This site is dedicated to my poetry, my art, my despair. Browse below to read my latest poetry both in English and Spanish. On the right side menu you will find my modern art paintings, photography, and existential and nihilistic quotes that have inspired me.
©2001 – 2013 Pablo Saborío
Dejémonos. Afuera,
algún limbo con un
entero nimbo.
Montemos el monte
que descansa debajo
del fin. Quiero regresar
al durante, y apagarme
en el comienzo.
Recuerdo acariciar
con la punta de mi oído
el sonido
de aquella noche.
Alejémonos, adentro.
Hacia alguna vieja parte
del olvido al ébano seco
que flota como alma.
En algún semidulce,
casi aquí donde calce.
Incomprendémonos. Al
darle tamaño y cortar
tardes de felicidad,
al tu decirme ‘la velocidad
de tu muerte’ y sonreírte
yo con los ritos de mis ojos.
Abandonémonos. Al
gran ahogo de infinitas
paredes. Y los sueños
juntan manos para
naufragar en una bellísima
idea.
Acabémonos. Aquí,
con una sombra fría
como cuerpo, pegando
ladrillo en el humo;
portando el pálido hecho
de nuestras pieles ajenas.
enswathe me
with the leaf
of another name
if a violet flower
quivers like ornament
on the ephemeral rawness
of this earth
so a tiny poet
cleaves like thistledown
to the thin vastness
of the word
if it was genuine
my standing by the pond
weighing the quantity of universe
in these thoughts
if it was certitude
that clung as cascade
to the branches
of renewing blood
upon exiting the flesh
I thought unto death
to look back toward
this pallid clarity of ash
this has been important to me
to fling final words as anchor
in the hidden plethoric ;
time as billowing toward
some lambent exit
without us,
this alone is clear
all these residual things
will remain
spilled in darkness.
Drunk again on a Copenhagen corner. May17th. 
ALLRIGHT, YES
you heard the extra elle
let’s get down to the facts.
There’s this thing, civilization.
Outcome of humanity. Yes,
Humanity. If it could speak collectively,
it would say, ‘yes, it was moi, I made
civilization out of my disposal to progress
in my creative adaptation’ but let’s re-examine
that posture (not to mention that cosmolomania,
if moi, the poet, can coin a neologism).
That anthropogenic posture that humanity,
or little clusters of near-humans, created
civilization is far-fetched indeed and in deed.
The modern individual does not take into account
what s/he means by the word ‘individual’,
which is fundamental to the concept of humanity,
especially when it comes to the ‘feats’
humanity has achieved. The individual of today
will have you believe that s/he has been,
to some degree, in control of their personality
(the exact age is imprecise, perhaps inaccessible,
but they will say something between the ages of 7
and 10), that this awareness of theirs has been
the same entity carried through time, up to the present
moment, of which they are the agglomeration
of any events, reactions, decisions and postures
taken in that period of time. Wonderful, I say.
But there is this assumption of control, you see.
Humans today assume they are to some degree
in control of their personalities. Whereas, through
introspection and plain observation, we can become
aware that we’re in no way conscious of many processes
that enable (that allow) our personality to subsist.
For example. The learning process or method. We
learn things, yes. We memorize things, yes. But these
so-call feats are generated effortlessly by our
own cognitive substratum. Let’s not get too complex.
I said up there, let’s get down to the facts.
The facts are, as far as one can be honest, there are
abilities or capabilities that enable us to do the things we do,
and we don’t know how we do them. Things such
as memory, imagination, learning, poetizing;
that are not in our direct conscious control. In fact, they
operate without our consent. In a way, we are the
outcome of these underground mechanisms that
dictate our perceptions, actions and philosophies.
So, we have this thing. Civilization.
Expressing itself and we’re its own audience and stage.
Just playing around, for a while it seems.
And it’s not really our doing. It arose from the interaction
of so many intertwined factors that it’s not computable. Oh
I can already hear the technologist of infinite progress
shrieking in dismay. But that’s my story folks. As they say
in these lands. Skål!
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.
Inventemos la máquina
que a vapor meta fría
la mela en la colía.
Diseñemos ya la fórmula
que despeine con elocuencia
nuestra inteligencia.
Armemos pronto un explosivo
que deje un moretón
en el tronco de la razón.
Desarrollemos justo el artefacto
que muerda la tiesa
violeta de la tristeza.
Investiguemos la técnica
que da luz a la alusión
que el pensamiento es ilusión.
Ingeniemos hoy tecnología
que hunda la apariencia
en una divina esencia.
Inventemos tal hábil aparato
que se come nuestra comedia,
que se traga nuestra tragedia.
