Labios inmóviles

Mis labios se han quedado quietos

     inermes criaturas

petrificados por el frío de la monotonía

conocían antes los ritmos del asombro

   pronunciaban versos sobre el misterio

      besaban con anhelo lo desconocido

pero hoy,

    sobrios y aburridos

discípulos de la piedra

   contentos de olvidar la pasión de un ineludible verso

duermen uno sobre el otro

          en fotográfica posición

son reliquias – gusanos muertos

        héroes olvidados

incapaces de retomar su profecía:

         anunciar la omnipresencia del misterio
 

 

 

La única vez

Todo lo que está sucediendo simultáneamente

      para producir este efímero instante
los ríos de tiempos hablan sobre una movediza realidad
    y absorbiendo en el epicentro del laberinto
todas las relaciones, colores y creaciones
        los mil millones de años para poseer una vida
una única ocasión
Con puntas de dedos perecederos,
pescadores y el anzuelo perdido
      porque todo la existencia empieza ahora
desmoronándose
  escamas de seres anteriores
la personalidad desconocida del ayer
     y el sello nocturno del mañana
palabras son jeroglíficos para cosas reales
    tan innombrables que sus vocales
impronunciables son
      pero viven como verdades
profundidades tan inabarcables como el sueño de la luna
la luz que apaga la oscuridad
                acompañando un adentro
colmado de espejos
         donde nada se puede reflejar
solo el reflejo de otros reflejos
   en la búsqueda transparente por la fuente
                que existe en todas las cosas
intensidad como el rojo de la sangre
                el gozo de existir

una sola vez…

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Lejos

Lejos, muy lejos
cerca de donde todo se une

Fría era la noche
se escapaban gruñidos primitivos
bestiales verbos incompletos
   aurora de nostalgia
sangrienta hambre por la oscuridad

Indefinible aroma
   Intangible esencia de cuerpo

La danza eterna
    Enrollada en cada pulmón de átomo
núcleo abarcando lejanas mutaciones

El espacio vacío es el circo
        de la infinita posibilidad

Lejos como un árbol coloso
          nunca-percibido
gozando de la intrascendencia         

     lejos, muy lejos
cerca de donde todo se une.

Poesia de Pablo Saborio – ARS POETICA

El peso liviano de la totalidad

Pesa la pluma

     un aleteo que desencadena un aire pesado

una fluctuante chispa de vida

cociendo con hilos de movimientos

      sí, movimientos como atardeceres y lunas

la profunda concavidad de mi ser

   que una pequeña ave hace crecer

y rebalsar con el residuo de la Creación

  cose, entre saltos, cose con hilos de antigüedad

la hermosa transparencia del olvido

    amando esta divina desesperanza

que me une con la distancia y la locura

        vuela, hija de la nada

sube por los cielos azules de misterio

      canta los versos incomprensibles de las nubes

eleva el nombre del silencio

        pero regresa,  para cuando descanse esta cabeza

cansada de tareas humanas

      regresa para escuchar juntos

el retorno de la totalidad…

 

Poesia de la nada y mas

The necessity of madness

madness

 

 

That the world is coming to a dramatic end, there is no doubt. The senseless habits that occupy our days and the recurrent suffering that strikes our hearts are nothing less than signs of an exhausted species, a moribund creature. We are hanging from a crystal thread that will snap as soon as we begin trembling too much; and it is bound to happen for panic and fear are the approaching certainties in our uncertain world. The feigned order we see in this world is accomplished only by the most ailing methods. The structure of our societies, politics and ideals are childish mirages that are sickening our marrow; from the hopeless effort to create a functioning world will sprout the most disastrous consequences. As long as we quietly consent to the monotony of capitalism, the guardian role of politicians and the greed of our material dreams, the monster inside will grow more impatient, more violent, more desperate and will soon rise to devastate the utopia of a frightened race.

The problem begins by avoidance. We have avoided very skillfully the mysterious circumstance of being flesh and blood machines wandering through a colossal void in uncharted space. We have avoided awareness in order to just act out a scheme that is blind and absurd. We are doubly cursed for being an animal that thinks. Animals are innocent of our sin because they have no prolonged awareness of their circumstances, they can only act and remain in their true state. Our role would have been the same if the spark of damned consciousness would not have arisen in us, making us slaves not only to action but also to unnecessary thinking. The problem as it stands nowadays is that we cannot escape our second function, and the need to think is something we cannot avoid but must bear it as a sickly appendage. As soon as we start thinking the world becomes complicated and conflictive. It is too late for us to return to the blissful ignorance of animals and plants; we must bear the seal of our punishment and fulfill it to the end.

The tension begins when we have to conjure up all the rational bits that create a human moment and its interpretation. Memory explains the present by that which we learned and saw in the past. Both in normal life and in intellectual activities the memory functions as the glue that unites pieces of the fluctuating flux, trying to create a rational and understandable structure. Memory is a kind of discourse, a narrative we must have at hand to make rational sense of the world. The frontiers of our mind and its ability to shape and transform the external world are limitless. The 21st century has inherited a vast wealth of experience and knowledge that has enabled any one member of our species to access any kind of information within seconds. What seemed like an advantage in the natural world has now become an omnipotent weapon, able to pierce history to the beginning of time and reach the slumbering interiors of molecules and atoms. That capacity is out there as we live our day to day and ignoring our potential will only feed the anarchy that is to be born. Yet this potential is unattainable and misleading because our tools are inadequate. We cannot grasp an irrational universe through the rational thought of a human being. This assertion is not meaningless; it is as accurate as saying that you cannot contain water inside a strainer. The world is water and our intellect is a punctured container. Some things are not meant to be. The paradox is clear: we act as blind uncaring weaklings but carry the rage of a powerful intellect inside. Our power overwhelms us, we succumb to its ferocity. It tells us that things are not right but we wish not listen to that prophetic voice.

