Archive for postmodernist poetry

This is not an experiment.

Posted in contemporary poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 16, 2013 by Pablo Saborio

postmodern_poem_about_mortality

This is not an experiment.

This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
inhaling sweet
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.

But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.

 

Contemporary Poetry

one hundred twenty-one words

Posted in contemporary poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 10, 2013 by Pablo Saborio

abyss_above_us

Yesterday there,
could have written
a poem, a tunnel
to something greater
than what we amassed
in many units
of cyclic century

I could have, yesterday.
Created a segment of fiction
that borrows truth as tool
and made universe
a cog in a bigger dream

Yesterday, there
was only need for one hundred
twenty-one words
to serve as ligament
between the earth
and a single
human heart

I could have, yesterday.
Covered my eyes, my eyes
with pungent dust and
swallowed the interior
of a cloud. Something vague
but elementary, could have
been spoken

Yesterday there,
could have left legacy
to some mad prophecy,
I could have dropped
an ounce of voice
into the hole
that is an abyss
above us.

Contemporary Poetry

when the cities collapse

Posted in contemporary poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2013 by Pablo Saborio

lump_of_poetry

 

Set the feeling down. Like a stone
you brought from outside
from an neglected garden.
Let’s be naked, gooseflesh
and fling you thoughts (true or delusive)
as your dirty lingerie, by the couch
I bought the other day, from a
man w/ a beard and jesus christ
what a beard he had.
Let’s lie down, like a century
like centuries do
in a stump and muddled
like all centuries do.
But we don’t care about time,
only care for licked flesh, the skin
that philosophy that grew around our muscles
and wrapped us in the idealism of matter.
Then we pluck desire as echoes from our eyes
and we’ll press against each other
like two enormous skies
up against the other
like two skies crushing a cloud.
And then we’ll stare at the walls, the floor,
the ceiling, we’ll say it’s paint, wood, concrete
and something beyond that, and something beyond
that and something or other beyond the last beyond.
But you’ll be asking questions, what about the fire,
the tomorrow, the singularity of human encounters
and the wounds of the galaxy. But I say, shut up
drop the politics and judge the day
as a lump of mere poetry.
After a while when the cities collapse
and you’re back with your heavy stones
crossing chasms and delving infinitudes,
remember what I said tonight, judge the day
merely as a lump of poetry.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

I have discovered nothing

Posted in contemporary poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 6, 2013 by Pablo Saborio

the_outsider

I have discovered nothing

no potent spasm in truth’s tinge
no certain depth in writhing divinity

I have no enlightenment

no broad scar laid on the slope of thought
no electrifying branch igniting the empty length

I have not discovered any principle

no sinking song hardening the stone
no plaited temple wall where war reclines exhausted

I have no message

no filament of yarn towards Ariadne’s love
no hidden sarcophagus where suffering lies embalmed

I have discovered no primeval essence

no visiting visage vanishing vastly
no substitute for this sum of smoke

Contemporary Poetry

of illusion

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 15, 2011 by Pablo Saborio

Red eyes

Of the corn
that makes residence
in the wrapping shadow
of time along the bark
of a tree

in the proximity
of approximation
the figure of life
is guesswork

the natural ponds
of objects
resonate as if
driven by the longevity
of clouds

the hand
inventing surface
from the ghosts
of light and edge

in observation
the bread of process
dissipating like smoke
inside the throat
of ravenous eyes.

Poetry 2011

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