the language we taught each other.

the_language_we_taught_each_other_poem

 

Carefully we took
the language
we taught
each other.

We lifted
with those young fingers
the dense dough
of color
while we spoke
of the seasons.

We pressed that language
hard against the wall
while we ran
smearing the wind
with the transparency
of possibility.

We sat crossed-legged
answering the questions
that seemed to enter the room
like sharp rays of light
through the blinds.

We became clever surgeons
dissecting nearby words
into transcendental aspects of flesh,
kings, heroines, shamans, aliens.

We were eager to purify
the picture that played
in our minds.

We noticed the pause
between the plane
of each word & world.

We served as interface
for the dots of time
to swirl inside
our domain.

We grew right next
to language
older and heavy
with immeasurable
detail.

We saw it coming
this elegance of
ending whatever
has been spoken.

Carefully we carried language
as a glorious deceased body
into the space
our ancestors said
to be sacred.

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.

What if you already carved the entire universe

the entire universe

 

You carve your bone
you carve the row of toes
you carve the thickness of your hair
you trace the sphere of your eye
you carve the curve of the flow

You open the space for light to grow
you polish the air that swells with sound
you carve the ear that apprehends error and crime
you carve the place and the scene
you carve the men and women
that carved the ground of the past

You carve the song and the curtain
that draped your childhood
you carve the tiniest details
you stare at your carvings
you stare at shade and form

You grow like a branch
you carved that branch
you have carved the root
you have carved the earth
you have carved the light
that shines upon us all

You are the carving
you are the branch
you are the growth
you are the leaves that shiver
in the cold wide wind

You have carved the thoughts of this
you have carved the innocence of unknowing
you have carved the knowledge that you carve
you have carved this memory
you have carved this ignorance

you have carved the light
that reveals your creation
you have carved the flame
that burns the infinite

your light has carved my face
your light has made this journey

your eyes are cosmos
your eyes are tight against
my own light.

Simplicity

poem_pablo_saborio_2017

 

There is in
my shadow a rock
that seems to be a rose.
This is,
to be brief,
the reality of an appearance.
The field of mist: life.
In it, a hard substance
that imitates the softness of love.
I am spectator and hungry stage.
Everything is busy.
As I am.
Trying, I am trying to be a place
for things to dwell inside me.
I only see the there.
Otherwise to taste nothing
and find it so sweet.
I can look at you, you’re it
that piece of motion that
clings to change.
So am I, besides anything essential.
Here is in that one shadow
a tiny stone we can taste.
Yes, it is really a cloud
without hope of being
like a flower above the sea.

 

 

A longer poem: the event

the_event_poem

We experienced.
And then thought.
Later we looked forward
to something.
The anticipation ended.
The event elapsed,
it finally happened.
We were in shock.
And the angst is past
us now. The event
happened and we remain
in its wake.
We look at each other.
Thinking.
Analyzing.
The event is over.
Now, we look.
We sit. We eat.
We memorize the story
of the event.
We wait for
another event.
We expect something of
incomprehensible rapidity.
We wait for destiny.
We experience truthlessness.
We are sad.
We try being human.
Soon, with cruel
intensity, it will come.
We drink. We write.
The words imitate flames.
We wait for understanding.
Then another thought, then
a hand followed by a cloud.
The event comes nearer.
Immense, like a wave of myth.
We talk. We kiss and ignore.
And sleep. And wake up
in rooms still of darkness.
We remember. An event
but not the event.
We try. We encounter.
Some perpetuity of repetition.
We imagine chaos. Another
planet of structure.
We listen. We weave
pleasures. We choose.
We feign. An event
exceeds. It renews
laughter, anger.
We forget the rhythm.
We crush our hopes.
We get naked and less logical.
We depend on revolution.
Then an anecdote. A joke.
A look in the mirror.
We question. And doubt.
The origin, the meaning.
The event continues,
we dress. We read fifty
pages of civilization.
We shift and shadow.
The event dances.
The event disappears.
The event makes a bird
lose itself in our language.
We remember the story.
The voice in our skins.
We draw lines and contours.
We invent strange cosmic
silences. We stand.
In moisture.
We hope and fear death.
We build an afternoon.
A mess. And the actual
size of the event.
We stare. There is a gap.
In the event, an opening.
We feel. Natural events,
hard episodes of injustice.
We make room.
We undergo war. Another
circumstance. Combinations
of raw force. We occur.
We ejaculate. A memory
in stone. An ideal in oil.
In transit, absentminded.
We despise and lose.
A sock. A lover.
An immense event escapes.
An immense object out
of focus. There.
An event ripples
in the light. A small
dot of meaninglessness.
A glimpse of seawater.
We imitate. A song.
The parody of proof.
We collect things. And
solitude in the cereal.
We put out some trash.
A solitary knot of
event. We calm the eyes.
The elephantine tears.
The glands of happi-
ness, the bed disheveled.
We recall the person.
The air around a woman.
The terrible essence
of that man. We translate
feelings. That event
at the edge of dust.
We pronounce promises.
We are older.
We electrify the options.
The event in the eyes.
An ecstasy. A somewhere
else. Then, a symbol
eclipses our breath.
Soon, the event a
decadence of melody.
We enact bodies. We
swallow densities.
The morning makes
a gesture. We howl.
After petals. And
feathers. And clitorides.
A thought of painting.
Inferno or a horizon.
Of pines, the smell
of lips. An event
desired. We leave.
We act.
A purple city.
A night without years.
We sit in sand,
in mounts of sorrow.
We practiced nihilism.
A long event. A quick
existence. WE allowed it.
We carried a version
of will. A point
of home. We began
with ash. And purpose
on a mountain. We
yield and it hurls.
The event found us.
We gaze.
We see bright
older selves.
We one last time.
We make a speech.
The event leaves,
we needed.

Contemporary Poetry