The Baroque poems, artistic period of the sixteenth and seventeenth century, are characterized by eccentric, excessive and extravagant style, being also luxurious, ornamental, and ornate. Among the most prominent representatives are Luis de Góngora, Francisco de Quevedo, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz or Tirso de Molina.
The term "Baroque movement" is often used to refer to elaborate poetic styles, especially Gongorism, which derives from the work of the Spanish poet Luis de Góngora, and Marinism, which derives from the work of the Italian poet Giambattista Marino. It also encompasses metaphysical poetry in England and scholastic court poetry in Russia..
The forerunners of this style of prose wanted to surprise readers and make them admire their compositions through the use of rhetoric and double meaning, so it was sometimes difficult for them to make themselves understood fully. Baroque prose is often amorphous and full of heavy, didactic scholarship.
Make square, give entrance,
that is triumphing love
of a deadly battle
in which he has been victorious.
You, who disdained the crying life
That I had absent and despised about
The great bank of the Peña Pobre,
From merry to reduced penance,
You, to whom the eyes gave the drink
Of abundant liquor, though brackish,
And raising you the silver, of tin and copper,
The earth gave you the food,
Live sure that eternally,
Meanwhile, at least, that in the fourth sphere,
His horses goad the blond Apollo,
You will have clear renown of brave;
Your country will be the first in all;
Your wise author to the one and only world.
Charm-making night,
crazy, imaginative, chimerist,
that you show him who conquers his good in you,
the flat mountains and dry seas;
dweller of hollow brains,
mechanic, philosopher, alchemist,
vile concealer, sightless lynx,
frightening of your own echoes;
the shadow, the fear, the evil attributed to you,
caring, poet, sick, cold,
hands of the brave and feet of the fugitive.
Let him watch or sleep, half a life is yours;
if I see it, I'll pay you with the day,
and if I sleep, I don't feel what I live.
Spender of charm, why do you spend
in yourself your inheritance of beauty?
Nature lends and does not give away,
and, generous, lend to the generous.
Then, beautiful selfish, why do you abuse
of what was given to you to give?
Miser without profit, why do you use
such a large sum, if you can't live?
By trading like this only with you,
you disappoint yourself to the sweetest.
When they call you to leave, what balance
you can let it be tolerable?
Your unused beauty will go to the grave;
used, it would have been your executor.
(Sigismund)
It is true, then: we repress
this fierce condition,
this fury, this ambition,
in case we ever dream.
And yes we will, well we are
in such a singular world,
that living is only dreaming;
and experience teaches me,
that the man who lives, dreams
what it is, until you wake up.
The king dreams that he is king, and he lives
with this deception sending,
arranging and governing;
and this applause, which receives
borrowed, in the wind writes
and turns him to ashes
death (strong misery!):
That there are those who try to reign
seeing that he has to wake up
in the dream of death!
The rich man dreams of his wealth,
what more care offers you;
the poor man who suffers dreams
their misery and poverty;
the one who begins to thrive dreams,
the one who toils and pretends dreams,
dreams the one who offends and offends,
and in the world, in conclusion,
everyone dreams what they are,
although no one understands it.
I dream i'm here,
these prisons loaded;
and I dreamed that in another state
I saw myself more flattering.
What is life? A frenzy.
What is life? An illusion,
a shadow, a fiction,
and the greatest good is small;
that all life is a dream,
and dreams are dreams.
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.
Once upon a wrong-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,
a lot of nose, nose so fierce,
that in the face of Annas it was a crime.
Who does not know about love lives among beasts;
Who has not wanted well, frightful beasts,
Or if it is Narcissus of himself lover,
Take back in the flattering waters.
Who in the flowers of his first age
He refuses love, he is not a man who is a diamond;
That it can not be the one who is ignorant,
He neither saw their mockery nor feared their truths.
Oh natural love! How good and bad,
In good and in bad I praise you and I condemn you,
And with life and death the same:
You are in a subject, bad and good,
Or good to the one who loves you as a gift,
And bad to the one who loves you for poison.
Oh lofty wall, oh crowned towers
plaque of honor, of majesty, of gallantry!
Oh great river, great king of Andalusia,
of noble sands, since not golden!
Oh fertile plain, oh raised mountain ranges,
that privileges the sky and gilds the day!
Oh always glorious homeland of mine,
as much for feathers as for swords!
If among those ruins and remains
that enriches Genil and Darro bathes
your memory was not my food,
never deserve my absent eyes
see your wall, your towers and your river,
your plain and sierra, oh homeland, oh flower of Spain!
