We leave you a list of poems of four stanzas by great authors such as Pablo Neruda, Mario Benedetti, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Federico García Lorca, Rubén Darío, Juan Ramón Jiménez, José Martí, Lope de Vega and others.
A poem is a composition that uses the literary resources of poetry. It can be written in different ways, but it is generally in verse.
This means that it is made up of phrases or sentences written on separate lines and grouped into sections called stanzas. Each of these lines usually rhyme with each other, that is, a similar vowel sound, especially in the last word of the lines..
The length of the poems can be unlimited and is not governed by any rule. There are single line poems and others that can fill multiple pages.
But it could be said that a standard extension is one that has 4 stanzas, since it is a length that allows the idea to be transmitted sufficiently to be developed..
It is common to associate poetry with love and romanticism, but it is good to clarify that a poem can be written on any subject. However, poetry has an intrinsic intention to communicate a stylized, sublime and beautiful idea..
Contemporary poetry has many licenses that sometimes do not allow poems to fit into a certain structure. In this way, we find poems in prose, without rhyme, with asymmetric verses or stanzas, etc..
Woman body, white hills, white thighs,
you look like the world in your attitude of surrender.
My body of a wild peasant undermines you
and makes the son jump from the bottom of the earth
I was just like a tunnel. The birds fled from me
and in me the night entered its powerful invasion.
To survive I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, like a stone in my sling.
But the hour of revenge falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of greedy and firm milk.
Ah the glasses of the chest! Ah the eyes of absence!
Ah, the pubic roses! Ah your slow and sad voice!
Body of my woman, will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my endless craving, my indecisive path!
Dark channels where the eternal thirst follows,
and the fatigue continues, and the infinite pain.
Author: Pablo Neruda
Vice versa
I'm afraid to see you, I need to see you,
hope to see you, uneasiness to see you.
I want to find you, worry to find you,
certainty of finding you, poor doubts of finding you.
I have an urge to hear you, joy to hear you,
good luck hearing you and fears hearing you.
I mean in short, I'm fucked and radiant,
perhaps more the first than the second and also vice versa.
Author: Mario Benedetti
For you to read with your gray eyes
For you to read with your gray eyes,
so that you sing them with your clear voice,
so that they fill your chest with emotion,
I did my verses.
So that they find a refuge in your chest
and give them youth, life, warmth,
three things that I can't give you,
I did my verses.
To make you enjoy my joy,
so that you suffer with my pain,
so that you feel my life throb,
I did my verses.
To be able to put before your plants
the offering of my life and my love,
with soul, broken dreams, laughter, tears,
I did my verses.
From: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Malagueña
Death
go in and out
from the tavern.
Black horses pass
and sinister people
through the deep roads
of the guitar.
And there is a smell of salt
and female blood,
in the feverish tuberose
of the Marine.
Death
go in and out,
and it goes out and goes in
tavern death.
Author: Federico García Lorca
Fired
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(From my balcony I see it).
The reaper mowing wheat.
(From my balcony I feel it).
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
Author: Federico García Lorca
Old songs
I
At the time of dew,
out of the mist come out
white mountain range and green meadow.
The sun in the holm oaks!
Until it is erased in the sky,
the larks rise.
Who put feathers in the field?
Who made wings of crazy earth?
To the wind over the mountains,
has the golden eagle
the wide open wings.
About the pillory
where the river is born,
over the turquoise lake
and the ravines of green pines;
over twenty villages,
over a hundred roads ...
On the trails of the air,
eagle lady,
Where are you going to all flight so morning?
II
There was already a moonrise
in the blue sky.
The moon in the Spartans,
near Alicún!
Round on the alcor,
and rotates in the murky waters
of the Guadiana minor.
Between Úbeda and Baeza
Hill of the two sisters:
Baeza, poor lady;
Úbeda, queen and gypsy ??.
And in the holm oak,
Round moon and blessed,
always with me at the same time!
III
Near Úbeda la grande,
whose hills no one will see,
the moon was following me
on the olive grove.
A panting moon,
always with me at the same time.
I thought: bandits
of my land !, walking
on my light horse.
Someone with me will go!
That this moon knows me
and, with fear, it gives me
the pride of having been
ever captain.
IV
In the Sierra de Quesada
there is a giant eagle,
greenish, black and gold,
always open wings.
It is made of stone and does not tire.
Past Puerto Lorente,
between the clouds gallops
the horse of the mountains.
Never get tired: it's made of rock.
