contemporary poems

Feb. 29

feb29

The house is now in order.

The voice in my head
suggests that I add a slice of avocado.

I follow diligently the suggestion
to leave the stones out of the foundation.

You can wreck it now,
bring back chaos: it is only a pet.

The description of what is,
without category or detail.

It is only a beetle stuck to your eye.

Whatever is achieved
should not always be remembered.

There are two types of masturbation,
related to time.

The closer you study a situation,
the more strenuous it is to establish a fact.

It has never rained so much in 150 years.

I used to think
despair was the only answer to life.

There is a great wave approaching us,
nobody can predict what kind of light it will bring.

I have never before struggled so much
to ignore harmony.

I think we will sell the piano
and start a new dream.

It is the essence of life to be occupied;
water is often involved.

The avocado falls to the floor;
tears swell up.

The kids arrive and the logos begins to tremble.

It is still raining outside,
since the beginning of the day.

I wipe off the first word
and then say: hungry?

The girls like the way
we have styled the living room.

This sentence evokes a sensation of existence.

People are picking up the news
with their bare hands.

I said I love you,
but concealed a parcel of shield as I blinked.

The heart has a necessity to explode,
regardless what surrounds,
what obscures it.

 

 

 

21st century poetry

golden

21st_century_poet_pablo_Saborio.jpg

 

The message
enters the room
without a body.

Pure cave
round as
echo
undulating with
transparency.

The air is crust
hanging from the walls
see that fruit ripe
tremendously heavy
about to fall,

the light
makes a moat
just around the edges
to leave an island
of shadow
in its center.

The message
thicker than voice
makes viscous flow
of experience

as it leaves
through amaranthine
twilight-pregnant
window.

The message
golden collides
with the gold
of the streetlamp.

Some leaves are
curved still
by the curb
as night enters
as a sort of sound
muffled but total.

The ear eager
lends its arm
like a root
to the column
of the message.

The hearer
sees only sound
the world’s substance
seeping like syrup
into this music.

The listener’s body
dances first as fire
then as air
finally as
hum.

The message
and the body
meet.

The body
and the sound.

The music
and the veins.

The room
now filled with water
drowns the message.

The body
nothing but song
remains as
world.

rockn’roll

dream_poetry

I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart

sharply
the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep

and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final
visit.



Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			here of time (a translation)
		

	


			

			
poetry of time


here

in this stone

not one two sounds

rain neither in the air

or light giving echo in its shores

here

was quiet

and very slow

in this blue-ceiling stone

there was no yesterday it was beautiful

without clothes and open nudity

dripping between the legs

of day and night of glass

without stars or questions

all transparent

without language

asleep with names

like shadows in the

shell here of time.


 


(a translation of http://nihilisticpoetry.com/2013/09/29/aqui-del-tiempo/)


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			I’m not a nihilist
		

	


			

			
Nihilist_poet


What happens at city

when blank is a building

and the corner is brutish

and the road ahead pale

like something at the end of time

see nihilism is a tentative position

an aggressive form of modesty

because below the blue sky

a head is incapable of understanding

the many things that are absurdly naked

in the world;

of all words

we select a crown

to place that holy concept

over our heads like laurel

to impress the wavering leaves of trees

see nihilism is nothing about thought

but about feeling what thought cannot attain

at the light you stop and feel the beast

the wise thunder of blood

and what happens when city

is trembling and being chased

by whiteness or a hot drunkenness

you pick a word

and make claim that it will save you

under the streetlamp

like a natural haze

at that common street

you remember like an ascetic

that this flesh will be forgotten


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				


			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			Tautology
		

	


			

			
For poets make sad mechanics with their lyric lore

– Byron


tautology_lyric_poetry_byron


A rock is heavy

hard supposedly static

with jagged edges

and deaf surfaces

like a stone or a pebble

in fact they are the same thing


language is light

flimsy supposedly manifold

with soft melting angles

and loud exteriors

like a concept or a word

in fact they are the same thing


poetry is buoyant

insubstantial supposedly spontaneous

with brilliant measures

and reiterative layers

like a sadness or a depth

in fact they are the same thing


 


 


 


21st century Poetry