moon

Being illuminated in one act

21st_century_poems_pablo_saborio.jpg

 

The dark enters the scene (left)
to crush the last day
into trim of twilight.

You sit sensing the wall
watching your mind
being sponge
absorbing gainsboro
from the wall’s last
paleness.

You must be struggling

the ocean the sea a shelter
in some mountain.

There is a crackling
in the woods,
a decision to move.

The wind
not an object of pain
travels through the pines.

Needles trembling
thin creatures
not afraid
but as a web of wave
through which
you already
in awe.

The wall reemerges
(mistlike entrance)
to become a window.

Drawn
ashore by the emotion.

Drinking the ocean,
thoroughly
drop by drop
until
the mind craves its break.

You look up.

Enter moon (right)
conscious of its own silence.

The moon
casts its light
an echo bare
washing your chest.

Your deepest response
allows a pause
first to savor
and then smile.

You close your eyes.

Curtain.

neon break

Neon Yellow Beer Morning

This wide open
sky
an echoed moon
on barely born hours
my couch
sitting watching
half moon, half
sky
half azure
half self –
light advances
neon
on surfaces
gilded by miracle
this pure instant
when no one
is watching.

the 21st century

21st century poetry

the city
is
sun-spotted
the whale’s
eye
is full of sadness
brings to mind
the friend
inside the mirror
we only go to
the rooms
dense with smoke
I don’t wish
to bring this word
to the fore
but it seems
like we are
chasing obliteration
touching the chords
that sound of
rebellion
one though
that has given up
on plans
a seated moon
on three stars
a revolver with six
bullets
but no
trigger.

contemporary poetry

Wonder Eye

Could we motion our awe
present it hourly along our way
Could we breathe in astonishment
the minutes streaming by
As the moon today is half-dipped
in the layers of blue crisp sky
We must throw away legions,
innumerable attempts,
since it is mostly rare
that we define existence
             by wonder
If we could raise our eyes
as frequently we raise our cups
the impenetrable azure
or the eternal dark
may become one day
             our source of belonging

Traveling at night

 

 

A black umbrella
my sky
The moon
another street-lamp
Sleeping houses
populate my horizon
Following the curvature of a continent
the window is my pillow
My eyes
magnets attracting
the elements of the unknown.
If the clouds
scatter and break the sky asunder
into a thousand little islands,
If on top of trees
the world below would not be so strange
I would visit every cumulus bay
every rising branch…
How far must a man go
to find out what he seeks?

Sky of Poetry

(July 11th – 2007)

 

And I’m still alive. Standing on a dim-lit bridge watching with disbelief the fantastic horizon as the fiery star’s return is heralded by the tones of pink, purplish-red, tawny and azure pigments in their respective order from horizon to zenith. It is 3.09am, and the moon is manifested by a thin ark of potent white, the rest of it obscure but visible: its entire orb can be witnessed from this bridge that overlooks on a magical lake hazily imitating the transcendental beauty of the sky. Below me two ducklings swim in the still water, small insects flutter around me, the glorious architecture of Copenhagen stands immobile while, progressively, this pen inks a few words as a substitute for a photograph, a camera that I do not hold now to share the explicit mystery
                        Of this solitary view.