Author: Pablo Saborio

futile breath

yellow_fields_of_Death-1-1

They say
I should kill
myself.

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

cuatro paredes

Enséñame el secreto
para alivianar el peso
de las cadenas azules
de la percepción

enséñame el truco
para olvidar
las cuatro paredes
del tiempo

enséñame la alquimia
que desfigura el recuerdo
dejando infinito fondo
en cruda transformación

enséñame el mantra
con que ahogas
la voz que repite:
vas a morir – para que seguir

enséñame la sabiduría
de no reconocer nada

enséñame esa ceguera
con la que cruzas
la cuerda que cuelga
sobre la absurda nada

enséñame un arte
para pintar este sueño
como algo más que
un efímero delirio

Poesía Existencial

the world has ended

illusion of water

I hold
the final ache
that fragment of ash
shrouded in perception

the wind passes
through the world
wrinkling it
as a docile flag

when did I cease
to believe that
I exist

now all this movement
wanders ownerless
without a pivot

these loneliest eyes
still gathering
the last details
of the vanishing earth

it is so sad
to lie
and pretend this
will last

the canal’s waters
are fleeing from
the light of the sun

I hold
a flake of pain
tight within
my clenched fingers

it is not my hand
but a boat
carrying illusion
till the horizon
as its wake

Nihilistic Poetry

granite sleep

Wholeness Sleep

 

unable to wake

I remained

behind the ruin of a memory

 

a Chinese serpent

swerving in the currents

of my dormant eyelids

 

nothingness was a province

where an obsidian pyramid

stood against a starless night

 

there in bed

roving like a raving raven

within the

delicate depths of darkness

 

surrounded by

a deep moat –

the dark waters

of space

swallowing any ray of light

that may cross over

to my dispossessed eyes

 

lone

existing alone

light as perishable infancy;

heavy as a bridge above years

 

a statue

untying itself

from its surface

of imitation

 

so I squandered the imported

bullion of dreams

and with quivering fascination

became empty and
bankrupt

of image

 

unable to wake

I surrendered

like

a history

written on the soft

tissue of the spirit –

never to be

read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

 

the poet

the_poet_pablo_Saborio

The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.

 

 

 

Absurd Poetry

the idea of death

The night is dark
the soul is charred
its landscape tarred
trees bone black
black serpents paved till horizon –
the sad spectacle of thoughts
receding unhurriedly
as stars into nothing
white lions into oblivion;
I observe scattered teeth
engulfed in black blood –
that is the night sky.
Everything turns mysterious,
my hand the lonely shade
the ultimate despair;
everything
merging irrevocably
with the dead of night.

Nihilistic Poetry

estas manos que hace dos noches

estas manos
que hace dos noches
cruzaron la frontera de tus pechos
atajando el corazón
antes de que cayera por las calles
como un balón sin aire

estas manos
que hace dos noches
exprimieron la tristeza
de tus ojos
y un diluvio de preguntas
nos ahogaron con sus
incontestables paradojas

estas manos
que hace dos noches
abrieron un hueco
en nuestra memoria
para esconder ahí
lo que ahora no
podemos recordar

estas manos
que hace dos noches
no alcanzaron la luna
y ahora resignadas
se dedican a escribir
de noche
para iluminar
la soledad del hombre

Poesía Nihilista

g’night

I will sleep tonight
cargoless
adding only to my lightness
the thickening trickle of a trance

to behold the failing world
cradled by darkness

such is my noiseless faith

to whom belongs today
when it is already recollection

the eyes drown in intimate vastness
the ears dip into soft limbo

the earth and its history
recede and disappear
as does the voice
that defined them.

 

 

 

21st Century Poetry