We are speaking here of the dream of a coming apocalypse. Such a view should not be taken literally. Humans will live much longer but blood and despair will taint future’s sky. Look at the hysteria of our age. We have reached the utmost tension of this struggle. The mind has rebelled against the Herculean responsibility that was appointed to it: to maintain order in a disorderly world. At this very point, when centuries of illusion are challenged and we cannot no longer continue as hypocrites of a corrupt world; exactly when we give up on our young hopes and reveal the frailty of our fragile world, then we will cross the threshold of madness. That is to say, we will enter a perceptual world in which reasons and rules break down and only the spontaneity of the moment reigns. A deliberate jump into chaos— a word that will one day signify liberation, release, realization. To have renounced the artificial laws and codes, the shackles of money and possessions, the sterility of reason; a day in which freedom will be here but will reveal how atrocious and belligerent we really are. Strife and conflict will prevail in direct proportion to our greed and neurosis. Only when we have erased the inherited layers of insanity may we return to a harmonious relationship with nature. The approaching sorrows will serve as our Purgatory – a redemption that will only be possible, alas, as we journey through madness.

Return to Beyond Language

 

Famous modern art paintings at Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

After a long visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York), I’ve decided to post some pictures here of famous works of art by painters like Picasso, Dali, Magritte and others that I like. Most of the following are oil on canvas paintings. Some of these may be rare paintings perhaps overshadowed by their more known masterpieces.

picasso_the_dreamer
The dreamer, 1932
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

pablo_picasso_mandalin_fruit_bowl_plaster_arm
Mandarin, Fruit Bown and Plaster Arm, 1925
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

picasso_girl_asleep_at_a_table
Girl asleep at a table, 1936
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

pablo_picasso_nude_standing_by_the_sea
Nude standing by the sea, 1929
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

picasso_self_portrait_1906
Self-portrait, 1906
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

picasso_man_with_lollipop
Man with lollipop, 1938
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

dying_bull_pablo_picasso
Dying bull, 1934
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

picasso_head_of_a_woman
Head of a woman, 1927
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

picasso_gertrude_stein
Gertrude Stein, 1906
Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)

magritte_the_eternally_obvious
The eternally obvious, 1948
Rene Magritte (1898 – 1967)

salvador_dali_madonna
Madonna
Salvador Dali (1904 – 1989)

dali_accomodations_of_desire
The accomodations of desire, 1929
Salvador Dali (1904 – 1989)

salvador_dali_crucifixion
Crucifixion, 1954
Salvador Dali (1904 – 1989)

joan_miro_color_of_my_dreams
This Is the Color of My Dreams, 1925
Joan Miró (Spanish, 1893–1983)

death_of_socrates_jacques_louis_david
The death of Socrates
Jacques-Louis David (1748-1825)

Return to a world of art and poetry

La dimensión escondida

Estoy centrado en una oscuridad vibrante

     conozco íntimamente la semilla

el tejido de noche que compone el día

     la dimensión escondida detrás de la visión

crié el miedo desde su infancia

     era negro y encogía las galaxias

un punto sin forma parecido a la muerte

     anoche tuve que deshacerme

casi desnudo en profunda percepción

     de capas y capas, removiendo estratos

una geología espiritual

     estirando el acordeón hasta quedar mudo

adivinando el ritmo que canta la existencia

     eran hilos de sustancias vacías

cuando con pánico se niega a mirar

     sin absorber ni una sola gota

una corriente que se mueve sin nombre

            compresible solo cuando se ahoga la resistencia

 

Poesia Nihilista y mucho mas…

Cuando el centro no existe…

Si se dibuja un círculo

    una figura prehistórica

       alrededor de la nube “yo”

si se encienden los pétalos sumergidos

    en océanos congelados

       iluminando la escalera al desconcierto

si se hablan de misterios y chistes

    al tragar un pez vivo

       cae en la infinita hambre

si se deja llorar al deseo

    cuando ríe el invierno

       en la tristeza de cada noche

si se pierde el control soñando

    inventando futuros imposibles

       lentamente acariciando la soledad

si se nutren las bibliotecas con espejismos

    el cielo es gárgola

       con mirada de piedra goza los siglos

si se hace una cueva en el centro

   nacidos y por nacer reunidos

       en silencio para luego decir:

“esto ya sucedió,

   pero podemos revivirlo.”

 

 

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Con cada nueva palabra…

 

El poema se trata de una discordia

   rompe la lógica de una utopía racional

        se repite, repite, repite

el golpe para consolidar una quimera

             allá afuera, la política y la ciencia

       forzando un sentido donde no hay alguno

el desorden instantáneo del movimiento

               destruye el centro de nuestra individualidad

y los versos desgarrados como las vísceras de una guerra

     exploran desunidos la placentera anarquía

 del presente desconocido

        con sus mil formas innombrables

el fin del mundo llega siempre

       con cada cabeza mortal

             asomaba sobre el abismo de la incertidumbre

y la total imposibilidad de conocer

           solo sentir…

                       entre mareas de cambios.

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As mountain ranges

What is the soundtrack
   to this constant disorder
and while the curve of this orb
    sings the tune of its oddity
I am crushed by every second of perplexity —

The white impermanent clouds
      the bus ride
all the new babies

The bullet chases me since birth
   when the kingdom of noise prospered
I see streaks of light beyond my window

I’m not my own voice
    fear is of the length of words
peace is murmuring for me
       as intensely as undisturbed rain
                over wide mountain ranges