¡Mar!
Oculto.
En el centro
de horas.
¡Mar!
De dulce
cristal –
roble de antaño
en la cúspide
de la obra negra.
Como vida ciega
con amor al acto,
con sombra al nombre.
¡Nado ahí!
Mar secreto,
en el centro
del olvido,
inconsciente
como la luna
detrás del
minuto.
I offer you
the wicked cosmology
of my tongue
the desiccated sun
floating in the surface
of my thoughts
I have here for you
the language
of the flame
for you
the oval blaze
of nothingness
flowing
like light and mirror
inside the disfigured artery
of this dream
for you
the wet age
of my despair
in your hand
the gusts of my knowledge
storming
the crumbling walls
that divide
body and infinitude.
Es de certeza
mi inercia
de formar un tronco
firmemente arraigado
en el firmamento
de la mutación,
es de verdad
mi exilio
de cruzar las fronteras
de la materia
para encontrar la flor china
del alma,
es de amistad
mi filosofía
de entrelazar
algo del mundo
y la imaginación
en la triste obra
de un
poema.
Digesting
the poison rule of desire
I have to choose my eyes
and shut them hard
to taste the illusion,
aloft in the descent of darkness
the static of essence
emerges, black liquid coal
in these orbs born
to drown in light.
The decrepit couple
man and woman
the last steps of life,
Chisinau their home
and root.
Rooted in the artic
clear hour of pain,
red indelible struggle;
to choose to close the eyes
and dissolve,
to choose shadow
me or them,
in our walk towards
the great structure
of death.
Motion of orange limb
cloudlike epicenter
in the mindful gap
of my vision –
motion
bulging multitudes
of dismay
faraway kaleidoscope
in the origin of the mind,
of dense, opulent
location – married to
chance and improbability,
the bread of destiny
in the ruthless jaw of divine
novelistic forces –
a day here
and a bulge of eternal
there,
two
spiraling towards each other
like the allegories
of the eternal return
and the empty
nirvana.
El desierto de hoy
caminar sin descansar
en un menester de árida
arena. Desolado,
sin la poesía de la pausa,
en trabajo de lazo y
hierro. Descanso
con los pies de las horas
sobre el almohadón del
olvido. Una ducha
de sueño cae sobre
mí, como una concatenación
de gotas ebrias de
frío y paisaje.
Esa recóndita
amapola,
viva en mi silencio
contemplando
en secreto
la rutina
y la
percepción.
was looking
for a first edition of Cioran
Bucharest centrum
when the clouds started to resemble
huge Russian cathedrals –
the formulas of the shades
when the leaves impress their echo
on the sidewalk
multiplied the shadows of my doubts
was the equation of invisibility
the sole proof of my awareness?
could enlightenment
reemerge
as the metronome of two insect antennae
at the feet of a unambitious cop
sipping his coffee?
I was at the edge
blurred by the stream of accelerating
cosmic mirage
awaiting a cacophony of perception
to belittle the borders of I-ness and other-ness,
corridors of unwavering brilliance
like the eyes of the drunk woman
that woke up moments ago
after dreaming on the sidewalk
that she was a cat
licking with her coarse tongue
the creamy nipples of the
colorless night.
Acrylic on canvas. Name: The Drunkards.
After a summer of alcohol overindulgence, I present to you the culprits.
Click for bigger view
©2011 Pablo Saborío
Sombra cristal de estrella
sobre rostro ebrio de verano-
el gato de cola negra
escondido trayecto de frenesí
cruzando la fúnebre calle de olivo soñado –
hemos inventado la ruta introspectiva del vino.
Mi mano hace la seña oculta del sol nublado,
hemos remado a costas oraculares y etéreas.
Risa habitual de suma transcendencia,
en su barba el zumo recóndito de la edad
me mira con inocencia de espuma mediterránea –
el azul, rojo, amarillo, blanco de la estrella
sobre nuestras cabezas ebrias de verano,
árbol de lenguas largas
abriendo las sendas rayadas
de la improbable memoria –
es muestra única de fantasía,
lo roto y mutable
de una honda
vista a la vida.
Has the raucous broth of
mad existence
in the twinkle ruin
of your perception?
Has the incense of repetition
shoal the antipodes of speech
in the colliding spiral
of absurdity?
Has the impervious rant
emerging like a Zen of clouds
immolate round and sound
as reason of the ephemeral?
Has the curve of light
lost in mind
like the rolling dimension
of unknowingness?
Answer me!
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