Photographs taken at Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, April 11, 2013.
El hombre (léase humano)
es una figura
confundida por la luz
se puede decir que es
un látigo de humo,
fuerza y evanescencia.
El hombre es un golpe
duro sobre la tierra
dejando atrás un eco
invisible y casi triste.
El hombre recoge
un puñado de tierra
y le dice, eres
mi única razón.
El hombre
ha aprendido
solo una cosa
de la historia:
cómo esperar
El hombre (léase humano)
espera que llegue
la señal para dejar
de ser hombre.
El hombre
no ve el hueco
pero lo siente.
Lo siente.
The first day the mechanism
was hard to endure
as kissing one’s objectives goodbye.
Really, you’re lost and sick with ennui.
If years are all that’s left, better die
in a second. Ever after, total laugh,
in a blot of obscurity, forever,
without ever understanding or
being understood or caring whether
life was worth it, because once you die,
your theory of the universe, the entirety
of what was known returns to a pool
of nondescript silence. Rejoice, the only witness
to absurdity is dead. Soon, in a flash and no one
can change that. No god, no medicine, no spirituality,
no delusion. Postponement, yes. But death and its
miracle is near. Don’t grieve, rejoice, like hot flames
atop a mirror looking down at their fleeting brilliance;
rejoice as the sailor – which is everyone –in a fever
crossing the sea of life, singing with a sigh
in the language of the clouds.
Photographs taken at Kunsthal Charlottenborg, April 10th, 2013.
I dreamt last night that god had reincarnated into a stone.
How it happened is hard to explain
but it was in the US, of all places!
Then I started scratching off the light.
There was nothing left except the immoral space of neutrality
and I began to move amongst cocks
and paradise raw.
I began writing a poem, in the dream
every last stanza
rhyming with the word
thaw
I hardly ever rhyme my verse.
It was strange.
That god would have chosen
the US, of all places.
But I can’t seem to let it go.
The poem, with 4 or 5 stanzas.
Alliteration aligned cosmically.
Even with shadows circling
a verb. I woke up at noon, processing
the real. Honestly, I did not want to wake
up chained to daylight.
But now I’m at
Leigh Ledare’s exhibition
trying to recall
what kind of poem could I
have written amongst cocks
and paradise raw.
This is part of a new series of paintings under the heading:
Fields of Emptiness
Acrylic on canvas.
Size: 200cm/78.74in x 200cm/78.74in
Title: The Battle of Salamis
©2013 Pablo Saborío
Yo he venido con mar
palpo del altísimo viento
con lengua doy naturaleza
según amor sobre cosmos
Yo he clavado áreas durante
intrusas muestras de tiempo
y fines al menos tan precoces
surgiendo contra la espera
Yo he dado entre las ramas
con campos desde fugaz aire
devoto pestañas hacia el aleteo
pesado incluso de la atmósfera
Yo he caminado tras sentir
soles desplumar puntas para color
salvo cuando intento desexistir
mediante la vaga hora más creativa
Yo he desistido partir cielos
tejer hilos de canción ebria
hacia una luz hervida en
silencio, una luz preñada
por silencio.
Painting: Hammershøi, Interior, Artificial Light 1909
The realization that nothing matters, that all is in vain, is inconsequential insofar as it changes nothing. We remain living the same lives as before, if not for the exception of a newly-acquired taste for sadism that enjoys seeing everything annihilate itself.
The spider in my room continues to spin its web with precision, a meticulous mandala that is not a form of ephemeral art, but simply a skill in survival, which is in itself a form of ephemeral art.
I’ve noticed that humanity has an innate insensitivity to oblivion. It builds and labors as if there will always be human beings around to witness their own struggles and achievements. Their seriousness is a form of naïveté. No one epitomizes this naïveté better than the writer.
We can never be sure an animal acts in seriousness. It can be ferocious, alert, aggressive, intent, perseverant and devotional, but its ability to shift from intense concentration to laziness suggests that it does not really care for the outcome of its actions.
It feels me with horror and rage to hear people claim that life is profound and inexhaustible while they spend half their lives in front of a computer pretending to live life to its full potential.
If the world is unreal and the self is an illusion gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm. On the other hand, if the world is real and the self exists, gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm.
I have a minute to sing,
that is to say,
to open the mouth and exhale sound,
or, one could say, to release
a melody-scented breeze,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
one could say,
to extract from the lungs
a billow of rhythm,
or even more wildly poematic,
to secrete from the lips
a blossom of chords,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
radiating threads of harmony
from the oval aperture.
And I’ll sing of the sand,
that is to say,
of the minuscule shining cells,
or, one could say, of the worn
establishment of rocks,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
once could say,
of Blake’s innumerable worlds,
or even more wildly poematic,
of time’s corrugated vestige,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
soft volumes of exhausted earth.
But I only have a minute to sing, so I sing a simple song of sand.
I have discovered nothing
no potent spasm in truth’s tinge
no certain depth in writhing divinity
I have no enlightenment
no broad scar laid on the slope of thought
no electrifying branch igniting the empty length
I have not discovered any principle
no sinking song hardening the stone
no plaited temple wall where war reclines exhausted
I have no message
no filament of yarn towards Ariadne’s love
no hidden sarcophagus where suffering lies embalmed
I have discovered no primeval essence
no visiting visage vanishing vastly
no substitute for this sum of smoke
Beyond Language 
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