Author: Pablo Saborio

La espera

Para empezar un fragmento 

me gustaría citar 

          otro fragmento 

dice:   

          Dame una gota más 

          de esa dulce incertidumbre 

          solo se nutrirme de lo ambiguo

 

Me quedé esperando, 

al despertar con penas 

logro abrir dos párpados 

(hechos de piedra meteorológica) 

dulcemente quedarían 

cerrados, creando puente al sueño 

resisto y sigo esperando 

“se me acaban los días” 

el instinto de muerte 

pero igual sigo esperando 

termino de trabajar 

ejercito algunos músculos 

regreso al orgasmo inagotable del comer 

pero aun así, sigo esperando 

para las diez de la noche 

cuando la botella de vino espumante 

se hace inevitable 

miro arriba – alguna estrella 

al frente – a una calle 

abajo- una colilla de cigarrillo 

una, dos, tres, cuatro
copas, 

algo adentro se embriaga 

pero miro con vista muerta 

y formulo: 

   ¿Qué estoy esperando?
 


Poemas Nihilistas

Finis

 

Vivir y morir

 entre

un siglo más sin moralidad

un milenio más sin religión

una tierra más sin sobrevivientes

un vacío y una nada

entre cosas y aburrimiento

conviviendo con asombros y contorsiones

la vida . . . hoy

cae como la capa de un hombre insignificante

es el escudo de un hombre derrotado

la muerte . . . ya aquí

es una marea sin fin

un revoltijo sin color

la Nada y el Todo

juntos y solitarios

nuestra casa y nuestra tumba.

true living

What I call true living

is found at the periphery of all modality

after a week of uninspiring tragedies

petty, yes

small unrecognizable anxieties

a tiny indulgence

like a return to a temporary home

that is true living, to say

“I am a great sufferer”

and drink the bottle

to curse the others

after a nagging narcissism

pretends to obliterate a reason

to go on breathing. 

 

That is true living

to hold tight to the street

wayfaring, intoxication

denial

a great wide hole

alive alas

at the bottom of any common asphyxia

true living

is the edge

  the final wound.

Nihilistic Poetry

Hope on my hair

Hope slithered down the wall to my left,

she had two long antennae and whoosh

she jumped on me or so it seemed

at first I couldn’t tell exactly where she landed

my left thigh was my first guess, but looking closely

she was not there.  Finally, I saw her

not on me, but at the base of my office chair

playing, gliding from one side to another,

I raised my sight to keep writing this, now

I look down again, Hope is gone.

I look around, she moves swiftly and likes to fly

she is green and fragile like a crystal, so I am wary

my clumsy feet could crush her to death; at length

I see something move, far off near the window… but

no, it’s just a fly preying on an old leftover.

So, I stand up with hands on my hips,

I look up, down, to the side, my back, my feet,

she is nowhere to be found.

I come back, write a few more lines and I spot her

next to my ear – she sits at the chair’s top,

she’s playful and hops on me

she is walking all over me, it tickles.

After a while she seems to settle on my mess of a hair

I can feel individual fibers twitch at each of her steps

where will she go, I imagine you asking,

into my ear, into my skull?

I’m going leave her alone, playing, wandering atop

my jungle hair.

I will probably slowly forget her, get accustomed to her

pranks and romp. One day, tomorrow perhaps,

a gushing wind will break my gloomy meditations

and I will, in shock, gently touch my hair

to find Hope,

still sitting there.

My mirror

What was it that you said?

  am I still not inaccessibly alone

imagining hordes of men and women

   conjuring movements of civilizations

as the smoky characters of a dream

     as the twisted story of a hallucination

is that your echo by the candlelight?
 

   how can a voice enter this airless chamber

in the skintight solitude of my nullity

corner

    my acute angle

 a point without length, without breadth, without breath

           breathe, did you say?

where comes that voice

     the invisible companion

             hidden behind layers of insensitivity

how can something delicate survive

       near my poisonous skin…
 

am I still not alone

    dreaming worlds and stars

are you there, 

     my mirror, my love?

Nihilistic Poetry

Photography: a view of Pergamon Museum Berlin, Germany

Impressive, monumental, Pergamonmuseum or Pergamon Museum, in Berlin has one of the finest colossal “debris” from the ancient civilizations of Greece, Assyria, Babylonia, and the Mesopotamian cultures.

Here’s a photographic visit to this famous museum.