Not for nothing, child love, they paint you blind.
For your effects are blind in vain:
a glove you gave to a barbarian villain,
and you leave me burned in fire.
To have eyes, you will know later
that I am worthy of such a sovereign good,
letting me kiss that hand,
that a farmer won, expensive game!
The lack of your sight hurts me.
Love, because you are blind, put on cravings;
you will see my bad, my unfortunate climate.
Would you give me that glove for spoils,
that the farmer holds him in little esteem;
I will keep you in the apple of my eye.
KING
Do you also so much baldonas
my power, that you go ahead?
So quick of memory
that you were my vassal,
miserable beggar, you erase?
POOR
Your paper is finished,
in the locker room now
from the grave we are the same,
what you were doesn't matter.
RICH
How do you forget that to me
yesterday you asked for alms?
POOR
How do you forget that you
you didn't give it to me?
LOVELINESS
Do you already ignore
the estimate you owe me
for richer and more beautiful?
DISCRETION
In the locker room already
we are all alike,
that in a poor shroud
there is no distinction of people.
RICH
Are you going in front of me,
villain?
LABRADOR
Leave the crazy
ambitions, already dead,
of the sun that you were you are shadow.
RICH
I don't know what cows me
see the Author now.
POOR
Author of heaven and earth,
and your company all,
what made of human life
that short comedy,
to the big dinner, that you
you offered, it comes; run
the curtains of your solio
those candid leaves.
What enemies will there be now that in cold marble
do not turn suddenly,
if they look, sir, on your shield
that proud gorgon so cruel,
with hideous hair
turned a mass of vipers
they provoke squalid, and dreadful pomp?
More than! Among weapons advantage
the formidable monster barely provides you:
since the authentic Medusa is your value.
I am lost, lady, among the people
without you, without me, without being, without God, without life:
without you because you are not served by me,
without me because with you I am not present;
without being because of being being absent
there is nothing that I do not say goodbye to being;
without God because my soul forgets God
for contemplating on you continuously;
lifeless because absent from his soul
no one lives, and if I am no longer deceased
it is in faith of waiting for your coming.
Oh beautiful eyes, precious light and soul,
look at me again, you will return me to the point
to you, to me, to my being, my god, my life!
New effects of strange miracle
are born of your courage, and beauty,
some attentive to my serious damage,
others to a brief good that does not last long:
A disappointment results from your courage,
that his unravels at random,
but the countenance gifted and tender
promises glory in the middle of hell.
That beauty that I adore, and for whom I live
Sweet lady! in me it is lucky,
that the most terrible evil, harsh, elusive
into immense glory makes it.
But the severity of the haughty face,
and that rigor equal to that of death
with just the thought, and the memory
promises hell in the midst of this glory.
And this fear that is born so cowardly
of your courage, and my mistrust
the fire freezes, when it burns the most in me,
and the wings bring down hope:
But your beauty arrives flaunting,
banish fear, put trust,
gladdens the soul, and with eternal joy
promises glory in the middle of hell.
Well might, my gallant nymph,
lose your gravity of your right,
and the perpetual rigor that grows in you
leave the white chest for a while:
that although it has your size, and gallantry
full of glory the world, and satisfied,
that rigor, and notorious gravity,
promises hell in the midst of this glory.
I turn my eyes to contemplate, and I look
the harsh rigor with which you treat me,
of fear I tremble, and of pain I sigh
seeing the unreason with which you kill me:
sometimes I burn, sometimes I withdraw,
but all my attempts derail,
that only one I do not know what of the inner chest
promises glory in the middle of hell.
Deny that the appearance of the gentleman
chest, which in my favor always shows,
it doesn't lift me up to more than I'm worth,
and to new glory thought trains,
I will never be able, if of reason I do not leave;
more is my fortune so sinister,
that perverting the end of this victory
promises hell in the midst of this glory.
In the April of my flowery years,
when the tender hopes gave
of the fruit, which in my chest was rehearsing,
to sing my goods, and my damages,
I'm a human species, and disguised cloths
I was offered an idea, which was flying
with my desire the same, the more I walked,
that I knew my deceptions from afar:
Because, although in the beginning they were the same
my pen, and its worth in competition
Taking each other in high flight,
In a little while my senses saw,
that to its ardor not making resistance
my feather, it burned, and it fell to the ground.
Your pain, Du Terrier, will it be eternal,
and the sad ideas
that dictates to your mind the affection of a father
they will never end?
