existential poems

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.

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.

near everything

new_poet_modern

Maybe the air is vertebra
only you walk home
bending the muscle
of time,
a drunk man leaves

on the pub’s counter
the fire of thought
nothing changes

we can amass anguish
into a dragon
and see it writhe in
its halo

find a way knower
comb a molecule at a time
to be handsome

for destiny
that now dissolves in your honey-
dripping cupped hands

perhaps we hang immense
with city at our roots
what matters to be
draped in cloud

when age has a swollen
idea buried like a spine on
the morning soft

earth
step on pure grass
who leaves this animal
to sow in structure

the dream the
struggle
the science

of being such
near everything.

Contemporary Poetry

In this globe of mud I only found fables and seas*

metapoetry_2013

*The above expression
remains unclear to this
date. It is unknown
whether the author
intended it to be strictly
a metaphor or to be
taken literally in its
full consequences.
It has spurred a string
of speculation and debate
dividing opinions
into warring camps.
Some claim that it
was written in a state
of utter stupor and therefore
must be regarded as an aberration
of the unconscious. Others
argue that that the author
has pierced through the veil
of language and has given
us direct access to
the core of meaning.
Leading figures in the field
of semiotics have given
popularity to the notion
that the expression transcends
the use of its symbols
and signifies nothing
in itself.
Research into his biography
has only added enigmas
to the puzzle of the author’s
mysterious expression.
Until further discoveries
are made between the logical,
historical, metaphysical
and aesthetic relations
and order of the words
employed,
little guidance
can be given to the reader
as to the ultimate significance
of the author’s seemingly
unintelligible statement.

21st century Poetry

They

were sitting on the ledge of a building
talking about the pursuit of happiness,
how every human action is motivated
by self-love and trying to reconcile
morality with a mechanistic view
of a universe, everywhere ruled
and determined by inflexible laws
the talk went on for some time
they would interject a few modern expressions
to avoid falling into a complete anachronistic conversation
reminiscent of the 18th century philosophes
then the one on the right said,
– What if we jump?
– there’d be a fall
– yeah, and then what?
– who knows
– do you think there’s consciousness after death?
– as much as you can find in the drunk man’s sleep
– should we jump? what stops us from finding out?
– fear, our loved ones, the desire to seek new experiences and store them in the insatiable coffins of memory. But mostly fear.
– if you could have anything in the world before you die, what would it be?
– another lifetime to figure that out
– do you often think of death?
– on rare special occasions, like funerals and that kind of thing
– do you find any consolation in the thought of death?
– yeah in the thought that death dissolves all suffering with the same intensity as life withheld happiness from the individual
– I’m going to jump
– I’ll take the stairs

He did not jump but was he really considering it? They decided to go home. As they walked together over the bridge they both noticed the sea was restless that day.

 

21st_century_poetry_blog

21st century Poetry

the philosophy of wood 

philosophy_poem

The table
	no time for its
	existentialism
and absurd
chair leaning against
the table’s futile stance.

	I’m a pragmatic man
so I have no use for knowing
myself.

The table
	studies its own nature
by looking at its askew shade.
Chair, somberly
contemplating suicide
because it wants to remove
its painfully ingrown nails.
	Paradoxically they keep it alive,
	in form, in function. 

I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. 

My furniture’s
introspection
is a trifling problem
in my busy condition. 

The table has begun questioning things. 
	It likes it when I leave Camus
	on its surface. 
I hear the creaky whisper, quoting:
	‘the human wooden heart has a tiresome tendency
	to label as fate only what crushes it.’

Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity
of my modus operandi. 

I cannot be stopped to wonder. 
	Progress is my mission. 

The table is a stranger to itself.
	The chair competes 
 for my attention. 

I have appetites that the world
cannot satisfy.

Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity,
	through logic the chair has
arrived at the conclusion that
knowledge is a form of chaos.

I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. 

	In spite of poverty, war, injustice or
my furniture’s uncertainty and their long
episodes of incoherent silence.

Contemporary Poetry

terms and conditions

postmodern_poetry_blog

why don’t

YOU
walk down history
as through a great avenue
to deliver the good news
to a decaying world

why don’t

YOU
speak a language
whose every word
is a cup filled
with beatific light

why don’t

YOU
become
the blossoming bud
of fire that will consume
the wasteland of the earth

why don’t

YOU
release mankind
from its immemorial shackles
and carry the heavy light of truth
to the eyes of every man, woman
and child

why don’t

YOU
reveal the gates of salvation,
or the ultimate purpose
of our petty lives

why don’t

YOU
add up all divinities
and multiply them
into one enormous entity

why don’t

YOU
unite all opposites
sensual and ideal
material spiritual
past future
life death
into a totality of all
totalities

why don’t

YOU
wrestle from the grip
of science and religion
the meaning of all
being

why don’t

YOU
lift the veil of illusion
and disclose the essence
behind this all-
embracing chaos

then, only then

I will follow you.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

contemplative light

heavy_light

 

Sits against a white wall.
Looks at the window, stares in fact.
Silence is corporeal. Like a slow vapor
gliding through the room. Like a heavy
light falling to the floor and hardening
into a luminous crust. I watch him
think a thought as if it were the
last thought to ever enter his mind.
This is not real, he thinks.
This is not real, he thinks again.
A flutter of figments,
a crossroads for pigments.
This is not real.
Who could have foreseen him
washing his hands in those streams
of thick light. Who could have
foreseen him tying silence to
the weight of a spiral.
This is not real,
he repeats for a fourth time.
Sitting against a white wall.
Like an old portrait, immobile
while staring at the window.
He has become conscious
of the weightlessness of time.

 

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

spiral measures

mote_of_sound

 

I am going to die.

But there are days
when flesh titillates
and joins the circus
of the sinews

and there’s ecstasy
in the flesh
as if it were loaves
of bread soaked
in froths of bliss

and the moment’s trapeze
is a vehicle or an aspect
of levitation

and neighbors witness
a whiff of shadow
swirling in dimly lit
orbit

and forget noon
dawn or wood
head or heart

being here
in physical perpetuity
in whirlpools of hairs
and hairs and hairs
and bones

veering
towards a dizzy
orchestration

until I become
a mote of sound

that has permeated
the intermediary air.

Contemporary Poetry

echo

draped_in_echo_21st_century_poetry

I have a bubble
of music
swelling inside:
the silent walls,
the cold
structures of silence.

It is a tiny
flame of sound,
a flickering leap
upon the smooth
slabs of concrete.

I saw the snow
today fall
like an army of silent
white deaths.

And I wanted
to join its
fragile thaw.

I feel.
A minor chord
aches,
yes it resonates,
inside a minor heart.

I pressed down
decadently on
the piano keys.

The dark is draped with echo.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry