”