Pergamon  or Pergamum Altar:

pergamon_side_stairs_berlin

pergamon_nereus_museum_berlin

pergamon_amphitrite

pergamon_triton

pergamon_lion_eats_hand

pergamon_snake_legs_god_goddess_gre

pergamon_model_small_Scale

pergamon_dione_greek_museum

pergamon_aphrodite_eros_altar

pergamon_athena_goddess

pergamon_zeus_background

pergamon_artemis

pergamon_asteria

pergamon_athena_parthenos

Miletus Market Gate

pergamon_miletus_market_gate

pergamon_miletus_columns

Babylonian Ishtar Gate and Hallway

pergamon_babylon_gates

pergamon_ishtar_gate_babylon

Assyrian Gate Keeper and Wall Relief

pergamon_assyrian_gate_keeper

pergamon_assyrian_palace_relief

pergamon_assyrian_palace_relief_eag

 

The Return of the Gods (mostly Greek Mythology with the exception of Habad the Weather God)

pergamon_greek_god_poseidon

pergamon_greek_goddess_athena

pergamon_god_hermes_greek_mythology

pergamon_goddess_aphrodite_Statue

pergamon_apollo_greek_god

pergamon_wounded_amazon

pergamon_colossal_weather_god_hadad

Return to Poetry and Art

Wordless chaos


How is incoherence

        a name

for actual – wordlessness

segments

lack of coherence

there cannot be five consecutive sentences with meaning

deserted

memory and chaos

         together

the world

   is burning

language is boiling

 the air

in which we speak

      is tired

of another

        prediction.

on magic

By the proximity

      of endless spirals

spiraling dimensions

firmly situated in front

of the faces and worries

as if by magic

but magic so fiercely unwanted

    it is looked upon as

            ordinary occurrences

so without objection

the red flame of wine

sinks and stays at the bottom

encapsulated by the glass

yet its fire is irrepressible

too powerful minuteness

seeded in all things that

          transform us

magic, unheeded magic

magical cores burdened – with reality

together with the ungraspable circumstance 

           of happiness

containing not identifiable things

rather emerging like a gigantic bubble

at the center of a monotonous lake

more and more is given

more and more resides

I extend my grasp to any one spiral

      to the suddenness of it all

there are magical births here

          trembling with infinite abundance.

Nihilistic Poetry

The beautiful irrelevance of language.

Limitations to discourse and knowledge.


The undeniable reality of language,

the sounds inside our heads,

the discourse within our skulls,

the rigorous mathematics of our technologies,

is a matter of great uncertainty.


The fact that we rely so deeply in the functions of language

seriously undermines our attempts

at concrete knowledge.

The discovery that knowledge is portrayed by language

or symbols

and that linguistic symbols are inappropriately

capable of representing perceived reality

is an astounding obstacle to our assessment

of an objective reality.
 

 

 

In more simple and human terms,

the realization that we obtain “acceptable” knowledge

in any form by its communication

either by mathematical symbol or linguistic form,

already makes it clear that we are submitting ourselves

to an established norm.
 

 

 

This norm is adopted,

valued

and protected

by the establishment,

namely,

Science,

 

but once this establishment is submitted to the scrutiny of doubt,  

we realize that Science or concrete, irrefutable knowledge  

depends, and in fact,  

survives on language and symbol,  

thus we can begin doubting the certainty  

and accuracy of its claims.

 

The first undeniable doubt is the perception

of the incapacity of language

or any symbol

of portraying reality.

Language is by its own nature, rigid, stiff and linear.

 

No matter how prodigious the scientist

or philosopher is,  

the fact that he or she describes reality  

by communicating a symbol,  

already contributes to our suspicion:

the use of a rigid tool (language) to describe  

a fluidly ungraspable perceivable reality.
 

 

 

The proof that language is inadequate to describe accurately reality  

is in no way possible of being proved by language itself.

It must be realized, perceived, experienced by the thinker.

Just as Science seems to be the absolute truth to the world today,

we must never forget that Science is not an entity by itself;

it is preached and believed by humans.
 

 

 

Any human, no matter how committed to objectivity,

will still be influenced by subjective impulses, personal past experiences

and biased ideologies.
 

 

 

Science has by this account two main weaknesses.

It utilizes linguistic symbol to portray an un-symbolic phenomenon;

and secondly, it is sustained by humans which are never unbiased.
 

 

Nihilistic Poetry