Author: Pablo Saborio

Fields of Emptiness: The Battle of Salamis (480 BCE)

This is part of a new series of paintings under the heading:

Fields of Emptiness

Acrylic on canvas.
Size: 200cm/78.74in x 200cm/78.74in
Title: The Battle of Salamis

Click image for higher resolution

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

leer los sonidos

Yo he venido con mar
palpo del altísimo viento
con lengua doy naturaleza
según amor sobre cosmos

Yo he clavado áreas durante
intrusas muestras de tiempo
y fines al menos tan precoces
surgiendo contra la espera

Yo he dado entre las ramas
con campos desde fugaz aire
devoto pestañas hacia el aleteo
pesado incluso de la atmósfera

Yo he caminado tras sentir
soles desplumar puntas para color
salvo cuando intento desexistir
mediante la vaga hora más creativa

Yo he desistido partir cielos
tejer hilos de canción ebria
hacia una luz hervida en
silencio, una luz preñada

por silencio.

Poesía Contemporánea

aphorisms and instructions

Painting: Hammershøi, Interior, Artificial Light 1909

The realization that nothing matters, that all is in vain, is inconsequential insofar as it changes nothing. We remain living the same lives as before, if not for the exception of a newly-acquired taste for sadism that enjoys seeing everything annihilate itself.

The spider in my room continues to spin its web with precision, a meticulous mandala that is not a form of ephemeral art, but simply a skill in survival, which is in itself a form of ephemeral art.

I’ve noticed that humanity has an innate insensitivity to oblivion. It builds and labors as if there will always be human beings around to witness their own struggles and achievements. Their seriousness is a form of naïveté. No one epitomizes this naïveté better than the writer.

We can never be sure an animal acts in seriousness. It can be ferocious, alert, aggressive, intent, perseverant and devotional, but its ability to shift from intense concentration to laziness suggests that it does not really care for the outcome of its actions.

It feels me with horror and rage to hear people claim that life is profound and inexhaustible while they spend half their lives in front of a computer pretending to live life to its full potential.

If the world is unreal and the self is an illusion gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm. On the other hand, if the world is real and the self exists, gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

metapoetics: a simple song of sand

I have a minute to sing,
that is to say,
to open the mouth and exhale sound,
or, one could say, to release
a melody-scented breeze,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
one could say,
to extract from the lungs
a billow of rhythm,
or even more wildly poematic,
to secrete from the lips
a blossom of chords,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
radiating threads of harmony
from the oval aperture.

And I’ll sing of the sand,
that is to say,
of the minuscule shining cells,
or, one could say, of the worn
establishment of rocks,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
once could say,
of Blake’s innumerable worlds,
or even more wildly poematic,
of time’s corrugated vestige,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
soft volumes of exhausted earth.

But I only have a minute to sing, so I sing a simple song of sand.

Contemporary Poetry

I have discovered nothing

no potent spasm in truth’s tinge
no certain depth in writhing divinity

I have no enlightenment

no broad scar laid on the slope of thought
no electrifying branch igniting the empty length

I have not discovered any principle

no sinking song hardening the stone
no plaited temple wall where war reclines exhausted

I have no message

no filament of yarn towards Ariadne’s love
no hidden sarcophagus where suffering lies embalmed

I have discovered no primeval essence

no visiting visage vanishing vastly
no substitute for this sum of smoke

Contemporary Poetry

compresión

¿Dónde palpo el fútil
impulso existido
hacia dónde atraviesa
ese aleatorio eco
en campo recordado
dónde amontono cada
parte de sombra
que se arrugó sobre
piel hacia dónde
desaté la luz como bala
que salió del túnel o instinto
dónde estrujo elenguaje
como una cueva inagotable
de ahogos dónde hay ascetas
encadenados a un silencio
quejándose solamente
con un por qué?

Poesía Contemporánea

art and nothingness

What no one will remember

in 10,000 years or so

(Part iV)

To work and create ‘for nothing’, to sculpture in clay, to know that one’s creation has no future, to see one’s work destroyed in a day while being aware that, fundamentally, this has no more importance than building for centuries – this is the difficult wisdom that absurd thought sanctions. The Myth of Sisyphus (Albert Camus)

: Death

: Suffering

: Ennui

: Despair

: Taedium vitae

: Emptiness

: Blindness

: Obduracy

: Devotion

: Outsider

: Lingering

: Pessimism

Photographs taken in Statens Museum for Kunst. Copenhagen, Denmark.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

The Character – A short monologic play

Characters:
Pablo
Wife
The Character
The character’s colleague

A café in Copenhagen. 1pm on a Thursday. Pablo sits 
on a vintage sofa next to his wife. Across them sit 
a pair of colleagues that discuss, in a profound tone, 
the “science of marketing”.

[The Character gets up, apologizes to his colleague for taking up two hours of her time. Begins to put on his coat and scarf on.]

Pablo: [addressing his wife] What a character, that guy.

The Character: What did you just say?

Pablo: [impassive] That you’re quite a character.

The Character: What the hell is the problem with you?

Pablo: What? Me? What are you talking about? What do you know about my world, my conception of the world, my inner drama, my subjective constructs? Do you have any idea what I mean by the word ‘character’ and could you have suspected that I see the world as a stage where we are all characters that pretend to be this or that, and some of us are better at it, and some are portraying so bizarrely absurd roles, that they deserve being pointed out and addressed as “one-of-a-kind characters”? I am conscious that saying out loud, “what a character” may connote a derogatory sense to the word. I am aware that we pretend to be immersed in a kind of social nebula, where things appear the same to all members of the community. But I’m sorry to say, that is not the case, we don’t all share the same monotonous perceptual paradigm and I’ll keep calling you and everybody else characters, yes characters in…

[The Character and colleague exit café]

Pablo: … in the absurd drama of the earth.