In the depths of the ravine
the fallen rider is seen,
that raises its arms to the sky.
The arms are granite.
And where no one goes up,
there is a laughing virgin
with a blue river in my arms.
It is the Virgin of the Sierra.
Author: Antonio Machado
Spring Purpose
To Vargas Vila.
I offer myself to say hello and I force myself to celebrate
your triumph, love, to the kiss of the season that arrives
while the white swan of the blue lake sails
in the magical park of my witness triumphs.
Love, your golden sickle has reaped my wheat;
I am flattered by the soft sound of the Greek flute,
and for you Venus lavish her apples gives me
and gives me the pearls of fig honeys.
In the erect term I place a crown
in which the purple detonates from fresh roses;
and while the water sings under the dark woods,
next to the adolescent who in the mystery started
I'll hurry, alternating with your sweet exercise,
the golden amphoras of the divine Epicurus.
Author: Rubén Darío
Shadow smoke across the meadow!
And it goes so fast!
There is no time for the investigation
to retain the past!
Terrible shadow of myth
that pulls me out of my own,
Is it a lever
to sink into infinity?
Mirror that undoes me
while in him I am seeing myself,
the man starts dying
from the moment it is born.
The beam of the soul smokes you
of the smoke going into the shade,
with its secret it amazes you
and with its amazement it overwhelms you.
Author: Miguel de Unamuno
Why do those lilies that the ice kill?
Why those roses when the sun burns?
Why those little birds that without flight
they die in down?
Why does heaven waste so many lives
that are not from other new links?
Why was your pureblood dam
your poor heart?
Why didn't our bloods mix
of love in holy communion?
Why do you and me, Teresa of my soul
we did not give granazón?
Why, Teresa, and for what were we born?
Why and for what did we both go?
Why and for what is all nothing?
Why did God make us?
Author: Miguel de Unamuno
Dark and agile girl, the sun that makes the fruits,
the one that curdles the wheat, the one that twists the algae,
made your body happy, your luminous eyes
and your mouth that has the smile of water.
An anxious black sun wraps itself around your threads
of the black mane, when you stretch your arms.
You play with the sun as with a stream
and he leaves two dark pools in your eyes.
Dark and agile girl, nothing brings me closer to you.
Everything about you takes me away, like noon.
You are the delusional youth of the bee,
the intoxication of the wave, the force of the spike.
My gloomy heart seeks you, however,
and I love your cheerful body, your loose and thin voice.
Sweet and definitive brunette butterfly,
like the wheat field and the sun, the poppy and the water.
Author: Pablo Neruda
Of the generations of the roses
that in the depths of time have been lost
I want one to be saved from oblivion,
one without mark or sign among things
that they were. Fate holds me
this gift of naming for the first time
that silent flower, the last
rose that Milton held up to his face,
without seeing her. Oh you red or yellow
Or white rose from a blotted garden,
magically leave your past
immemorial and in this verse it shines,
gold, blood or ivory or dark
as in his hands, invisible rose.
Author: Jorge Luis Borges
Those who in sonorous verse and sweet rhyme
you make a concept of listening to a poet
versifying in the shape of a courier,
that to every address number print,
hear of a chaos the raw material
not cultured like prescription figures,
that in pure, easy, clean and clear language,
I invent, love writes, the weather lime.
These, in short, relics of the flame
sweet that burned me, if of benefit
they are not for sale, nor to fame,
be my happiness such that, in spite of it,
who brings me in the carton who unloves me
that his beautiful chest is enough for laurel.
Author: Lope de Vega
Abruptly the afternoon has cleared
Because the minute rain is already falling.
Falls or fell. Rain is one thing
That certainly happens in the past.
Whoever hears her fall has recovered
The time when lucky luck
Revealed a flower called rose
And the curious color of the colorado.
This rain that blinds the windows
Will rejoice in lost suburbs
The black grapes of a vine indeed
Patio that no longer exists. The wet one
Afternoon brings me the voice, the desired voice,
Of my father who returns and who has not died.
Author: Jorge Luis Borges
These were pomp and joy
waking up to the morning dawning,
in the afternoon they will be vain pity
sleeping in the arms of the cold night.
This nuance that defies the sky,
Gold, snow and scarlet striped iris,
will be an example of human life:
So much is undertaken within a day!
To bloom the roses got up early,
and to grow old they flourished:
cradle and grave in a button found.
Such men their fortunes saw:
in one day they were born and expired;
that after the centuries, hours were.
