SpotLight - PAR

       Welcome back to SpotLight, I’m Damian DeadLove. Got another great episode tonight, that I hope you’ll enjoy. This interview segment is meant for the DU community, as a way to get to know about the poet/poetess behind the writes.

      Our guest tonight is a poet who calls Portugal home. He’s been a member here since May of 2022. And has over 800 writes, folks.

      He’s a gifted writer with all the tools. A tremendous storyteller with a vast vocabulary. Most of all he’s a kind soul.

      Tonight’s guest is: (Paulo Acacio Ramos) but we all call him, PAR. Round of applause for PAR.

      First off, PAR. Thanks for doing the show my friend. Really means a lot to me, you’ve been so supportive of my work, and presence here. And I appreciate you.

      Through doing my homework. You listed: Ana C, Sá-Carneiro, Florbela Espanca, Bruna Lombardi, Pessoa, Chico Buarque, Shakespeare, Neruda. As some of your favorite writers.

      Question 1: You already listed some, but who are your influences. And how have they inspired your writing style?

      I have had this desire to express myself in words since very early in life. I believe that the greatest influences were those I call the first women in my life: Great-grandmother, Grandmother and Mother. They told me stories and made me feel happy, they had completely different ways of doing it, and this always sharpened my curiosity and interest in reading and understanding. They are a mix of witches and astronauts, in things that always seem to be very interesting to hear and process.

      After the "witchenauts" came school teachers and school readings, inexhaustible sources of literary pleasure. So, I am influenced by everything that comes into my hands and is written on a piece of paper, from medicine leaflets to religious pamphlets and book flaps. I have adoration for all these authors mentioned and listed, they are all a great and indelible influence on my writing. I write all the time and all the time about the things that amaze me and make me want, cry, laugh and even things I want to forget.

      I say it and I repeat, I don't write poems for you, I write them for myself, to forget you. I say and repeat: I don't write poems for you, I don't write poems for us, I write them for myself. To forget us, to forget the knots, to forget the nevers. Okay, so I can forget everything, then.

      I've been rereading several of my poetic loves, like José Saramago and Bruna Lombardi. Shakespeare and Milton are always around. Chico Buarque and Umberto Eco are gods. Many of the authors on DUP are an inspiration and a pleasure to me. It can be said that everything that is alive and moving is a source of great inspiration and influence for my poetic act.

      Great answer, PAR. That’s cool that it started off with storytelling, from the first women in your life. Because you are a great storyteller yourself, no matter what you write, I always feel like you’re telling me a story.

      That is cool to be able to pull inspiration from obscure sources like that my friend. Back in the day of cassettes and compact discs, I always read the lyrics from the linear notes. While listening to the album, I’d follow along. I used to love that, but it’s a thing of the past now.
 
      I hear you, when it comes to writing, you have to write for yourself. No one is capable of anticipating what readers want to read. Music is the same way, you can’t write songs for the fans. Gotta be true to yourself and your vision.  

      There is a lot of inspiration to found in the authors here at DUP, indeed. I feel the same way my friend.

       Question 2: Every writer has a sweet spot, where they know they can bring it. Where the subject matter just comes natural. Mine is observational writes. I’m terrible at love and erotic ink. Just am, it’s not my comfort zone. My question is what do you consider your sweet spot, and where do you second guess yourself as a writer?      
 
      (Sorry, I suddenly remembered that I can't help but mention Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino and Milan Kundera.)

      Well, well, well! My dear Damian, feeling like a stranger amidst the ebb and flow of countless events and people is an unsettling yet strangely illuminating existence. It’s as though you're forever watching a world unfold from just outside the glass, soaking in every detail but never quite stepping inside. Writing about it becomes both a refuge and a burden—pouring myself into words to translate what I see, yet always wondering if those translations ring true. The dichotomy of love and hate dances ceaselessly within this act. I love the clarity that writing brings, the sense of untangling life's chaos into coherent strands, but hate the way it exposes my own doubts and vulnerabilities. Each sentence feels like a fragile bridge between understanding and uncertainty.

      As a writer, second-guessing myself becomes a ritual, an ever-present ghost whispering, "Is this enough?" There are days when words feel electric, alive with meaning, and others when they feel hollow, like echoes of something that never quite existed. There’s a tenderness in this struggle, though, a reminder that questioning yourself means you care deeply about the truth of what you create. Perhaps being a stranger is not entirely a curse but a vantage point; a way of seeing what others might miss in their immersion. Every observation, every fleeting moment holds potential for discovery. Amidst the love, hate, doubt and solitude, I press on because writing is not just what you are or do, but who you are becoming while and after making it.

      I have always been involved with my wants and desires, my writing speaks, screams and kicks about it. Two higher education courses in Biology and Art History made me a very demanding person in terms of how I look at and analyze the things that come my way, and also a frenetic and insatiable writer. I write about everything I love, I write about everything I hate, I mix it up and let it flow into words as if I had an incurable bleeding. As if help would never arrive in time, as if on my path of passion the whip was the sound that gives rhythm to my rhythm and shape to the phrases and sentences that crush my brain like an old laurel wreath that has outlived its usefulness.

      That is pure poetry in the answer you just gave me. Like I said before, you’re an amazing storyteller my friend, with so much depth in your writes. I agree that we are our own worst critics. I truly second guess every write that I share my inner workings in.
      
      But there is a release spiritually like I’m loaning out my memories, for others to learn from. I agree that being a stranger isn’t entirely a curse, it’s a window into how human nature really works. I spent so much time alone, my dad used to jokingly call me a hermit.

