I saw a yellow house
a pillow
and a mother
that would not explain
the wind carried
the stars
like debris
my tongue’s tip
did not catch any
how the sadness
clings onto
the rustle of a leaf
I could describe
with lines and perspectives
the memory that
brought me here
beyond that memory
empty flashes of shadows
and hungry panthers of light
I saw
my hand
touch the world
like a
mirror
reflecting
a dance.
Our current knowledge
will be clear
to be no more
than a droplet
within an immeasurable
ocean of unknowingness –
we pretend on this earth
to know more than we
know not
we dispel mystery
because we have
a few theories
and laws of Nature
as a poet I seek
that vaster sphere
of Nature Unknown
I do not call it
divine
but because of its
opulent mystery,
I deem it
sacred.
Acrylic on canvas. Name: swallowed colors. Click for bigger view
©2012 Pablo Saborío
Con un brazo de arroz
Y una infinita pluma de rocío
Rozo las arterías vívidas de un pulmón
Llamado: paradoja
Amo con cien cabellos crudos
Todo lo que nace en un espejo mojado de misterio
Lo percibo yo y la noche que me entierra
Como la razón incompresible de mi vida
Toco la figura ebria del cosmos
Y es apenas un recuerdo la vida
Antes de una muerte como bruma
Nombro todo excepto el nombre
De todas las cosas
Ahora que el corazón
Es un ancla en el sueño más profundo
Y los peces comen los huesos
De mi esperanza
Es ahora que abro un hueco
Para que caiga la nostalgia
Como un zumo de belleza
Y se concentre todo la verdad
De que nunca existí.
Poesía nIHILISTa
i’m stuck
between
the two
unproven
premises
of logic
i’ve heard
the preacher
and his coax
of science
i drink
and therefore
fuck
the whore
of faith
my delicate
finger
is up the
annals
of art
with no
respite
i know
no
value
the
things
we
pretend
to know
in the sperm
of time
I lift
the stone
and find
red
the sky
is the outer
shell of mother’s
breast
they kissed
to imitate
a sleeping
sound
I allow
the species of rock
to define
my heart
so many
drunks
surround me
like a fence
I collect
our sighs
like crumbs
of drying wax
if shop windows
were mirrors
we would buy
ourselves
I pick up
a wet piece of paper
on the other side
said: impossible
I return
to the stone
lift and find:
archers with ash bows
my vision
turns red
and partly
unborn
I listen
to wisdom
and remember
its broken wings
I sit inside
a library
because there is
nowhere else to go.
It was not yet summer
when the light dissolved
absolutely over my tongue
I had to return to the past
as if digging
a ruthless hole in my skin
my veins my bones my sky
will the black worm
eat consume digest
reinvent me?
death is the smoke
we breathe in
to unfold like a cluster
of manifestation
passively
the dream
reposes inside the
shell of reality
in one drop
of philosophy
the solitude
is assuaged
but the aperture
the encounter
the expanse
available only
through the pristine
ache of mystery
and its pilgrimage
found in an alighting
morsel of
beauty.
Sostengo el mundo plano
entre dos dedos
como una pluma de luz
nunca he querido ser dios
mi ambición no sobrepasa
la de una mosca gris
envuelta en fruta podrida
ahora con un ancho sol
en mi espalda
tengo que hacer eclipses
cuando paso en frente
de dos ojos tristes
tengo que recoger
la fugacidad
con las tenazas inútiles
del recuerdo
nunca quise ser dios
ni una columna
retorciéndose hacia el infinito
sueño con ser
la ceniza
sin volición
rodando
por un valle de espacio
vencida alegre entremezclada
con la inefabilidad del viento.
PoesíA nIHILISTa
There are
moments
when the earth
shakes likes ripples of myth
and the epic
begins
when a fallen
brown leaf
slowly returns
to its green nascent
breath
we leave in every nook
a morning of sighs
and the little signs
of a bygone nostalgia
because all attempts
fall into the crevice
of yesterday
and the dripping minute
serves as an eternity
for the drunks
with whom I share
my nights in delirium
within the occult temple
of a bar.
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