Author: Calderón de la Barca
You said the word that makes you fall in love
To my ears. You already forgot. Well.
Sleep easy. Must be serene
And your face is beautiful at all times.
When you love the seductive mouth
It must be fresh, your saying entertaining;
For your job as a lover it is not good
The burning face of the one who cries a lot.
More glorious destinies demand you
Than to carry, between the black wells
Of the dark circles, the dueling look.
Cover of beautiful victims the floor!
More damage to the world did the fatuous sword
Of some barbarian king And he has a statue
Author: Alfonsino Storni
When I stop to contemplate my state
and to see the steps where it has brought me,
Hallo, according to where I was lost,
that a greater evil could have come;
but when I am forgotten on the road,
I do not know why I have come to so much evil:
I know that I am finished, and more I have felt
see my care end with me.
I will finish, that I gave myself without art
who will know how to lose me and finish me,
If you want, and you will still know how to complain:
that my will can kill me,
yours, which is not so much on my part,
being able, what will he do but do it?
Author: Garcilaso de Vega
I'm alive and i play.
I play, I play, I play.
And no, I am not crazy.
Man, touch, touch
what causes you:
bosom, feather, rock,
well tomorrow is true
that you will already be dead,
stiff, swollen, limp.
Touch touch touch,
What crazy joy!
Touch. Touch. Touch
Author: Damaso Alonso
Once upon a man stuck a nose,
once upon a superlative nose,
Once upon a sayón nose and write,
once upon a very bearded swordfish.
It was a badly faced sundial,
once upon a thoughtful altar,
once upon a time there was an elephant face up,
Ovidio Nasón was more narrated.
Once upon a spur of a galley,
once upon a pyramid in egypt,
the twelve Tribes of noses was.
Once upon a very infinite nose,
so much nose, nose so fierce
that in the face of Annas it was a crime.
Author: Francisco de Quevedo
I bumped into you in spring,
a sunny afternoon, thin and fine,
and you were on my creeper back,
and on my waist, bow and serpentine.
You gave me the softness of your wax,
and I gave you the salt of my saline.
And we sail together, without a flag,
by the sea of the rose and the thorn.
And later, to die, to be two rivers
no oleanders, dark and empty,
for the clumsy mouth of the people ... .
And behind, two moons, two swords,
two waists, two linked mouths
and two arches of love on the same bridge.
Author: Rafel de León
Past midnight
and the girl burst into tears,
the hundred beasts woke up
and the stable came alive ...
And they got closer
and they lengthened up to the Child
like a shaken forest.
An ox lowered its breath to its face
and breathed it out without noise,
and his eyes were tender,
like full of dew ...
A sheep rubbed it
against her very soft fleece,
and his hands licked him,
squatting, two kids ...
Author: Gabriela Mistral
I am an honest man
Where does the palm grow from?,
And before I die I want
Cast my soul verses.
I come from everywhere,
And everywhere I go:
Art I am among the arts,
In the mountain, I am mountain.
I know the strange names
Of herbs and flowers,
And of deadly deceptions,
And of sublime pains.
I have seen in the dark night
Rain on my head
Rays of pure fire
Of divine beauty.
Author: José Martí
Close my eyes the last
Shadow that will take me to the white day,
And you can unleash this soul of mine
Hora, at his eager flattery;
But not from here on the shore
It will leave the memory, where it burned:
Swimming knows my flame the cold water,
And lose respect for severe law.
Soul, to whom all a prison God has been,
Veins, what a humor to so much fire they have given,
Medules, which have gloriously burned,
Your body will leave, not your care;
They will be ashes, but it will make sense;
Dust they will be, more dust in love.
Author: Francisco de Quevedo
I was lying on the ground, in front
the infinite countryside of Castile,
that autumn wrapped in yellow
sweetness of its clear setting sun.
Slow, the plow, in parallel
opened the dark feat, and the simple
open hand left the seed
in his heart departing honestly
I thought about ripping my heart out and throwing it out,
full of his high and deep feeling,
the wide furrow of the tender terroir,
Let's see if with splitting it and sowing it,
spring showed the world
the pure tree of eternal love.
Author: Juan Ramón Jiménez
I will die in Paris with a downpour,
a day of which I already have the memory.
I will die in Paris - and I do not come-
maybe on a Thursday, like it is today, in the fall.
Thursday will be, because today, Thursday, what a prose
these verses, the humeri I have put
to the bad and, never like today, have I turned,
with all my way, to see me alone.