      You do have the ability to write on a wide range of topics. You’re like a chameleon the way you weave between subjects with such ease. I know about analyzing things, believe me. I overanalyze everything I come in contact with.

      Question 3: I’ve quit writing a couple of times in my life. Two years was the longest I was away. Rather it be burn out or getting sober, I took my ball home and disappeared for a while. But I came back, obviously. Have you ever quit writing before? And if so, what always brings you back?  

       I feel more like an octopus more than a chameleon, they both change according to the environment but octopuses are quicker and sharper.

      This is a question with many answers, depending on our relationship with what we leave behind and what we take with us, whether by rail, on the yellow brick road or sailing to the moon. I've gone through periods of abundance and periods of drought but I've never completely stopped writing. For me, it has always been spiritually and physically essential to express myself and say things and the ends have to happen, the ends as transformation, re-energization and karmic cleansing. The ends are not forever, in fact, nothing is forever, not even diamonds. The best is always what has not yet been written, what has not yet been said in one way or another. Endings and stoppings are few and over too soon.

      Endings hold a peculiar power over the human spirit, shaping how we interpret the chapters of our lives. Whether joyous or sorrowful, tranquil or chaotic, an ending crystallizes everything that came before it, granting it weight and finality. Happy endings leave us with fulfillment, a sense of closure that assures us the struggles were worth it. Sad endings, on the other hand, echo with what might have been, stirring a yearning that lingers. Still endings lull us into contemplation, while mad endings jar us with their unresolved, unpredictable chaos.

      Man becomes trapped by endings because they confront the truth that nothing is eternal, that every journey will one day cease. They represent a threshold, a point of no return, and in that lies both terror and beauty. In endings, we see the finite nature of our existence mirrored—an end to a moment, a phase, or a lifetime. Yet, this fixation is also born from hope: the hope that the ending will justify the means, that it will bring meaning to the muddle of experiences we weave through.

      Endings make us question our choices, our purpose, and the worth of what we’ve done or failed to do. We second-guess whether the story could have taken a different path, whether something more fulfilling or truthful lay just out of reach. And while the idea of endings may confine us, they also liberate us. They force us to take stock, to savor the moments leading up to them. Perhaps it’s not the endings themselves that trap us, but the weight we assign to them as arbiters of meaning in a universe otherwise indifferent. In this tension between despair and hope, humans find the essence of their stories.

      Sure I get it, you’re saying an octopus is cooler in it’s design and ability. I can see that argument.

      That’s a really good point, my friend. I guess sometimes even I went through phases like that, abundance and drought. Sometimes I’d try to write, but couldn’t because I wasn’t in a good place. It was frustrating for sure.

      I gotta say PAR, these answers are a hard act to follow. You my friend are a wordsmith. Your command of words are incredible, and precise. Most of all you’re passionate, but with a humble warmth. That’s a hard combo, I know because I try daily to balance the two.

      I agree that humans fear endings. Probably, because it can mirror a death in many ways. You’re quite wise my friend. I can see you have mileage, because that’s what it takes to achieve wisdom. In my opinion that is.

       Question 4: PAR, I wanna thank you again for allowing me to interview you here on SpotLight. You’ve been a fabulous guest. It was an honor my friend, and it was fun getting to know you better. I appreciate you, and your continued support. People often talk about legacy, and their body of work. When the show is over and your story complete in this life. What’s the lasting impression you hope that readers will walk away with after reading your work?

      The truth is that my work has a body and my body loves to work...

      Legacy, in its essence, is not something we witness, it is something we leave behind, etched into the hearts and minds of others. Even for the faithless, legacy is not about an afterlife but about the resonance of one's words, thoughts and actions in the present and future. It is the impact, whether fleeting or enduring, that ripples beyond one's immediate existence. My words, crafted with precision and intention, become vessels that carry fragments of my perspective, my struggles, my triumphs and even my defiance against the concept of hope.

      If hope is something I reject, perhaps the lasting impression of my work is not hope but truth—a raw, unflinching lens through which readers confront their own beliefs and doubts. In embracing that, my legacy could be one of provoking thought, challenging norms and inspiring others to question what they take for granted. It is not about providing answers but encouraging inquiry, even discomfort, which leads to growth.

      The act of creating holds significance beyond your presence; it leaves a trail of meaning for others to follow, wrestle with, or reinterpret. Even if you cannot see the ripples after you are gone, the act of throwing the stone into the water remains meaningful. Your legacy might not rest on how readers feel about your work but on how it shifts their perspective, however slightly. For those who reject hope, there is still meaning in impact, in leaving behind something that stirs the world just a little. Legacy is not faith, it is presence, carried on by others long after your absence. That in itself is something profound, even if you will not be there to witness it.

As a poet that I know would say, if he wrote a Haiku about it:

Legacy whispers,
Truth etched in fleeting ripples,
Presence outlives breath.

PAR (PAULO ACACIO RAMOS)

      Obrigado, my dear poet and friend, for having me in SpotLight.

      Let's always be what we never thought we were…

      That answer was a chef’s kiss, my friend. I’m smart enough to know one thing. There is no following an answer like that. It speaks for it’s self. Appreciate you, PAR.
 
      That’s our show for tonight. Remember one thing my loyal DU audience, you never know who the SpotLight will shine on next. Appreciate you all. Peace, Love, & Lennon. I’m Damian DeadLove.