other ways

beyond_language_poetry

 

There are other ways
than language.

Let’s observe
simply
the fire before us.

The way a match
ignites to startle
a moment.

Look for the softest light
a distant wildfire
quiet because it is
involved in night.

The kind of surface
that melts the sun
into a tiny
puddle of gold.

This is more of
primeval voice
returning its wind
to the rain.

This is mouth
allowing for song
to water its
valley.

This is still
earth living
behind a window
seeing its ground
swallow
pregnant fruit.

There are other ways
than ideas.

Let’s dry the story
and blind the
behavior.

See the strong
shadow stumble
to break its
shell.

The ground
fertile
with the patience
of time.

This is more
of the ocean
leaking its body
to closely
understand
the sand.

Once we pull
language
as a thorn
out of the world.

This
and only
this
will remain.

Being illuminated in one act

21st_century_poems_pablo_saborio.jpg

 

The dark enters the scene (left)
to crush the last day
into trim of twilight.

You sit sensing the wall
watching your mind
being sponge
absorbing gainsboro
from the wall’s last
paleness.

You must be struggling

the ocean the sea a shelter
in some mountain.

There is a crackling
in the woods,
a decision to move.

The wind
not an object of pain
travels through the pines.

Needles trembling
thin creatures
not afraid
but as a web of wave
through which
you already
in awe.

The wall reemerges
(mistlike entrance)
to become a window.

Drawn
ashore by the emotion.

Drinking the ocean,
thoroughly
drop by drop
until
the mind craves its break.

You look up.

Enter moon (right)
conscious of its own silence.

The moon
casts its light
an echo bare
washing your chest.

Your deepest response
allows a pause
first to savor
and then smile.

You close your eyes.

Curtain.

first time

21st_century_poem

 

Remember the beginning
when even purity was a hot coal
in our hands.
The waves of genesis
and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.
We followed the river and
craved of its skin like white fur and foam
to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.
Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.
But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter
so timeless motion of reiteration
its old blossoms of fine appearance.
Now the distance is glazed with my breath.
The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words
but everything else crumbles as shadows being
faceless in the ash.
Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only
tasted once?
I’m frightened because the sky is immense
and I am naked in its clouds
like a prostitute in the
wind.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

adagio in thirst

hungry_animal

At the piano
I sat and it went
tiriti gruween
brung.

Got up
like a maniac,
picked up
Vallejo

his stubborn
ache voluptuously
around his human fingers

I dropped the book,
the invisible rain
outside was falling
like stones

and I could have
slammed down a
shot of whiskey

but bottle was empty

scratching the olive
skin into red patches
of hurt

and decided everything
was a circumnavigation
‘round nothing

that I had to kick
language out my house
like a dirty old dog

these things like winds are words

and I wanted hard life
tonight, like fury
dripping from my cheeks

and it was raining
ridiculous worms
writhing in eight ecstasies

it was the night

to leave in flight
like a rapacious animal
to dark and faithless
jungles

at the very least,

a night
without ideas

and again to the piano,
I sat and made clouds of sound,

dirilin dorem, silafu.

 

AntiPoetry

origin.

origins

origin.
When nothing had yet
lured electron.

Before beginnings,
when totality
was numb and coiled
like a tongue.

The buds
savoring
a patch of permanence.

Illumine the solace
when folds of eternity
had not yet

outstretched.

Omnipresence
was a droplet deep
of dense darkness.

… a slither of light scarred the night.

A new hunger
clung to the breast
of heaven
till
it began to bleed
a timeless light.

Becoming.
Outpouring curls of colors.

The clouds
the mud
and the appearance
swathed in shadows
& painful pulse.

Contemporary Poetry