Author: Pablo Saborio

A man walks into the store

pack_of_smokes

A man walks into the store and buys a pack of smokes.
You see him leave and get into his car. Drives home and smokes one.

You’ll never see the man ever again. That’s how it goes.

But the next day you realize;

He was a man that once had a cat.

He had a theory about the universe,

and a tear that sat like an effigy
in the cubicle of his sad brown eye.

Contemporary Poetry

another age

happy_ash

The dichotomy of any echo,
and the complementary laughter
that stings the heaps of sad
like a muted ray of moonlight.
In the lungs an aurora fills,
nails the stars and releases a joy
that I feel breathing for labyrinth
& the sun has a vein
with the footpaths of June.
If all these years the veil
or unbinding a wall brick by brick
allowing essence to flower like a spiral,
I’ve been telling a tumbling few
of the essence tucked in the
foliage of the song, but who
waits with me for morning
for a Cluster of Sails to Seville,
for two centuries of warm
illiterate frenzy;
for nothing left, and
come back another age
to tell the world that its angry jaw
cannot transfigure our pile
of happy ash.

Contemporary Poetry

al nacer con nada

al_nacer_con_nada_poema

Anteriormente
estuvimos arropados
en un circuito
de mudos nudos.

Recuérdalo, antes del color,
antes del primer sonido
que entró como daga
por el oído.

Anteriormente
éramos desconocidos espacios,
abiertos y durmiendo
tan llenos de vacíos.

Recuérdalo, antes de que la piel
rozara con la historia, antes
de que la noche se congeló
en alegoría infinita, antes.

Anteriormente
había desnudez,
un mundo entregado y agotado
en cada instante, luz pura lividez.

Recuérdalo, antes de estructura,
la marea
mareándonos con intraducible
movimiento, ausencia corpórea.

Anteriormente
abordábamos eterno
esa esfera sin fronteras,
el interno invadía el externo.

Recuérdalo, antes de la soledad,
cuando no había fondo, ni jamás,
ni objeto, ni muerte –
todo siendo lo mismo con todo lo demás.

Poesía Contemporánea

no memory of shine

touching_light

I must convince
you of the truth
that I often
see soften
the beam of light
that unites the things
of thought.

I must have
you agree with reality
which evaporates
desire on skin’s petal.

I ask you to slough
opinion – nakedness in
the water and nebulae,
all after these
layers of years and
emptiness then.

All is firm glimmer
in loud ambiguity
this instant is cold
shredding the world
in absence
to the strangeness of the gods.

All is there to see,
I’ve added nothing new to this
box of history and often speak
as a flattened mirror
carving the light in no memory of shine.

I must convince you
of boundless disappearance
and this awakening toward
death has the taste of liquor
in the mouth of a man
that knows he’s
alone.

 

Contemporary Poetry

sobre la inteligencia

mi_inteligencia

A veces la inteligencia es frágil. Como una galleta en la mesa de comer. Está atenta, crujiente pero tan susceptible que una gota de leche la hace masa de miel. Yo no sé qué hacer con ella. Este deleznable intelecto. A veces está ahí como una luz, inconsistente pero insistente. Alumbrando algún montón de cosas. No logro apagarla. A veces le digo, mira la luna. La mira. Y me dice; la eternidad es polvo y cresta. A veces la clavo contra la vocal de un silencio. Pero no da resultado. Empieza a gritar su melancolía de pesimismo del dolor de la muerte. A veces, la dejo ser pájaro idiota que trata de comer las semillas de las estrellas. A veces, bebo. Lozanas limas de licor. La inteligencia misteriosamente se para como un ángel sobre ojos. Y ahí en esa orilla de párpado nos detenemos. Ella y yo. A ver, como espectadores, el bello truco de la vida.

Poesía Contemporánea

history of the abode

there_was_a_time

There was home.

Clay closed around
terrestrial things.

There was a time.

When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.

There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.

There was house.

A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.

There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
silver stars.

There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.

There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.

There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.

There was a home.

When purpose and space
were known a hundred
years ago.

There was a home.

When water was the only
line of music under
the silence

of the cloud.

Contemporary Poetry