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.

entwine

entwine_poem_pablo_saborio

 

Light
defended
its destiny
by falling
featherlike
on my
hand.

The black
coat observes
how this hand
rivulets into
the floorboard’s
fissures
like water
thirsty of rest.

The floor
wakes
as flower
opening its meat
of wood
unleashing scent
birthed to rye
the air with its
good body of bread.

The wind
feeds
the trees
with salted
ferment
as it fattens
the leaves
for incursions
into clouds.

The eye
rains its
weave
almost waves
of mist
are visible
in the sky’s hair.

The hand
returns remade
to rake
the light

and bundle
its path
into
this knot
of cosmos.

passenger

passenger_poem_pablo_Saborio

 

You have
a fountain.

Pure sound
gushing out
the smallest
silence
imaginable.

Your eyes
trickle slowly
down
the slope
of words.

One chord,
then a pause.

You sail
alongside
the stream
of sounds.

The heaving
of meaning.

This piece
of sound
has already
crossed
the bridge.

It is now
sweat
on your
brow.

It is now
salt
on your
tongue.

It is now
again
silence

leaving a taste
of earth
in your mouth.

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.