sermon of blah

real_poetry

 

The rain poured
a glass of wine
through my lips,
solid chunks of sky
hitting relentlessly
the thin slice of dome,
my head dizzy
reciting the do-re-mi-
cascade of water
breaking into bullets
and merging then
back into puddle.

This started earlier tonight,
white stone sheets,
dense air cool by November,
darkness so natural to thought
that my eyes were shut,
whatever observes
what the eyes exclude,
silently observing
my complicity
with melancholy itself.

So the sermon of blah,
almighty course of opinion,
eternal genesis of monologue,
running never away from me,
but through me.

At this point
anything can happen,
repeat repeat,
or the moon’s light
rising as smoke
into the hair that is your,
to the night I speak,
body’s cosmos.

The rain dwindling,
at this point,
the ache can be melody –

cool whiteness of breath
entering the sore river
of the night,
this time my body of thought,
the house with the wonderful
arch to welcome pain inside.

Do I have hope?

That is,
to some degree,
the question
that draws this poem.

the cloud’s fire

prose_poetry_21st_Century

 

The head left to its own devices will rather drift initially like swirl, dangerously thin like tiny snake following incessantly its own tail, only to end as cloud mystically drifting above the material wasteland: a holy organ of rain. Then, of course, the body is freed from the harsh geometry of language, leaving behind the structure of meaning to roam freely through open lands devoid of color, category or cataclysm. The body last seen as it entered as a solitary match into the grand blaze of the sun. The driver in the cloud is not thought, much less a thinker, but some impersonal thrust that has squeezed the destiny of the world into some malleable configuration; directing, long before the stage was built, the playfulness of the earth. The cloud is not content to remain adrift but will seek to encounter its deepest contradiction; some immobile rigid substance allergic to all kinds of change. This encounter rarely palatable to the mind or the body unleashes a question of primordial significance. The question eclipses first with its shadow, but quickly with its consequences, the direction of the game. Soon the horizon quivers uniquely self-aware of its endless curve. Was there a body or head in this tremendous illumination, incantation or would you call it subordination? Determined to dance the body pulls on the knot of the head; the head simultaneously hunting the hunger that fuels the body. This erotic war continues, to this day, to be the kernel of life.

golden

21st_century_poet_pablo_Saborio.jpg

 

The message
enters the room
without a body.

Pure cave
round as
echo
undulating with
transparency.

The air is crust
hanging from the walls
see that fruit ripe
tremendously heavy
about to fall,

the light
makes a moat
just around the edges
to leave an island
of shadow
in its center.

The message
thicker than voice
makes viscous flow
of experience

as it leaves
through amaranthine
twilight-pregnant
window.

The message
golden collides
with the gold
of the streetlamp.

Some leaves are
curved still
by the curb
as night enters
as a sort of sound
muffled but total.

The ear eager
lends its arm
like a root
to the column
of the message.

The hearer
sees only sound
the world’s substance
seeping like syrup
into this music.

The listener’s body
dances first as fire
then as air
finally as
hum.

The message
and the body
meet.

The body
and the sound.

The music
and the veins.

The room
now filled with water
drowns the message.

The body
nothing but song
remains as
world.

delicate delusions

delicate_delusions_poem_pablo_Saborio_2018

 

Man
climbs
the scaffold
leaving the arc
of his head pressed
against the blue horizon.
The world pulls calmly his hairs
until clouds are wet winds of white distance.
The hand organizing, playing the music of meaning
in strong steps, structures of size, rooms the shape of moons.
The man sleeps with the night tightly wrapped around his naked arch.
The street was pixelated with the yellows, crimsons and cadmiums
of thin leaves that clung like things leaving their mother’s veins.
The mouth took in the morning and the air snoozed a minute
before it rose, a wisp of paper infinitely exiting the world.
The day held its edge lightly above the lake
where swans wrote delicate delusions
on the waters’ smoke; the clouds
glitched, errors on the screen
once the eye caught serpent
moves on the silk that was
almost as blue as the sky,
the lake, the eye
all being
one.

the signs

contemporary_existential_poetry.jpg

 

Perhaps slow age
was ignoring
the signs.

The signs
that came
very quietly
to dismember
the rhythm.

At first
they were pockets,
diaphanous moments
where magic appeared
to gently comb
the rye fields.

They became
more obvious
when light evolved
into heat
that could burn
memory
and bestow
endless ripple.

Somehow
at some stage
the stage
dissolved
leaving the plot
unhinged and atomized
like motes
without purpose
in the air.

At some point
every point
was connected
and any thing
could cause
everything.

The mind
became a boat
a vessel pushed
by the pull
that the tides
tied to the ideas
of time.

Then it sunk
but nothing died
the wave continued
busy with bubble
and burst.

Nothing but songs
instead of signs
were heard
the ear was as good
as any door
facing the journey.