César Vallejo has died, they beat him
all without him doing anything to them;
they hit him hard with a stick and hard
also with a rope; are witnesses on Thursdays and humerus bones,
loneliness, rain, roads ...
Author: César Vallejo
What do I have that my friendship seeks?
What interest do you follow, my Jesus,
that at my door covered with dew
you spend the dark winter nights?
Oh how hard were my insides,
Well I did not open you! What a strange rant,
if the cold ice of my ingratitude
dried the sores of your pure plants!
How many times did the Angel tell me:
"Alma, now look out the window,
you will see with how much love to call persistence "!
And how many, sovereign beauty,
"Tomorrow we will open it," he replied.,
for the same answer tomorrow!
Author: Lope de Vega
Giant waves that you break roaring
on the deserted and remote beaches,
wrapped between the sheet of foam,
Take me with you!
Hurricane gusts you snatch
from the high forest the withered leaves,
dragged in the blind whirlwind,
Take me with you!
Lightning-breaking storm cloud
and in fire you adorn the bloody borders,
caught up in the dark mist,
Take me with you!.
Take me, for mercy, where the vertigo
with reason I tear my memory.
For mercy! I'm afraid to stay
with my pain alone!.
Author: Lope de Vega
In order to your hands I have come,
do I know that I have to die so tight
that even alleviate my care with complaints
as a remedy it is already defended me;
my life I do not know what has been sustained
if it is not, it is because I have been saved
so that only in me it would be tested
how much a sword cuts in a surrender.
My tears have been shed
where dryness and roughness
they gave bad fruit deltas, and my luck:
The ones I have cried for you are enough;
take no more revenge on me with my weakness;
there avenge you, lady, with my death!
Author: Garcilaso de Vega
I left my forests for you, my loss
grove, my sleepless dogs,
my capital years exiled
until almost the winter of life.
I left a shake, I left a shake,
a blaze of unquenched fires,
I left my shadow in the desperate
bleeding eyes of parting.
I left sad pigeons by a river,
horses on the sun of the sands,
I stopped smelling the sea, I stopped seeing you.
I left everything that was mine for you. Give me you, Rome, in exchange for my sorrows,
as much as I left to have you.
They have come.
Invade the blood.
They smell like feathers,
to lack,
crying.
But you feed the fear
and to loneliness
like two small animals
lost in the desert.
They have come
to set fire to the age of sleep.
A goodbye is your life.
But you hug yourself
like the crazy snake of movement
that only finds itself
because there is no one.
You cry under your crying,
you open the chest of your wishes
and you are richer than the night.
But it's so lonely
that words commit suicide.
Author: Alejandra Pizarnik
You dig into the verse,
sink the pen in it
until the first drops run
of blood on the page.
But the verse doesn't run.
It stays there, standing.
No one reads or knows it.
You hear the printing woe
that multiplies the verse
per thousand or five thousand.
Already printed,
the mockery is funnier:
another thousand times it will not be read.
Author: Eduardo Lizalde
Cover me, love, the sky of my mouth
with that rapturous foam,
which is jasmine that knows and burns,
sprouted rock coral tip.
Cheer me on, love, your salt, crazy
Your lancinating sharp supreme flower,
Doubling his fury in the diadem
of the biting carnation that unleashes her.
Oh tight flow, love, oh beautiful
snow-tempered gurgling
for such a narrow grotto raw,
to see how your fine neck
it slips on you, love, and it rains on you
of jasmine and saliva stars!
Author: Rafael Alberti
I remember your face that was fixed in my days,
woman in blue saya and toasted forehead,
that in my childhood and on my land of ambrosia
I saw the black furrow open in a fiery April.
He raised in the tavern, deep, the impure cup
the one who attached a son to the breast of a lily,
and under that memory, that it was a burn to you,
the seed fell from your hand, serene.
Harvest I saw your son's wheat in January,
and without understanding I had my eyes fixed on you,
enlarged to pair, wonder and cry.
And the mud on your feet will still kiss,
because among a hundred mundanes I have not found your face
And I still follow you in the furrows the shadow with my song!
Author: Gabriela Mistral
Five-stanza poems.
Six-stanza poems.
Poems of Romanticism.
Avant-garde poems.
Renaissance poems.
Poems of Futurism.
Classicism Poems.
Poems of Neoclassicism.
Baroque Poems.
Poems of Modernism.
Poems of Dadaism.
Cubist Poems.
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