The ruin of your daughter, who has gone down to the grave
for common death,
Will it be a daze that your lost reason
do not lose your foot?
I know of the charms that illustrated his childhood;
don't think i pretend,
infamous Du Terrier, mitigate your heartbreak
lowering its brightness.
More was of this world, than the rare beauty
does not allocate kindness;
and, rose, she has lived what roses live,
the time of a dawn.
And even taking for granted, according to your prayers,
what would I have achieved
with silver hair finish his career,
Would something have changed?
Even entering old woman in the celestial mansion,
Could you improve?
Wouldn't I have suffered from the funeral dust
and seeing me from the grave?
Sad thing is not having friends,
but it must be sadder to have no enemies,
because whoever has no enemies, a sign that
He has no: neither talent that overshadows, nor courage that they fear,
nor honor that they murmur to him, nor goods that they covet him,
no good thing that they envy.
Oh well, educated man, pretender to heroism! Note the most important beauty, notice the most constant dexterity.
Greatness cannot be founded on sin, which is nothing, but on God, who is everything.
If mortal excellence is greed, eternal is ambition.
Being a hero of the world is little or nothing; being from heaven is a lot. To whose great monarch be praise, be honor, be glory.
The one you chose in the garden
the jasmine, it was not discreet,
that does not have a perfect smell
if the jasmine withers.
But the rose until its end,
because even his dying be praised,
has a sweeter, milder smell,
more scent fragrance:
then better is the rose
and the jasmine less süave.
You, what a rose and jasmine you see,
you choose the brief pomp
of jasmine, fragrant snow,
that a breath to the zephyr is;
more knowing later
the haughty beautiful flattery
of the rose, careful
you will put it before your love;
what is jasmine little flower,
a lot of fragrance the rose.
When the dawn comes out and her face looks
in the mirror of the waves; I feel
the green leaves whisper in the wind;
as in my chest the heart sighs.
I also look for my aurora; and if it turns to me
sweet look, I die of contentment;
I see the knots that in fleeing I am slow
and that they do that the gold is no longer admired.
But to the new sun in the serene sky
does not spill skein so hot
Titón's beautiful jealous friend.
Like shimmering golden hair
that ornaments and crowns the snowy forehead
from the one who stole her rest from my chest.
I am the one who in past years
I sang with my cursing lyre
Brazilian awkwardness, vices and deceptions.
And well that I rested you so long,
I sing again with the same lyre,
the same issue on a different plectrum.
And I feel that it inflames me and inspires me
Talía, who is my guardian angel
since he sent Phoebus to assist me.
A sonnet tells me to do Violante,
that in my life I have seen myself in so much trouble;
fourteen verses say it is a sonnet,
mockery mocking the three go ahead.
I thought I couldn't find a consonant
and I'm in the middle of another foursome,
more if I see myself in the first triplet,
there is nothing in the quartets that scares me.
for the first triplet I am entering,
and it seems that I entered on the right foot
Well, with this verse I am giving.
I'm already in the second and I still suspect
I'm going through the thirteen verses ending:
count if it's fourteen and it's done.
Author: Lope de Vega.
They tell of a wise man that one day
I was so poor and miserable,
that only sustained
of some herbs that I used.
Will there be another, among themselves he said,
poorer and sadder than me ?;
and when the face came back
found the answer, seeing
that another wise man was taking
the herbs he threw.
Complaining about my fortune
I lived in this world,
and when I said between myself:
Will there be another person
luckily more importunate?
Pious you have answered me.
Well, coming back to my senses,
I find that my sorrows,
to make them happy,
you would have picked them up.
Author: Pedro Calderón de la Barca.
I saw the face of my late wife,
returned, like Alceste, from death,
with which Hercules increased my luck,
livid and rescued from the pit.
Mine, unscathed, clean, splendid,
pure and saved by the law so strong,
and I contemplate her beautiful inert body
like the one in heaven where he rests.
In white she came to me all dressed,
covered his face, and managed to show me
that in love and goodness shone.
How much shine, reflection of his life!
But alas! who leaned down to hug me
and I woke up and saw the day come back at night.
Author: John Milton.
Baroque poetry is characterized by:
Poems of Romanticism.
Avant-garde poems.
Renaissance poems.
Poems of Futurism.
Classicism Poems.
Poems of Neoclassicism.
Baroque Poems.
Poems of Modernism.
Dada poems.
Cubist Poems.
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