first time

21st_century_poem

 

Remember the beginning
when even purity was a hot coal
in our hands.
The waves of genesis
and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.
We followed the river and
craved of its skin like white fur and foam
to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.
Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.
But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter
so timeless motion of reiteration
its old blossoms of fine appearance.
Now the distance is glazed with my breath.
The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words
but everything else crumbles as shadows being
faceless in the ash.
Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only
tasted once?
I’m frightened because the sky is immense
and I am naked in its clouds
like a prostitute in the
wind.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

sesenta minutos con barthelme

poema_posmoderno_2013
Hubo al principio
cierta discusión
sobre el “significado” del globo,
pero poco después
se acallaron los rumores
dado a que hemos
aprendido a no insistir
en el “significado” de las cosas,
de tal manera que rara vez
se explora el significado de cualquier cosa
al menos que sea un fenómeno
sumamente sencillo y seguro.
Parecía que se proclamaba
como un misterio, pero un misterio
que no valía la pena resolver –
un misterio frecuente
de muy baja calidad.
Pero no es nada.
No es como el nihilismo
de Gorgias, que declaraba
que nada existe y que si algo llegara a existir
probablemente no lo podríamos entender,
y que si llegaríamos a entenderlo,
ese conocimiento no lo podríamos comunicar.
La mente te arrastra en su corriente,
lejos de lo que tenías que hacer, hacia cosas
que no se pueden explicar racionalmente;
hacia la dificultad, hacia la falta de claridad,
hacia la luz del ocaso.
¿Pero qué se puede hacer con un paciente
que encuentra el mundo insatisfactorio?
El mundo es insatisfactorio, solo un payaso
lo negaría.
La experiencia paradigmática del artista
es la del fracaso. Hay algo allá ‘afuera’
que no se puede asir y poner ‘aquí’.
Eso es la norma. No hay semejante
cosa como un “artista exitoso” (al menos
que uno hable en términos mundanos).
El tema de la muerte
ocupa un lugar preponderante
en su consciencia.

Has leído citas del libro “60 Stories” de Donald Barthelme. Traducidas del inglés por el presente autor mientras tomaba un par de cervezas y contemplaba los misterios de la vida. Citas sobrepuestas aleatoriamente pero con atención al misticismo innato de las palabras, con el fin de componer un poema postmoderno. Esta nota también pertenece al poema en su totalidad. Declarado esto, el poema termina con una i tildada, justo aquí

Poesía Contemporánea

how to write a poem

contemporary_poet

The trick is to close the eyes.
To look for the thing
crawling below the carpet of darkness of the lids.
Remain still like a hunter. Do not stir
even if a sliver of light echoes through the emptiness.
You’re looking for a boom.
It starts with a swirl of symbols
curling around each other
in wild experiments of mutation.
You’re looking for a spark, an isolated
hazardous word that will scale
up the fence of perception, to consume
the whole plantation of thoughts.
Venture into this plague of accidents,
advance as a whirlwind upon the dunes of ash.
Soon the darkness begins to burn bright,
you are a sun leaping into a single atom
witnessing a birth to the naked eye.

 

Contemporary Poetry

50 años de poesía

50_años_de_poesía

He de escribir 50 años de poesía.
Para tener medio siglo de honda sombra,
medio siglo pescando en un río de propia sangre.
Año tras año sin saber cómo salir de la tierra
iré untando nubes a mi cuerpo
para hundirme en una lluvia
tan antigua como el dolor de la piedra.
Amasaré los días, día tras día
hasta que la noche se haga polvo amarillo.
Todos me preguntarán, Pablo
qué verdad has amarrado con tus cadenas de viento?
Yo les responderé:
Conozco un árbol que puso un pie
a navegar en la soledad de un cometa.
Así me dejarán tranquilo,
mirando cada estrella, mientras una por una
se va quedando ciega en el calor del tiempo.

He de escribir 50 años de poesía,
para tener medio siglo de inmensa isla,
medio siglo de danza en el vacío.

Poesía Contemporánea

we still cling to noise

absurd_short_poem

 

Some people think this thing will burn their eyes.
So brave they stare at the thinghood of the thing.
They say this stuff is a knife of pain and a cutting flame.
So brave they stare at the sharpness of its shape.

Some people think this object will blister their skin.
So brave they touch the surface of the structure.
They say this stuff is a sun of swelling suffering and a sea seething with steam.
So brave they touch the furnace of its frenzy.

Some people think this entity will poison their tongue.
So brave they taste the entirety of the whole.
They say this stuff is a gulp of gunpowder and a drop of death.
So brave they taste the viscosity of its violence.

 

 

 

AbSURd PoEtry

Streams of Consciousness (Contemporary Abstract Painting)

Starting a new series of paintings in 2013 titled “Streams of Consciousness”. Will be updating this post in the future as new paintings are finished.

Click images for higher resolution

Painting I, Acrylic on Canvas (120x90cm):

Stream_of_Consciousness_1_Contemporary_Art_Pablo_Saborio

Painting II, acrylic on canvas (160x100cm):

Stream_of_Consciousness_2.revised

Painting III, acrylic on canvas (150x100cm):

Stream_of_Consciousness_3_2013_Painting_pablo_saborio

Painting IV, acrylic on canvas (160x100cm):

Stream_of_Consciousness_4_contemporary_abstract_art_2013

Painting V, acrylic on canvas (160x100cm):
Stream_of_Consciousness_6_contemporary_abstract_art_Pablo_Saborio

Painting VI, acrylic on canvas:

Contemporary Art 2014 Paintings

Painting VII, acrylic on canvas ( 140×160 cm ):

Stream_of_Consciousness_VII_Contemporary_Painting_Art

Painting VIII, acrylic on canvas ( 60×120 cm ):

Stream_of_Consciousness_VIII_Contemporary_Painting

©2013-14 Pablo Saborío

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

thirst

windows to soul

Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:

Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….

Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.

In the same play, Cyrano wrote:

Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.

One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.

That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.

So quick, let’s raise the curtains of alma.

Contemporary Poetry

desnacer

poesia pesimista

 

esto solo ya
es amplia aurora
lo más azul es casi oscuro
tiembla la nube como
un pensamiento lleno de lágrimas
ya vengo a nacer arropado
con la desnudez de la luz
ando cayendo a mente
y acaricio la época
como cabello derramándose
en apariencia,
me limpio de signo
pero sucio de incendio
afuera adoré sin saber por qué
la luz ahogándose
en el olvido.

Poesía Contemporánea