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.

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.

history of the abode

there_was_a_time

There was home.

Clay closed around
terrestrial things.

There was a time.

When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.

There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.

There was house.

A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.

There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
silver stars.

There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.

There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.

There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.

There was a home.

When purpose and space
were known a hundred
years ago.

There was a home.

When water was the only
line of music under
the silence

of the cloud.

Contemporary Poetry

esto no puede ser un cosmos

poema nihilista cosmos

esto no puede
ser un cosmos

esto tan arrugado con formas
esto tan hediondo a tiempo

como puede ser cosmos
este techo lleno de huecos
de luz

como puede ser cosmos
esta bola tan cargada
de negro y nada

esto no puede
ser un cosmos

tan cobarde
que huye cada vez
que cierro los ojos

tan insignificante
que nadie lo puede
entender

como puede ser esto
un cosmos
que persiste tan solo
si se persigue

como puede ser esto
un gran cosmos,
que acaba apenas
acaba la vida
que lo ve?

Poesía Nihilista

manifold

globe poetry

the hurried streak of beauty
to walk chaotically
on open midnights
hurl hums to cosmos
like a muddled beethoven
ahhhh the freedom of finitude
to live and die instantly
within this globe of atom –
I see you
vast manifold energy
spiraling around this
meaningless soul!

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

hace dos mil memorias

Iglesia espiral

Recuerdo
un tarde
que salí a caminar
por el lago
fue ayer o hace dos mil memorias;
notaba las aguas
formular los misterios de las nubes
las aviones dejaban un trazo de tiza
en la miel del cielo naranja,
había una iglesia de colocho dorado
cuando las gaviotas dejaban
el vello del atardecer
rozar sus plumas de aceite;
la luz se marchaba como
ráfaga de tiempo,
en la invasora oscuridad
leía la gran teoría del cosmos –
anocheció
porque la luna creciente
pedía el mar negro
de la incertidumbre
al igual que este
ebrio lunático.

 

 

 

Poesía Moderna