of being nothing

being nothing poem

there on the heavy table
i reimagine the taste
of fruit

the room is small
or the world
ignores
itself for this
instant

it doesn’t
mean much

this circumference
this small area
of being

the room to me
is like a tongue

tasting not much
more than its own
surface

somewhere
something
begins
for someone

but i believe
in the minimum

and reimagine the
sweetness
of being nothing

long before
this room
began.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

How would any sensitive soul react to this Fate?

rock and stone

I could
have      loved
the fire
and hummingbird
little winters
stacked and trembling

my hand
wild and rodent
treading the
earth

but looks like
young time
nothing is nothing

my prayer being
when death comes:

may this consciousness
be that of a stone
stripped of its rock

NIHILISTIC POETRY BLOG

greyhour

grey hour poem

to have known the lazy mote

short quivering dust drawing

letters fruits and tongues on invisible air

when these strangers, lovers

and broken loves waiting for the

train see the speck restless,

there and then, the trance of the path

whose swirl is as elementary

ancient as the nakedness of the sky

a speck who deserves as many words

thoughts and aches

as those we touch and hurt

a mote debonair in air

finds its rest gracefully

like drop of grey symphony

at the base of our feet

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

surface

Sun image

Oh who would know
the meaning of having an eye
on every atom that springs
from no to yes
but it would not be god or opiated man in bed
it would be the distinct essence of a cloud
leaving the sky to rest like a heavy rock
at the bottom of the restless sea,
so extreme an image
that our souls will coil
around the shortest memory
to remember the first patch of light
that burnt the skin with warmth
to remember the first arrow of sound
to pierce the nimbus of silence
to remember the first and only object
that grew like wings to become a universe; –
how would anyone fail to notice the sun
is only the light on the surface
of the image?

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

how old

pablo saborio

How old
must I become
to return to the selfless
heaviness of the rock

has not the wind
that levels the tiny
sands of time
swept over
the last corner
of my life

must I continue
to stare
at the leaves
that shiver
purposelessly
on the sunlit tree

must I continue
to desist action
below the shadow
of a pigeon
that springs to flight

must the city
become soft
as the pages
of history
that I keep on
forgetting

how old must this
memory become
to fall silent at last
as the man behind
the mirror

how   old

 

 

Existential Poetry

towards an unknown

The Unknown

With a weightless sky in my eye
I drown in arabesque
can I blame the world
for appearing to be so real?
while walking in silence
I observed the solidity
the light calmly on the mundane;
something unfolding I called it wholeness
occult like a spirit
clever and persistent
behind the visible path that I take,
locality and image
are still my playthings
and yet something calls
like a spell to jump
into the final
unknown.

 

Nihilis
tic Poe
try

two words


there are attempts
at writing.


nothing more.


the combinations
are infinite.


yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.


I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.


two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.


they are all
that needs to be said
by a poet…
 

 

 

  I exist…

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry