Poetry

Libro/Book: El individuo y su ceniza

Mi poemario debut ‘El Individuo y su ceniza’ publicado por Valparaíso Ediciones ya está en librerías en España y a la venta en línea.

https://valparaisoediciones.es/tienda/poesia/832-401-el-individuo-y-su-ceniza.html

Luego de dos décadas y un poco más de escribir poesía, este proceso culmina (y al mismo tiempo inicia otra nueva fase) con este libro. El trabajo de publicar un libro requiere una larga colaboración. Agradezco a los que me han ayudado a través de este proceso, empezando con mi amiga y poeta Elizabeth Torres, que ha sido una gran inspiración y mentora en mi camino como poeta en los últimos años. Extiendo un sincero agradecimiento a la poeta Angela García por leer el manuscrito y escribir una reseña que ahora vive en la contraportada de mi libro.


Igualmente, agradezco al equipo editorial de Valparaíso Ediciones por aceptar mi poemario que se une a una impresionante colección de publicaciones por esta gran editorial.

Se hará una recepción del poemario ‘El Individuo y su ceniza’ en Red Door, fecha y detalles por confirmarse.

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My debut poetry book in Spanish “El individuo y su ceniza” published by Valparaíso Ediciones is now in bookstores in Spain and for sale online.

https://valparaisoediciones.es/tienda/poesia/832-401-el-individuo-y-su-ceniza.html

After two decades of writing poetry, this process culminates (and at the same initiates a new phase) with this book. The work of publishing a book requires a long collaboration. I am grateful to those who have helped me through this process, starting with my friend and poet Elizabeth Torres, who has been a great inspiration and mentor on my path as a poet in recent years. I extend sincere thanks to the poet Angela García for reading the manuscript and writing a review that now lives on the back cover of my book.

Likewise, I thank the editorial team of Valparaíso Ediciones for accepting my submission, which joins an impressive collection of publications by this great publishing house.

Feb. 29

feb29

The house is now in order.

The voice in my head
suggests that I add a slice of avocado.

I follow diligently the suggestion
to leave the stones out of the foundation.

You can wreck it now,
bring back chaos: it is only a pet.

The description of what is,
without category or detail.

It is only a beetle stuck to your eye.

Whatever is achieved
should not always be remembered.

There are two types of masturbation,
related to time.

The closer you study a situation,
the more strenuous it is to establish a fact.

It has never rained so much in 150 years.

I used to think
despair was the only answer to life.

There is a great wave approaching us,
nobody can predict what kind of light it will bring.

I have never before struggled so much
to ignore harmony.

I think we will sell the piano
and start a new dream.

It is the essence of life to be occupied;
water is often involved.

The avocado falls to the floor;
tears swell up.

The kids arrive and the logos begins to tremble.

It is still raining outside,
since the beginning of the day.

I wipe off the first word
and then say: hungry?

The girls like the way
we have styled the living room.

This sentence evokes a sensation of existence.

People are picking up the news
with their bare hands.

I said I love you,
but concealed a parcel of shield as I blinked.

The heart has a necessity to explode,
regardless what surrounds,
what obscures it.

 

 

 

21st century poetry

other ways

beyond_language_poetry

 

There are other ways
than language.

Let’s observe
simply
the fire before us.

The way a match
ignites to startle
a moment.

Look for the softest light
a distant wildfire
quiet because it is
involved in night.

The kind of surface
that melts the sun
into a tiny
puddle of gold.

This is more of
primeval voice
returning its wind
to the rain.

This is mouth
allowing for song
to water its
valley.

This is still
earth living
behind a window
seeing its ground
swallow
pregnant fruit.

There are other ways
than ideas.

Let’s dry the story
and blind the
behavior.

See the strong
shadow stumble
to break its
shell.

The ground
fertile
with the patience
of time.

This is more
of the ocean
leaking its body
to closely
understand
the sand.

Once we pull
language
as a thorn
out of the world.

This
and only
this
will remain.

the fog

fog_21st_century_poetry

 

The name
of memory
is water

the gate
trembling
is your own lips
approaching

the tongue
tasting its noise
like density
born to be kissed

another’s lips
transparent, liquid,
eager river,
flooding the islands of taste

that is war
softer than death
passage carved
by lightning

the buds aware
the whole mouth
is fire

the mystery
is rung
as breath

the primordial
contact
gentle iridescence
quickening
the whole journey
of history

your heaving
entering
and leaving
the mystery

the gate
invites
the water

the dream
shining
back like fog
from the water’s surface.

amount of unknown

poetry_21st_Century.jpg

 

A colossal amount
of unknown
slides down
the pearl
barely visible
of the sky.

A naked
cloud
I shivered
the cold wind
arranged as moss
invisibly padding
my arms
the car races
its lights inhaled
by the horizon.

My meaning
depends
on the weather
low lying thoughts
heavy with mist
or diaphanous silence
for intelligence
to connect the bird’s speech
with the stone’s stare.

How sharp
must the world
the geese in arrow
become
the last sun
cutting deep my eye
blinding with wetness
the world
inside my tear.

My story
insufficient
melts back
into buddha
tonight it’s night
more like star
fleeing
as long stream
of light.

over days

21st_century_poem_2018_pablo_saborio.jpg

I stretched light
into knife
to cut the cloud
one strong drop
of eternity
ensued.

What hand
faster than sun
to slice illumination
into tool
and then apparently
disassemble time.

Answers
like feathers
suspended in that dream
after pillows exploded
and silence so hypnotic
it resembles symphony,
the feathers and your eyes
vibrating like strings.

Then back just minutes
before the tree
enters the sky
with dark veins
into the night’s
quiet body.

That was suggested
by mind
whose story is pinched
from the perfume
illusion prepares
from time.

Was the world
a seat
old me
weaving yarn
after yarn
light, sea, dome, thorn
bit by bit
thing after thing
into a language
of surface

once
spoken
the saga of silence
returns
deepening as strata
to cover
the hills of the toes

and the eyes
those shores
curling back
to their source.