Author: Pablo Saborio

when the cities collapse

lump_of_poetry

Set the feeling down. Like a stone
you brought from the outside
from a neglected garden.
Let’s be naked, gooseflesh
and fling your thoughts (true or delusive)
as your dirty lingerie, on the couch
I bought the other day, from a
man w/ a beard and jesus christ
what a beard he had.
Let’s lie down, like a century
like centuries do
in a stomp and muddled
like all centuries do.
But we don’t care about time,
only care for licked flesh, the skin
that philosophy grew around our muscles
and wrapped us in that idealism of matter.
Then we pluck desire as echoes from our eyes
and we’ll press against each other
like two enormous skies
up against the other
like two skies crushing a cloud.
And then we’ll stare at the walls, the floor,
the ceiling, we’ll say it’s paint, wood, concrete
and something beyond that, and something beyond
that and something or other beyond the last beyond.
But you’ll be asking questions, what about the fire,
the tomorrow, the singularity of human encounters
and the wounds of the galaxy. But I say, shut up
drop the politics and judge the day
as a lump of poetry merely.
After a while when the cities collapse
and you’re back with your heavy stones
crossing chasms and delving infinitudes,
remember what I said tonight, judge the day
merely as a lump of poetry.

Contemporary Poetry

Insomnio

insomnioNo puedo dormir
hasta multiplicar
la definición del mundo

hasta tejer una ilógica
estructura de fluctuación

hasta verter el proceso
dentro de un circuito
inmensurable de descripción

el mundo se está haciendo
en un gesto automático

no puedo dormir
hasta que embarre
con inteligencia
la marcha incomprensible
de su función

no voy a dormir
hasta que despelleje
la esencia de su
corteza de imagen

el mundo está pronunciando
sus cálculos
con un acento de agua

no voy a dormir
hasta que remoje
cada palabra
en ese cauce de ensueño

Poesía Contemporánea

the act

the_act

A common blink. The human
act. It’s 3.50 am and I am
a swirl of smoke with swing
in the bar but no cigarette.
I dance alone, snapping
fingers, closing eyes
fun against the circumference.
I drop a sigh and it tumbles
down the ankles and hits
the bubbles of the dirty
dance floor. I think,
I’ve been once
a fetus. An ounce.
A particle of blood.
Now, I blink and participate
in the trigonometry
of the complex. The act.
This is a vein of music.
I dangle and dance.
Brushing against the
solitary totality.
I’m blinking without a
cigarette. Squashing
the disease of saliva,
the last residue below
my feet.
Singling out the lonesome
route of the human
noise. Arms casually
spiraling toward the touch
of fat air. The fat noise.
I blink and light
is splattered onto conscious.
I dance. 3. 59 am and I barely am.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

de las piedras

piedras_poema

cuando sin propósito
voy despacio en el espacio
cuando sin propósito
voy en marea con el vaivén del tiempo
cuando desclavando
las alas de los pies
regresé al jardín de tierra húmeda e insecto
cuando sin luz
encadené los ojos al horizonte
cuando alargo la historia del segundo
para ir despacio en su sombra
cuando siento que fui
que he sido, que estuve, que ya pasé
cuando nunca más
me recordaré
cuando nunca más
moveré el dulce peso de los huesos
cuando para siempre
me consagre sin sangre
a la secreta vida de las piedras

Poesía Contemporánea

A rose above fury toward sea

copper_sea

A rose above fury toward sea
life holy hole
I here stretch the song
of earthly length
to dwell in portrait and silk,
bushes of fire
decorate the string of minutes
like quick summits expiring
everywhere, every orient
framed in the dark charcoal
that is art of the dream,
a sky beneath violence toward star
death anchored across
thin perfumes of morning and love,
I hear strange technologies
building a mad edge,
in fog twine comets and flora
coexisting with the habits
of our blood, everywhere
every white memory
finding a violet conflagration,
to sleep united with some knot of
violin in the tremors
of the sudden heart;
that rose fuming with essence toward a copper sea.

Contemporary Poetry

memento

recuerdo

Te recuerdo
como un punzón
en la tierra de mi lengua

te recuerdo
estrellada como un eco
sobre la puerta de mis ojos

te recuerdo
acostada como un paraíso
sobre el horizonte de mi cama

te recuerdo
malgastada y nacida
como la calle vacía del humo

te recuerdo
repleta de soles
en tu panza de decadente

te recuerdo
mordiendo la luz
cuando sentías el hambre de los árboles

te recuerdo
como el primer recuerdo
que palpitó en la esfera de mi memoria

te recuerdo
cuando eras apenas sombra
que se estiró para ser universo

te recuerdo
como el primer dolor
que dejó el amor teñido de rojo

 

 

Poesía Contemporánea

the care of the self

care_of_self

When I awoke today
I looked at my exhausted limbs
and there – THERE was a wave of tremendum
shafts of wild fascination
hanging from every bit of skin
as by whim, as by holy pendulum
I’d like to judge and proclaim
the final voice is nothing but noise
I rage.
I remain.
Hidden in a territory that history does not interrupt.
A soft sinuous sense like solitude or silencing.
Oh man, how’ve danced and surrendered,
circling the city as a mote swerving around the shafts
of light in this barren room. Alive and extensions
of some unknown cause. Fluttering like a scream
in the barbarity of ignorance. I am proud, a huge
pound of ignorance. A huge pyramid of bliss.
I was a dream. A mirrored mirage.
But now, full of fascinatum
I have the holy stream of eternity
wasted as a shadow
below my feet.
I’ve spilled the moonshine over my bare breasts
in the agony of madness.

Contemporary Poetry

existence as fiction

existence_as_fiction

Our existence is an exercise in fiction.
And it’s through a perversion of this art
that fiction becomes simulation of reality,
thus problematic.

The task is to comprehend
the problem without attempting
to provide a solution for it.

The greatest actors convey
an understanding of the problem
and are applauded as heroic
because they continue thriving
in contradiction with the unsolvable
(fictitiously real) problem.

This is theater of the mind
and valiant acts have been written
with the futility of blood.

The tragic hero’s only
certainty is his ineffective success
and our only consolation is his
acceptance of suffering.

This is our pathos.
The tragic man makes the problem
his only audience.

He must feign suffering until its pain
becomes as real as the simulation of the problem.

He then says that the salvation is unattainable,
that freedom is nothing more than
the purest state of fiction.

And in the irony of his language, he’s dead right.

 

Contemporary Poetry