Octavio Paz:

precarious pause

by Roberto Lavidez

there is

nothing

inside me

but a large

wound

a hollow

place

where

no one

goes

a windowless

present

a thought

that returns

and repeats

itself

reflects

itself

and loses

itself

in its own

transparency

I find

myself in

the middle

of an eye

watching

myself in

its blank

stare

the moment

scatters

motionless

I stay

and go:

I am

a pause

I do not

write

to kill

time nor

to revive it

I write

that I may

live and

be revived

the time

is past

already

for hoping

for time’s

arrival

the time

of yesterday

today and

tomorrow

yesterday

is today

tomorrow

is today

today all

is today

suddenly

it came

forth

from itself

and is

watching me

I fall through

myself

without

touching

myself

I fall through

my center

far from me

far off

I am here

and I

don’t know

where here is

what day

is today

between

night and day

there is an

uncertain

territory

it is neither

light

nor shadow:

it is time.

the hour

the precarious

pause

the darkening

page

the page

where I write

slowly

these words

my thoughts

split

meander

entwine

start again

and finally

are immobile

endless

rivers

delta of

blood

beneath

a sun

without

twilight

all is visible

and all

elusive

all is near

and can’t

be touched

papers

book

pencil

glass

rest in

the shade

of their

names

time

throbbing

in my

temples

repeats

the same

unchanging

syllable

of blood

I write out

on your body

the scripture

of the world

a knowledge

still nameless

the taste of

this earth

the objects

fall

they are

in a state

of falling

they fall

from my

mind

that thinks

them

they fall

from my

eyes

that don’t

see them

they fall

from my

thoughts

that speak

them

they fall

like letters

letters

letters

a rain

of letters

on a derelict

landscape

warring

thoughts

want to

split my

skull

this writing

moves

through

streets of

birds

my hand

thinks out

loud

a word calls

to another

words

glitter in

the shadows

and the

black tide

of syllables

covers

the page

sinking

its ink

roots

in the

subsoil of

language

the word

leaps in

front of

thought

in front

of sound

the word

leaps like

a horse

in front

of the

wind

like a

sulfur bull

in front of

the night

they’ve come:

a few birds

and a black

thought

murmur

of trees

murmur

of trains

and engines

is this

moment

coming

or going

the prisoner

of his

imagining

weaves

and unravels

his weaving

sightlessly

scrapes at

his scars

plays games

with the

letters

of his name

scatters them

and then

they insist

on the

same havoc

set in

the setting

of his

corroded

name

this writing

over the

written

the repetition

of the same

word in

mid-poem

syllables

of time

broken

letters

splotches

of ink

blood that

goes and

comes

and says

nothing

and carries

me with it

I draw

these letters

as the day

draws its

images and

blows over

them and

does not

return

a day

is lost in

a sky of

hurrying

the light

leaves no

footprints

in the

snow

a day

is lost

doors open

and close

the seed

of the sun

soundlessly

opens

a day

begins

talking with

the things

and with

ourselves

the universe

talks to itself:

we are

its tongue

and ears

its words

and silences

a stirring

a steering

a seed

asleep

a word

at the tip of

the tongue

unheard

unhearable

matchless

fertile

barren

ageless

©robertolavidez2014