migrations

poetry_of_swans

How they got into thought

– the swans –

nobody knew

how they would echo through logic

like a kite in the wind

and

like little girls

they would comb their feathers

with infinite time on their hands

– these swans–

had a sense of mission

but they are complex

creatures with sin as a stain

on their coats of snow,

who knows if they’ll go back

to the nervous quivers of the pond;

for now, they’re stuck

like a satellite

to the cusp of an hour

and I’m embarrassed

to admit

that I stare at them

all the time

as they sleep between

the chunks         of words.

 

 

Contemporary 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

the decline and fall of Being

being_and_nothingness

 

The self is a function of life.
Every aspect
of life as experienced
by so-called man
is within the realm
of nature, the universe,
totality. Nothing is

outside it,
nothing

belongs to something
other than itself.

Life is a manifestation (
for lack of a better
word
) of what nature
is doing.

My ego
is not independent
to the field
of nature, it does not

confront or exchange

with any          external.

All my memories, actions,
thoughts, insights,
responsibilities, etcetera,

do not belong to

me.

They are all part
of that function
that life
is portraying
through a living organism.
The experience
of being-hood is a sort of modulation of life itself.

There is no center or
self that engages with life.

Rather life is engaged with nature.
In other words,
I’ve never experienced
anything.

One could say,
I am the illusion
of being a drop of water
inside a totality
that is itself all water.

The IT has been doing ITSELF.

Nothing belongs to me per se.

Even this instant,
these words, these attempts
to define what’s happening
are not me nor belonging to me,
but aspects of what life
or, sub specie aeternitatis,
what nature does.

Life is, a Spinozan could say,
a mode in nature. I’m inclined to say
there is no one
perceiving this, life itself
is busying itself with life-stuff,
nature-stuff, thought-stuff,
society-stuff, and so on.

There is no me
in all of this.
There is only a recurring
sensation that life – the
experiences that compose our definition of life –
belong to me.

But that sensation
is itself an impression like any other.

Can death be overcome?

Only a thought
that suggests that “I will die” exists,
but not the actual death of the self

– because there is no self.

Contemporary Poetry

the joy of Heidegger

desolation_landscape

 

Throughout itself,
ordinary nature
would no longer
be its opposite.

Truth occurs

within itself
no longer in earth

but open,
clearing, never rid of primal conflict

notice this Open

the world of paths
lighting
the self-closing
center

at bottom
intended to denote
that the essential
has rid itself
of everything
concealed.

 

(All the words, including minor phrases were extracted from page 53 of Heidegger’s essay The Origin of the Work of Art, found in the book Poetry, Language, Thought as translated by Albert Hofstadter, printed by Harper Perennial Modern Classics)

Contemporary Poetry

A CHILDREN’S POEM: THE WORM

nihilistic doom

 

 

Feeding the worm
that lives inside
having stuffed it with thoughts
ideals, systems of philosophy,
eschatological speculations,
until it grew so large
to eclipse the sun, the moon,
the mountains, the town, the cars,
the flowers and the dirt
it grew beyond measure
did it deserve to be feed
the pie of beauty
the pudding of truth –
this worm has left
my body and took with it
all my emotions and desires
it roams freely
children point their little yellow fingers
insatiable it has begun to devour
the arts, the sciences, religions, presidents, continents
even the élan vital of destiny: chance
the universe is its next craving
but it will not stop there
it is hungry for infinity
for the coarse meat of eternity
and ultimately the crust of nothingness
that encompasses all of reality itself;
this children’s poem
will too be eaten
to remain inside the primeval gut of the worm
shifting forms buried under undigested elements
earth wind fire water shadows constellations
everything revolves in the undifferentiated ooze
the words of this poem
will be so far apart of each other
there’ll be layers of love sorrow ecstasy
tears silence in between them

children
nothing will survive

because the worm
will eat itself
one day.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

of consciousness

Modern Poetry Pablo Saborio

peeling off the whiteness
of stream
of consciousness

washing it
with the sterile lore
of silence

preserving its restlessness
in the hermetic jar
of time

feeding it the shadow
of leaves

the crumbs of wind
that I find

warming it
with the thick songs
of essence

talking to it
with the vowels
of night and day

loving it
despite
the shapeless ache
it leaves in my
heart

Nihilistic Poetry

my education

Books and education, poetry

By government of limbs
empty networks of rules
my lost skull
finding fragments of hope
in books and lasting gulps

I remember the bishop
Berkeley, first time I read
his lucid portrayal of idealism
I saw myself as pigment
in god’s mind

there was Rimbaud
the seer
a daemon of callous dreams
beckoning the loving beasts
of my heart to get drunk
and fornicate with the chaos
outside

vagueness is ubiquitous
when Cioran excommunicated
truth from reality
I leapt from definition to obscurity
like a child in mud fields
turning invisible by the camouflage of
dirt

alea jacta est
poetry was born
playthings of appearances
and the images started to gather
like a book of things that never
existed behind the universe

there was still coffee – regret –
futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth
I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual
numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe:
life is a superfluous waiting for death
with no definite aim it definitely kills us
and whatever we say or don’t say
will never change a thing

so I write
in the penumbra of absurdity
as divertissement between sleeps,
all the same
in the involuntary currents of nothingness
drunk with the illusion of sensation,
I feign a soul
in laughter and despair
because of that obscene longing
of being
poet & chasm.

21st century Poetry