There are always those who return to the past
…If there is what – in the past – interest.
One is born and the mark of our best day is printed. One would think.
There are those who disagree.
There are those who mark the day when they find out why they are here.
These are born again. Reborn!
In this rebirth, one hears wildness and a desire to understand. Boasting words germinate; fresh words from ancient sources. Confidential Intimacies. A closing of blindness that will open in a new birth.
Because now they come to know.
A small piece of land surrounded by water on all sides was where I saw the first light. I hail from Faial, one of the nine islands that make up the Azores archipelago.
Tho, still in crawling days, being my father a member of the Portuguese navy and being assigned to different regions, the family ended up establishing residence in Almada, a city bordering Lisbon in Portugal.
What is the greatest thing about the place you call home?
Stillness, youthful friendship, life growing. I have, not so much the place, but our people as a reference, my educators who encouraged me, the voice of the grandfather teaching, the kindness of the grandmother spoiling my life.
Where is it
if there is
The land of poets?
It’s where it dawns
Only if you feel like it
Where the day has no hours
And the sun does not move.
It’s where you drink in the lakes of uncertainty
In which sonnets drip
And find the cove
– before moonlit –
and the star there is soaked in liquid madness.
Where the wind is warm and caresses the skin.
What turns you on creatively?
The World and my lack of sleep
The soil, the product of the soil,
In my nomadic wanderings, I lived in different places, among different cultures and ancestral habits; varied ways of resolving life, in adverse nature and in pleasant places.
In each place I found different ways of life.
I walked in fields of wildflowers, I picked baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables, I knew the smell of freshly plowed earth, freshly washed plowing.
Everywhere we are surprised and the world is filled with the exhilarating scents of Mother Earth’s generosity.
What is your favorite word, and can you use it in a poetic sentence?
I don’t know if I eventually have any favorite words. Being an ‘apostle’ of philosophy, I accept the word indistinguishable, which sometimes means this, sometimes means something different.
However, I have one word that I would like to gain my vision: Tears.
We all have contained water, the result of a feeling that has been waiting and one day climbs dams to throw itself without uncertainty. Wanting to tell from the bottom, this time. Water falling from the eyes is not weakness, it is the news of a noble and pure being. It’s a message composed in the paradise of the soul, it’s the rain that cleans the dust of blindness, softening rough chests. It’s not cerebral, it’s a heart thing; it is the humidity needed to form a rainbow in the eyes. It is a basic way of nature to help us in climates of suffering, in the exalted way out of joy, in the liberation of sensitivity. The tear falls under the weight of what lives, unbridled, disorderly.
What is your pet peeve?
The requiem of the eternal. A crazy solfeggio to this deceased.
I ended up noticing a sure measure in this: the eternal is only until it perishes.
Eterno is sepulchral poetry in a never-ending landscape, it is the antagonist of ‘finishing’, it is the incomplete portrait of a convert to noology, yielding full knowledge to reasoning.
It is no longer the seduction of life. It is already a failure of light on the agnostic side, making analysis inaccessible by reason.
I cause – certainly – collision, a wild, inadvertent breach in the depopulated slavery of hope. I cause orphanhood in the reigning irresponsibility of the well-being of the comforted mind that lies to itself promising tomorrow.
What defines J. Maciel Costa?
Modesty and discretion;
empathy and a constant willingness to help.
Where I do better hide
It’s in the middle of a book.
I open it and there’s where
I better probe myself
Recognizing what I live.
The cover that shapes you
It’s the same one I use
And so excuse
to surrender and
Give the mind to reform.
I opened it, went in and stayed there;
I entered. Nobody finds me.
Outside I left the road,
The house you know,
My chair, the pencil,
The desk where -you know-
I scribbled down my idea.
There are, I know,
The rest of my pack
The old world out there
There is, I know.
Now there is, yes
that I know well
A book inside me.
Writing is a childhood pleasure. I have been a manager, economist and teacher all my professional life. But... the pleasure for writing, the bitterness of had been robbed of my sketches of literary works, led me to return to writing and editing some of the literature that, in my hours of leisure and most joy, I write.