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

from above

poetry_of_future

They found a bulge
between Amaliegade
and Esplanaden
and it was in the news

and the hearts
shook with dread

a long sack of skin.like flesh
growing from a thin string
into an enormous
bulk

a man stood drinking the ship
in a circle of dizziness

the lights of police
and the endless of an image

no one could understand the revolution
and beauty of the bulge

it was hauled off the street
like a rainbow
as a miracle of the flame
as heresy from our pedestrian slopes

factories puffing shades
roaring with flags and chords
of iron ringing
in the suburbs

it is pronounced that this age
will collide with the pillar
stumps of science

and melancholy is a growth
like tumor
in the heads of those
that gaze             with wonder
from above.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry